Holy Irish

A guy that I work with just named his son Finn McCauley McGee.

That's two "Mc"s. In one name. Irish, much?

I imagine when they signed the official papers with the wee one's full name, he just exploded and little clovers and glitter went flying everywhere.

Foot Fetish

I've never been one to be grossed out by feet. They really don't bother me. I've never even paid attention to people's feet. Until today.

The whole foot analysis began with a freakishly short pinkie toe. I noticed this girl whose first 4 toes were all the same length (and they were LONG) but then her pinkie toe was maybe, and this is being generous, maybe, half the length of the rest of her toes. It was disturbing. How can she maintain balance while upright with a pinkie toe that small? She was sitting at the time, but I imagine that she would just fall right over when attempting to stand.

I then started taking inventory of everyone else's toes on the train. Mine included. I don't recommend it.

Ok, now, my feet are nothing to shake a stick at by any means. I even have an oddly turned pinkie toe. But, my toes are arranged in a nice descending fashion according to length. Apparently, such is not the case for the rest of the general population. Or maybe I had a train car full of toe freaks, who knows, but I saw so many toe anomalies it truly boggled the mind.

There was a lady with the first 3 toes the same length, then the 4th and 5th were the same length but much shorter than the first 3. A guy who, inconsequently, I would have mounted right there on the train had it not been for his toes, had a third toe longer than the second. It just stuck out there like his foot was flipping me off. One guy was missing his pinkie toenails altogether. They were just fleshy little stubs with no nail. Wha?

I had to stop at that point because I was starting to freak out. What is it with all these deformed feet?? Why does this happen?? I tried looking at it from a biological perspective, as I am a self-declared bio nerd, but nothing is making sense. Is it that all of those little cell divisions that form the toes during development have a high rate of genetic irregularities, thus resulting in jacked-up feet? But, using that logic, there would also be a bunch of finger freaks running around too. Which I don't think is the case.

The fact that I've even given it enough thought to have typed the last paragraph is seriously frightening.

KY or Bust

skyline of downtown Louisville, KY

Ah, the staggering enormity of the Louisville skyline. Sometimes it takes my breath away. If viewed at just the right angle, it almost resembles Chicago. Look closely. In the dark. With your eyes closed. See it?

I'm heading back to the homestead this weekend along with some fellow Chicagoans. Can't wait to show them that the city of Louisville isn't the barefoot, backward farmland that most think it is. That kind of stuff is conveniently located essentially everywhere else throughout the state of Kentucky. I can say that because I grew up there.

I'm pretty much as pumped as I can get. And that's saying alot considering just today I got really really excited over hearing "Black Betty" while getting ready this morning (I danced in the shower) and the plastic container full of medium (1 1/4") binder clips in assorted colors that was waiting for me when I got to work.

I mean, we're talking:

1. Leaving work early on a Friday.
2. A roadtrip complete with sweet, sweet mixes.
3. Gina's Italian home-cookin'(with cheesecake that's an O in your mouth).
4. Lots and lots of drinking on Bardstown Road, Chicago-style.
5. More southern twang than you could ever hope for.

It just doesn't get much better than that, my friends.

When the going gets tough, I cut my hair.

Alrighty folks, as of 7pm tonight, this and this will be my new haircut. Goodbye shoulder-length tresses!

Now, if only I could look like Ashley Judd, then I'd really be in business.

The Ben Covington Phenomenon

This is for you, dash and dubbs.

the man, the myth, the legend. ben covington.

Honestly, I've really been trying to avoid writing a post on this topic. Mostly because it stems from an episode of Felicity, and I'd really rather not go there. Seriously, who gets their blog inspiration from a turn of the century melodrama about an overanalytical girl making her way through college in New York? Apparently, me. Damn it.

I still don't quite undertand exactly why, last month, we purchased all 4 seasons of Felicity on DVD. And watched no less than 3 episodes per sitting. And made our way through the first 2 seasons in 2 weeks (20+ episodes per season, mind you). Maybe it was some desperate attempt to cling to something from a simpler time. A time when we would gather in our college dorm rooms to get our weekly fill of Felicity, Ben, and Noel. A time when the most complicated things in our lives were finding time to study around naps and bars and how to get the VCR to tape each glorious second of Ben Covington's face.

At any rate, we've been tearing through these episodes like it's our job, and consequently talking about the characters as if they not only exist in real life, but are also our closest friends.

An actual email written during the first season:

"I was sitting in a meeting this morning and had this wave of sadness hit me when I remembered that Noel and Felicity broke up last night. It was like I broke up with someone. Help me. Intervention needed. Good lord."

Not kidding.

Needless to say, we really get into this shit, it's like crack. I would also tell you all about how we have our own little saying when times get rough, "WWFD?" (What Would Felicity Do?), but that's just totally embarrassing, so I'll leave it out.

Onto the topic at hand. A few weeks back, in the throes of our Felicity marathon, we watched what has been dubbed "The Greatest Felicity Episode of All Time." Mel and I were bawling by the end. Not just teary. I'm talking sniffles, sobs, tears soaking the tops of our shirts. We were 2 emo messes.

So here's Felicity, doing wonderful after her second break-up with Ben (maybe third?). She's convinced that she doesn't need him, is better off without him and that she couldn't ever trust him again. She's totally done.

Enter the "Ben Covington Phenomenon." Right when Felicity has decided she's over Ben, he shows up at Dean and Deluca where she is working. He confesses that he's done a lot of thinking and that he realizes that he didn't treat her right and that he let her down. He has pinpointed the time that the let down began. It was a night that they were to meet for a movie in the park. He never showed. Alas, he has come with an old-school movie canister containing the VERY MOVIE he skipped out on. He then takes her on the roof of his apartment building where they watch the movie on a blanket and kiss and the planets are aligned yet again. Go Ben and Felic.

Here's the issue. The Ben Covington Phenomenon rarely happens in real life, and the few times it does, it basically never works out in the end. What guys out there need to know is that even when a girl is over you (and doesn't totally hate your guts), she still harbors this hope, albeit many times it's subconscious, that you will come back on your shining white stallion and sweep her off of her feet and right every wrong in the world. We can't help it, it's like our period, it just happens.

To make matters worse, TV shows and movies show this phenomenon again and again. And generally it ends with a teary kiss and they live happily ever after. Talk about false advertising.

And of course, the same happens on Felicity. Everything works out rosy and Ben ends up proposing right after graduation. Awww, presh. But, really, who can blame her for going back? It's Ben Covington for god's sake.

This almost makes me want to have kids. Almost.

This particular blog entry is solely an opportunity for me to show off my cousin's kids because they pretty much make my world a sunny, bright place where everything is flowers and kittens and rainbows.

Without further ado, here are 2 freakin' cute ass children:

The one on the right is Maddy and on the left is Meredith. I dare anyone to tell me that they are not perfect specimens of little humans.

Maddy is 6 going on 30. She's already arguing with her parents about how many times she is allowed to roll her shorts at the waistband. Moms and Pops say 1, she insists on 2. Hooch in training, god love her. In one afternoon her dad had to do at least 4 "Roll Checks." Maddy failed 3 of the 4. She stomps her foot and explains each time that the length of the shorts at a mere single roll is "sooooooooo dorky." A girl after my own heart. I respect her diligence.

Meredith. Affectionately referred to as "El Niño." A force of nature cleverly disguised as a 2 year old. Generally she says things that are funnier than most of the stuff I hear out of adults. She's a total ham. The second she sees a camera she immediately plasters on her "Cheese Face," in which she crinkles up her nose, squints her eyes and does something different with her mouth every time; all the while saying "CHEEEESE!!!!" All of this without anyone ever saying anything like, "say cheese." It's just her camera reflex.

Cheese Face:

This last photo is my personal fav. Love the hair, love the hands, love the smile, and especially love the outfit. Priceless.

Worst. Names. Ever.

What is wrong with celebrities when it comes to naming their children?? I know it's not new information that the famous name their kids the most horrible names ever: Apple, Phinnaeus, Lyric, Indiana, Coco, Rumer, Scout, Tallulah...just to name a few. I understand, and genuinely appreciate, wanting to pick something fresh and original. But for christ's sake, these jump from unique to absolutely puke-inducing.

Former Punky Brewster star Soleil Moon Frye and her husband had a baby girl Wednesday. They named her Poet. Poet. A poet is a person, a profession. NOT a name for a kid. Not that I should be all that surprised given that Soleil Moon herself obviously comes from a lineage of people who were on a 5 day acid trip bender when choosing their child's name.

When will it stop? How far will they go? Do they really think this horrendous name thing is cute??

I'll tell you this, it's not going to be quite so cute when the kid gets bludgeoned on the school playground because the fat bastard bully doesn't give two craps who their famous mommy is.

Wanted: One Sugar Daddy

I'm having a financial crisis overload.

I've been working for months getting ready for Pharmacy School...filling out applications, getting ready for the PCAT, etc. Not once during my frenzy of pharmaceutical excitement did I think very seriously about the financial burden of going back to school.

I mean, I knew it was going to set me back a cool 80 grand. Fine. I'd be making a decent salary once I graduated, so I'd pay it off over the years like every other person who has attended graduate school. No worries. But what I didn't take into consideration was the funds (or complete lack there of) whilst actually in school.

I kept telling myself that it would just work itself out. That is, until I got a slap in the face from a friend of mine who currently attends my #1 school of choice. After taking out the max in student loans, one is left with approximately $15,000 to live on. Per year. People, think about this. That is roughly $1000 per month. Average Chicago rent, not anywhere fancy, is at the very least, $500. Throw in credit card payments, insurance, food, and toilet paper and there you are, shaking your cup on the street, living like a refugee.

I want so badly to stay in Chicago, but the cost of living here is astronomical. I just drove my head through a wall because the thought entered my brain that I wish I had a potential husband with money who would pay our rent/mortgage and support my ass while I attend school.

"But I don't even want a husband," I told myself, "yes, but think of how much it would help financially, not to mention the sex on a regular basis," I answered back.

Touché.

"What I Do At Work All Day"

Apparently this artist has taken up residence in my brain.

(if you are reading this and you work with me and/or are my boss, I'm totally kidding.)

just laugh, ok?

this just made me snort in my cubby hell hole.

grrrrr....wtf?

I'll pay someone a gabillion dollars to get rid of the little black spot in the bottom left corner of the picture to the right. And when I say a gabillion, I mean it.

**Note**As I have already mentioned in my comments, if you are using Internet Explorer to view this blog, YOU WILL NOT SEE THE BLACK DOT IN QUESTION. It only shows up in Firefox. Thank You.

In praise of the "Man V"

There really isn't much to say here. I think Jake Gyllenhaal's overall pants-flooding hotness, complete with Man V, pretty much speaks for itself.

You're welcome.

The Checklist

Earlier today a group of us girls received this heinous forward:

Chain letter...A Checklist For the Perfect Guy...Forward on to 15 girls to take the curse off...

Find a guy who...

- calls you beautiful instead of hot,
- who calls you back when you hang up on him,
- who will stay awake just to watch you sleep.
- Wait for the guy who kisses your forehead,
- who wants to show you off to the world when you are in your sweats,
- who holds your hand in front of his friends,
- Wait for the one who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares about you and how lucky he is to have you.
- Wait for the one who turns to his friends and says, "...that's her."

A few minutes after I finished cleaning the vomit off my keyboard, Andrea, dear, sweet Andrea, sent us a checklist of her own:

Great. I can't check off any of those stupid things. How about...

Find a guy who...

- calls you when he's drunk at 3 am and tells you you're beautiful
- hangs up on you when you call him back
- stays awake to molest you after you fall asleep
- kisses your forehead after a bj because he won't kiss you on the mouth
- wears sweats all the time and doesn't care what you or the world thinks
- holds your hand in front of his friends to try to prove he's not really gay
- is constantly reminding you that you aren't as important as his family, friends, car, beer, or dog and how lucky you are to have him
- turns to his friends and says "I'd hit it"

I think this means I'm all grown up?

Behold the image contained in an email I just received:

"I forget that you are now old enough to see pictures like this. Can you believe that your mother is sending this to you? Love ya, Mom"

oh. my. god.

my secret dream job

the weather matches my mood

I love when that happens. It's like the clouds know the days to roll in.

I just had the second best Chicago night of my life. The #1 spot is occupied by the night my flip-cup team and I rocked the crap out of a 21 team tourney, winning the entire thing completely undefeated. We then continued drinking and dancing until the wee hours of the morning. It was also the first time I brought out the Napoleon Dynamite Dance. Quite sure that will stay at the top for all of eternity.

Last night I went with a few friends to see Ben Folds and Rufus Wainwright at Ravinia. Ladies and gents, I've found my Mecca. Basically, it's paradise. Any dudes out there looking for a date place that will knock a chick's socks off, this is it. The pavilion is the most beautiful outdoor venue I've seen and the acoustics are just about perfect. Beyond the pavilion is the lawn; a gorgeous tree enclosed park full of concert-goers on blankets picnic-ing to the musical stylings of Ben and Rufus. Glorious.

And, oh the picnics. Jesus. People are freakin' serious about this. I'm talking little tables, chairs, place settings, candles, bug repellent votives, wine glasses, sushi, basically the most perfect set-ups you have ever laid eyes on. We were seething with picnic envy.

The lawn is so huge most people can't even see the stage, something that I had reservations about pre-show. But once you get there you quickly realize that it doesn't matter--you may not be able to see the performer, but you can hear them crystal clear (there are speakers strategically placed throughout, so you can hear everything perfectly). And, more importantly, you are out in a fairytale-esque park on a blanket under the stars having a hummus/cheese/pita picnic with your friends, complete with bottles of wine. It's amazing. It's perfect. Behold:

The whole experience is like a movie, but so much better because it's real. That's deep. To make things even better, the weather was perfect. Not too warm, not too cool, and the sky was so clear that the moon and stars were out in full effect.

The pinnacle of my evening was hearing Rufus sing "Hallelujah." Sweet Mary, mother of god and jesus and disciples and anything else divine and holy. There aren't words. Granted, I had had a couple (or 7) glasses of wine by that point, but hearing that song live, with his soul-stirring voice, in the most gorgeous place created, on a blanket with amazing friends, under stars, brought me to tears. And just when I thought that I might burst from the sheer volume of perfectness, as the song was ending, I saw a shooting star. Cue cheesy end-of-Full House music. I could have died happy right then and there.

I'll leave out the fact that the wine hit me like a freight train and I suddenly became out of my mind drunk after the show. And made a complete ass out of myself. I won't talk about that, it would just ruin the whole sugary, fluffy mood I have going on here.

Also, a predicament. My favorite singer in this world, Martin Sexton, is playing at Ravinia next week. My fav person at my fav place? I could spontaneously combust. How could this possibly be a problem? Oh, I don't know, maybe because he's opening for the lame ass Los Lonely Boys. Suck. Even though I love Sexton and Ravinia more than my own life, I just don't know if I can do it.

Hootie is going to be there next month. Enough said.

Because Kim Asked For It

Kelley sent me this pic last night after she saw the request to see the crap hole I work in. She took this the last day we hung out before her skank ass left me to go to med school. whatever.

Anyway, here it is. This was a few months ago, so most of the piles aren't there yet:

You'll thank me...

Do yourself a favor and check this out:

http://www.revealingchicago.org/

Photographer Terry Evans has an exhibit called Revealing Chicago: An Aerial Portrait on display in Millenium Park. The pictures are amazing. Not that I needed a reminder of how gorgeous Chicago is, but it's great to see it from a different perspective.

Enjoy.

Just peed myself

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2005/8/3JennisonSutherland.html

Office Space (or a lack thereof)

My current work space includes a 3 ft wide table of sorts with 2 small drawers. I have shit piled up in 3 separate stacks on my desk, 4 other stacks on a shelf, 2 stacks on the floor and yet another in a chair nearby. I barely have room for a cup of coffee. "Lack of space" is an understatement of the grandest proportions.

Not to mention that it's in this hallway type thing, and I'm shoved in a corner. People just laugh when they walk over and see the hell hole that I'm in. Most ask if I'm being punished.

Everyday I get more annoyed and claustrophobic. Today it hit crisis mode. I just told someone that I can't wait until the new office opens and I finally get a cubicle. A cube. I'm aspiring to move to a cube, people.

Scientific analysis suggests that the correct number is 3

How many sprays of perfume does it take to mask the smell of bar on the clothes that you wore out last night and woke up in this morning so that you can meet friends for brunch?

I need to be caged.

Bueller? Anyone?

I'm perplexed. How is it that I can be pretty much completely happy and content with my life, but still feel some sort of internal unrest (totally unrelated to anything gastrointestinal)? Seriously, there is not one thing glaringly wrong, but I still feel like something's missing; that I need more.

Is something truly missing, or is it that I'm genetically predispositioned to never EVER be satisfied?

I feel like I'm taking crazy pills.

You had to be there...

You know how, after more than a pitcher of margaritas, you do things that seem so hilarious and fascinating at the time? You know how, once you've chronicled the event via digital photography and looked through the evidence while sober, you are quite sure that it was pretty much the most insane thing you have ever done? Case in point, this past Friday night.

Important note: my partner in crime is SERIOUS about littering. She chases litterers down the street, people.

After the margaritas, but before the atomic jack and diets, we're waiting for a cab. Making sure she saw me, I balled up my ATM receipt and "casually" tossed it on the ground. She looked at me as if I'd just slaughtered a kitten, which I thought was pretty much the funniest thing ever. She concurred. At this point we decided it would be even funnier to stage a reenactment of my "offense." It took us at least 15 tries to capture this beauty (PLEASE note the actual piece of paper is in the picture...harder than it looks, believe me):

But it only took one try to get her reaction. And big hands. (which aren't really big hands at all, merely an optical illusion):

For those 5 precious minutes, time stood still, and that littering reenactment was the only thing that mattered in the universe.

We also thought this guy was pretty funny:

I made the general assumption that, because he was shorter than my 5'3" frame, he had to be a jockey. What else could he be? After a photo-op and extensive discussion, it turned out that Vito the Jockey was, in fact, Vito the Accountant. What a disappointment.

The night continued with ridiculously strong jack and diets (a big thanks to the bartender in red), Mel and I engaged in a serious bar fight, and no one remembering who payed for the cab. Or if we payed them at all.

On a completely unrelated note, I'd like to take this opportunity to pay homage to the most traffic and heat-filled experience of my life. 2 weekends ago, Mel and I road-tripped to Alpine Valley, WI, to see the Dave Matthews Band. This is what we sat in for hours:

This line of traffic DID NOT MOVE for 2 solid hours. With no explanation. Thus causing:

and:

Luckily, on the day of the show it was over 100 degrees with 100% humidity. To try and demonstrate just how hot it was, we took this picture about 5 minutes after we got out of the car and all of its air-conditioned comfort:

Not dewy fresh. I had beads of sweat rolling down my shins. A real sweating first for me. And obviously a clear indication of the sweltering heat, as it's coming from one of Melissa's Top 2 Sweatiest Friends. sick.

So, let's see. I litter, make fun of little people, sit around in a pool of my own sweat and drink beer from a plastic bag in a vehicle. Thank god I've never sat on my pancaked-ass and watched 9 straight episodes of Felicity. Then I'd be totally disgusting and have to reevaluate my self worth.

The Holy Grail of Halloween Costumes

sweet sweet jesus.

Come October 31, 2005, I'm quite certain that my dream man will sweep me off my feet whilst wearing this:

Back to Square One...

I would write a glorious, witty post about the fact that Zach Braff and Mandy "Stupid Ho-Bag" Moore are NOT broken up, as was previously reported, but I can't seem to muster the energy or will to elaborate on this particular topic.

The Wisdom of Vince

I was just having a convo with a friend of mine about "Wedding Crashers" and it brought to mind a very poignant speech that Vince Vaughn gave to Owen Wilson regarding dating:

"I apologize to you if I don't seem eager to jump into a forced, awkward intimate situation that people like to call 'dating.' I don't like the feeling. You're sitting there, wondering: Do I have food on my face? Am I eating, am I talking too much? Are they talking enough? Am I interested? I'm not really interested. Should I play like I'm interested? But I'm not that interested. But I think she might be interested. But do I want to be interested? Now she's not interested. So all of the sudden I'm starting to get interested. And when am I supposed to kiss her? Do I have to wait for the door cuz' then it's akward. It's like 'Well, goodnight.' Do you do like the ass-out hug? Where you hug each other and the ass sticks out because you're trying not to get too close. Or do you just go right in and kiss em' on the lips? Or you don't kiss em' at all? It's very difficult trying to read the situation. And all the while you're just really wondering , 'Are we gonna get hopped up enough to make some bad decisions?' And perhaps play a little game called, 'Just the Tip In.' Just for a second. Just to see how it feels. Or 'Ouch, ouch. You're on my hair.' ... Great talk."

At the end of the speech, everyone in the theater erupted in applause and cheers. I want to find the person who wrote it and kiss them straight on the mouth. And Vince's delivery? Sweet christ. Love it. Love him. Let's say we both skip dating altogether and just get married real quick so I can laugh my face off till death do us part.

Currently devising a plan to get this entire speech on a t-shirt. It would save me from having to explain, at least 10 times a day, why I'm not "into" dating, why I don't care to date, why I pretty much loathe dating. Not only would this lower my overall annoyance load, it would also preserve my valuable oxygen supply.

Love it despite the need to hate it.

I've become someone that I never EVER thought I'd be.

I watched so much television growing up that for the past couple of years I was totally burnt out. Also, nothing really appealed to me. Except for a little Will & Grace, I basically gave up caring about anything on the tube. Slowly but surely, in direct correlation with moving in with Jen and having a new down-the-block-neighbor, I have become a complete reality television whore. If you told me 6 months ago that I would be regularly watching Laguna Beach and Real World as well as counting the days until the Sweet 16 premiere, I would have thrown up in your face. I hated all of those pointless, assinine reality show knock-offs that filled the 10 Spot. But now, the shows that I have hated with everything in me, have become the staples of my life. I watch them. I talk about them. I blog about them. I dream about them. I love them.

Laguna freakin' Beach. Where have you been all of my life? There's something comforting about watching the personification of what I consider to be the WORST qualities in a girl on screen, every Monday night. It's actually excellent therapy. No matter how horrible of a mood I am in, how bitchy I am being, how stressed I am about finances, how seemingly irresponsible I'm being for going out 5 nights a week, THE PEOPLE ON THESE SHOWS ARE SO MUCH WORSE. They are ridiculous and it makes me feel SO much better about myself. While laughing and yelling and WTF!?!?-ing at the television, I am thanking the sweet lord that I'm the way that I am. While that isn't always the greatest thing in the universe, it's a gabillion times better than Kristin's blatant bitchiness, or any of the other girls' mind-blowing shallowness. But, that's entertainment for ya, folks, and I'm eating it up then begging for more.

side note: I wouldn't mind having free reign of mommy and daddy's credit card to get, apparently, anything I want, including $700 sandals. As much as I wanted to gouge her spoiled little eyes out, I totally wanted to be her just for that moment. And maybe a for a few moments after that too, where in I spent another $5000 at Club Monaco.

paying homage to mcsweeneys

for your laughing pleasure, here are a few of my favorite McSweeneys entries (there are many many more, we'll just start here):

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/lists/18AllieOestreich.html
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/openletters/22pull.html
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2005/5/10molyneuxdrake.html

Behold, my absolute fav:

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2005/4/12wayne.html

I Think My iPod is Trying To Kill Me

3 songs that make me want to blow my brains out, but that my iPod consistently plays when shuffling through all of my songs:

- "Patience" GNR (I love writing "GNR" cause it makes me feel nice and trashy)
- "The Scientist" Coldplay
- "Say Hello Wave Goodbye" David Gray

I mean, could these songs be any more depressing? sheesh.

Yo, Pod, help a sista out and get obsessed with some kclarkson or something for god's sake.

Don't Know How to Classify This Post

I can't really tell if I'm bitching or overwhelmed or in awe or what.

I just did my periodic music artist tour check. Living in Chicago, one has quite the selection of live music in which to partake. Things such as this are what make me kiss the sidewalk outside of my apartment every morning, paying homage to the gods of chi town. And while I would never ever ever complain about the fact that pretty much anyone that I would ever want to see, and tons of people I could care less about, come through here, it does make it hard to keep track. I've accepted the fact that I would have to make time for a second full-time career just to keep up with concerts (and making sure I get tickets before they are sold out).

I'm completely blown away by the fact that David Gray is going to be here, at a small, gorgeous, venue in my hood, in 2 weeks, and somehow I haven't heard or seen one damn thing about it. How crazy is it that so many musical acts come through here every single day, that a well-known artist can stop in down the street and I never catch wind of it? Mind-boggling, really.

Of course, the David Gray show is sold out. What a kick in the bollocks! (a little Irish slang for ya) Now I'm going to have to stalk ticketmaster and check the David Gray message board everyday. Maybe even pay a homeless person to go to the venue early on the day of the show to check for last-minute-released-tickets.

When I get a raise (insert laughter here), I'm hiring my very own Personal Live Music Coordinator. Or pay someone via sexual favors because that's about all I'll be able to afford for the next 5 years.

current mantra

random thought.

Quite certain that the guy I end up with will pretty much have to have the song "Hard Headed Woman" by Cat Stevens as the theme song describing his dream chick.

Deep Thoughts...

The following is an excerpt from an email convo between M (name withheld to protect the previously blog-stalked) and I. Please keep in mind, prior to receiving the first email, we were in the middle of talking about airline tickets:

From: M
To: Me

How come the KFC coleslaw has so much more fat than the mashed potatoes and gravy? I don't think their nutrition facts can be right for pots and gravy, can you?? It seems low!

http://www.yum.com/nutrition/menu.asp?brandID_Abbr=2_KFC


From: Me
To: M

That KFC question could be the most random thing ever. Like, someone could have had a gun to my head and said, "pick something that 'M' would write about or you're dead," and I would totally be dead.


From: M
To: Me

Oh my god, I just laughed out loud in my cube for like 5 minutes, I think my neighbor thinks I'm on crack.

Seriously though, don't the potatoes seem unusually low in fat content? I mean, it's gravy for heaven's sake.

Gym Entertainment

Like every other day, yesterday I went to the gym. Wait. Who am I kidding? Let me rephrase. For the first time in like 2 fat-ass weeks, I hit the gym yesterday. I'm slaving away on the elliptical machine, sweating my balls off, jamming to Ms. Clarkson, when this girl walks in. First off, she's on her cell phone. No offense to anyone who brings their celly to the gym, but why in the hell would you do that?? I've heard stories from friends, who go to more trendy, meat-head gyms, about cell phone usage whilst on cardio equipment. I hardly believe it because who would be that stupid? But then I consider the large percentage of people that frequent those gyms--think Barbie yuppies who put on makeup and coordinating puma outfits to not break a sweat--in which case, it almost makes sense. If you can gossip on the phone, you are not working out hard enough. You are wasting your time, and everyone else's time who is waiting to use a treadmill. Leave the gym.

Anywho, that cell phone crap has never happened at my gym. Until yesterday. So, cell phone girl gets on the elliptical in front of me. Surely any second she'll end the convo with the practical, "well, I'm at the gym now, call you later." Nope. Stays on the phone. Barely moving on the machine. Over 5 minutes goes by. Still yapping. Still barely moving. She then gets off the machine to talk on the phone, obviously she was overexerting herself. Stands there and talks for another 10 minutes. Convo ends, real fun begins.

Lady Chatterly remounts. Puts the incline all the way up to max, and goes at it. She looks absolutely ridiculous. No one puts it up to the max. Ever. And especially not for the whole course. She's rotating her hips and sticking her ass out in a grossly overdramatic fashion. Then she starts picking her underwear out of her butt crack. Not a little, inconspicuous shift, but a full hand grab of underwear and shorts. 2-3 times per minute. I had to crane my neck awkwardly to look in another direction because it was so distracting. The girl next to me caught my eyes during one of the crack molestations and we both started DYING laughing. I mean tears, having to stop elliptical-ing. We both tried to resume our workouts, but butt-picker kept at it. I had to stop 10 minutes early and run on the track downstairs just to get away.

Who does that? I'm always pretty conscious of not doing anything to attract attention while at the gym. The size of my ass gets enough attention on it's own without me acting like a complete idiot. I hope she's there again today. Not that I'd be there to see her or anything, just for everyone else's enjoyment.

Does Anyone Else Realize How HUGE This Is?!?!?!

"July 15, 2005 -- IT looks like Zach Braff (above) and Mandy Moore are kaput. Braff, celebrating his freedom, tomcatted his way around New York last weekend. Starting on Thursday, Braff arrived at Level V with "a harem of young women." He at first tried to set up his pal Gavin DeGraw with one of them, but "it seemed that he was the one trying to personally 'match' himself to any woman who looked his way," our spy said. Over the weekend, Braff continued to flirt and hook up with women at Marquee and Cain. Reps for Braff and Moore didn't return calls." (From Page Six)

Since hearing the news I have been jumping around and screaming in my little cubby/hallway/crap area where my desk is. It's no secret that I think Zach Braff is great. Really swell. No, I'm not one of those girls that comment on his blog (http://www2.foxsearchlight.com/gardenstate/blog/) with things like, "I love you Zach!" or "hugs and kisses" or "47 days until your birthday!" or "I heard you like cake. Me too!" or detailed accounts of their ENTIRE day. Ew. I just think that he is hilarious, witty, brilliant and talented. Oh, and cute to boot. Basically everything I look for in a man.

For the very few who don't know, Zach and I shared a moment back in April. I love telling this story because it involves me basically getting proposed to by a celebrity that I totally dig.

Apparently Zach went to Northwestern's Film school so he came here to Chicago to speak to the film students. I caught wind of it so Melissa and I were in attendance. 3rd row. He was about 15 feet away. Of course he dazzled with his humor, wit and intelligence. He then began a question and answer session. It was all very "Inside the Actor's Studio"-ish, but without the creepy host (just thought of Will Ferrell playing James Lipton and laughed out loud).

So for a couple of hours he fields questions regarding acting/directing/Scrubs/Garden State, etc. Eventually, it nears the end. He announces that he can only take one more question. He calls on this girl that asks about his choice of shots in Jersey while filming Garden State, blah blah blah. He answers, but then says that he doesn't want to end the night talking about Jersey. He's going to take one more. And he wants it to be smart and witty and brilliant. (the next part seems almost like an out of body experience). I raise my hand, along with 50 others. He looks at me and says, "I'm gonna have to call on you because you are just so damn cute." That's what he said. I swear. Ask Melissa. How I didn't die right then and there, I don't know. Calm, cool and collected I say, "So what are you doing tonight after the show?" You know, cause I'm a total badass. He starts cracking up, the audience erupts in laughter. It brings a tear, it really does. Braff calms down and says, "now THAT'S how I wanted to end this."

God I love that story.

So, now that whiney, stupid Mandy is out of the picture, I'm so in. I'm gonna have my people call his people.

BECKHAM-MANIA!!!

Ok, in the past 30 minutes I have received two frantic phone calls. The first, from my roomie, Jen, who was dining around the corner from our place of business, and who walks by, but David Beckham himself. She was freaking out. Like, not able to breathe or form a coherent sentence. I hung up the phone and kinda chuckled cause she sounded exactly like one of those girls that you see in the old footage of the Beatles coming to the States.

Oh, but then I get the call from Ann Marie. I'm glad she's leaving for Dublin today and won't be able to read this for a week. Here's how the conversation proceeded:

Me: "This is Amanda."
Ann: silence
Me: "Hello?"
Ann: breaths, short and quick. a couple grunts. small screech.
Me: "um, hello?"
Ann: "Amanda. Ann."
Me: "Ann? You ok?"
Ann: breaths, short and quick. "Um...yes. Saw...."
Me: "Saw...?"
Ann: "At bus stop. David. Beckham. me. Just walked past. me. Beckham. oh my god."
Me: "You saw Beckham too?? Jen just saw him."
Ann: "um...David. Beckham. less than 5 feet away. oh my god."
Me: "Ann, get yourself together, you are out in public."
Ann: grunt. screech. incoherent babble. "gotta go. chase him. down street. picture. camera phone."
Me: "Please don't touch him. Please don't get arrested."

D.J. Tanner, Thou Hast Forsaken Me

I have been having crazy dreams and nightmares for the past 2 weeks straight. Every night. And I'm talking really scary, really realistic, 15 hour long, wake-up-sweating-on-the-verge-of-tears nightmares, one including me being hunted down by the BTK serial killer as his next victim. I wake up, bolt straight up, panting and looking around with eyes as big as saucers. Even though I eventually realize it's just a dream, I can't go back to sleep, I'm scared to death. Of these recurring, disturbing events, not one of them has come close to instilling the fear that is coursing through my veins after experiencing the following...

http://www.candacecameronbure.net/ (focus on the Good Person Test)

All I can picture now is the present-day D.J. Tanner with her head spinning around at mach 10 with vomit flying everywhere. great.

Can't. Wait.

30 hours and counting...

Another One Bites the Dust

This past weekend I witnessed the marriage of these 2 lovely people:

That's Teresa (Ter) and Grant. God, they're classy. This picture was taken a few years back. Can't you tell how much they love each other??

Here's one that Ter will be much happier to see:

Despite the first image, everything about this wedding defined class, down to us bridesmaids' double-stranded pearl necklaces. Even though my dress and accessories were not necessarily my taste, I was impressed by how beautiful everyone looked (and my dress that I had made b/c the original was stolen turned out perfect). We all rocked the casbah.

Um, and check out the flower girl and ring bearer. Their parents had to hide them from me because I kept chasing them around trying to eat them with a spoon.

Please note that the ring bearer walked down the aisle carrying a sign that read, "Here Comes The Bride." That Ter sure is crafty. It was a real crowd pleaser.

The wedding was fantastic, everything to the nines. I cried my eyes out multiple times. I love these two. I've known them both for about 6 years. In watching their relationship change and mature, I have developed the utmost respect for the love that they share. It's seriously inspiring. The best part is, they can be wacky, crazy and turbo-fun all the while having the most healthy, mature relationship based on their strong faith in God. Now, I'm not a very religious person when it comes to my catholic-upbringing, but I love that they incorporate faith and religion into their relationship in a very subtle yet powerfully moving way. Just being around them gives me hope for and faith in my future relationships. They make me want to be a better person. I get teary just thinking about it.

The reception was insanity. Ter comes from a fam of crazy fun Italians. Highlights include: Ter's sister, Gina, mother of quintuplets, singing "The Gambler" with the band. I about peed. Ter and Grant about died. Gina's husband, Mike, father of quintuplets, broke out the worm. And not just some crappy, writhing, half-assed thing. The man went across the dance floor, frontwards and backwards, getting himself a good 2 feet off the ground everytime. We were all awestruck. I couldn't scream loud enough in support. They are another amazing couple that make me warm and fuzzy inside. They are party animals and are still CRAZY about each other after 10 years of marriage and raising quintuplets. I affectionately refer to them as MILF and DILF. I love them. Here they are:

Also, Grant surprised us all by taking over the drums and rocking out "Mustang Sally" with the band. He'd never played that song before. G-Bow just picked it up AND pulled a bad ass solo right out of no where. He was pretty much a pro. None of us even knew he played. You think you know people...

So, wedding #3 down. 2 to go. In the home stretch. I should be able to write my own version of "The Wedding Crashers" by October.

Seacrest, out.

Depression Is...

getting a call from my roommate who is sitting 2 tables away from vince vaughn/my future husband at a bar less than a half mile from my apartment while I am conveniently in an entirely different state.

The Great Unwed

Don’t you love it when you come across the perfect thing at the perfect time? A good friend of mine recently sent me this article published over the weekend in the Chicago Tribune:

http://www.chicagotribune.com/features/magazine/chi-0507030421jul03,1,7218108.story?ctrack=1&cset=true

Since I read it, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. It has moved me, inspired me, and most importantly, forced me to step back and realize that here I am, single, on my own, and for the first time in my life, I’m perfectly ok with that.

“There's some irony for you: the romance of being alone…”

Ironically, the day before reading this article, I found myself telling my roommate how happy and full my life is right now. With things to do, places to go, and more amazing friends than I could have ever wished for. When the words came out, I was so surprised. Surprised that that is exactly how I feel. I’ve spent the past however many years with this idea that finding my soul mate, the “perfect” man for me, would complete me. No matter how content I’ve been with my life in the past, even up until about a month ago, I still felt that the “right” guy could make my life so much better, that I was missing something by being single. And now, I see so clearly that I’m wonderful alone. I’m amazing alone. It feels so awesome to have so much to do, whenever I want to do it, and be surrounded by people that make me laugh and love and appreciate every single day. I found myself getting teary the other day, and for the first time in months, not because of anything sad, but because it hit me that I am so so so very lucky.

“Twenty eight was the height of adulthood to me then. Now that my golden birthday is 10 years gone, I can't help but think what a punk I was at 28 and how little I knew about living. When I was a kid, all I could imagine was being married as an adult, a way of life I learned at home watching my parents… Am I being irresponsible with my life, coming and going with the wind? Maybe. But no more irresponsible than the people who marry too young or simply because getting married feels like the next logical step in their lives.”

For as long as I can remember, and especially since graduating college 2 years ago, I have been obsessed with getting married. Not because I was dying to be a wife and do another person’s laundry, but because it was the next thing that I was supposed to do with my life. I’ve awkwardly stumbled through the past couple of years, fighting between the deeply rooted, but misplaced, desire for marriage, and this voice inside me screaming that there was something else out there for me to discover first. That “something else,” I’ve learned, is the real me.

The me that is sarcastic and dry, maybe even witty at times. The me that loves to make people laugh and is perpetually late. The me that isn’t good at dating around and is still a hopeless romantic. The me that says, “what the hell,” way more often than she should. The me that wouldn't trade picking up and moving to Chicago with no job, no money and only knowing one person. The me that wouldn't take back one difficult thing that has happened in the past 2 years (well, except for maybe the stolen bridesmaid's dress, what a pain in my ass).

“When you have no one to talk to, you observe and you learn and you start to hear the voice inside of you.”

I have spent so much of my life inside my head. Thinking, analyzing, over-analyzing, then over-analyzing the previous over-analyzation, ad nauseum. Lately I have been making a conscious effort to get out of me and try to see everything around me. It’s amazing how much of the world you miss while mulling over the mundane intricacies and negatives of your life. It’s disturbing really. I’ve started to just watch, look, and listen to everyone and everything. I think I’ve really “seen” more in the past 2 months than I ever have before. There are so many things out there that show me how trivial 95% of my concerns really are. I feel like a 10,000 pound weight has been lifted (and if you've seen the size of my butt, you know that I could use a lift of another 10,000 or so pounds).

“When I am on an adventure and lost in my thoughts-in an exotic foreign land or in a River North coffee shop-I am convinced that anything is possible. That is a powerful conviction. I am open to the possibility that in an afternoon I could meet my dream girl [guy] and court her [him] with every ounce of poetry in my being, or I could rush home, pack a bag and move to a monastery for a life of silent contemplation.”

I’m obsessed with the fact that everyday, anything can happen. And I have the freedom to go along with whatever I choose (except for the monastery and silent thing. Let’s get real, I like talking and non-celibate stuff WAY too much). Even the simplest thing, like not making plans and just seeing where the day/night leads you, usually ends up with the best stories to tell.

Rest assured that all of this “Yay For Independence!” talk does not mean that I don’t want to find a great person to share my life with. Or that I won’t still bitch to my friends about frustrations with the opposite sex. I’m just so giddy I could pee my pants at the fact that I’m finally happy with me and my life and where I am and the people I am sharing it with. It really feels good.

Because I'll Explode If I Don't Write About This

Unfortunately, I did not heed the multiple warnings against attending the Taste of Chicago on Saturday afternoon. When I went to the Taste a couple of summers ago, I had a great time so I figured it couldn't be that bad.

OH. MY. GOD.

I really don't think that I can adequately put into words the frustration and just pure disgust that I have for the Taste after my most recent visit. I don't think I'll be able to go again for at least 10 years, if ever.

First of all, I HATE large groups of people. Especially large groups of people apparently lacking any brain power or general social skills. Like knowing how to repeatedly place one foot in front of the other to continue moving in one direction from one location to another. I have never been so jam-packed and slammed into so many sweaty, nasty, non-moving people in all my life. I knew it was going to be crowded, but jesus christ almighty, it made me want to cry/scream/kill people.

It all started with the food ticket lines. Oh my christ. Who was the genius who designed that shit show?? The basic set up of the Taste is 3 parallel rows of booths. One along the left side of the street, one along the right and one down the middle. Thus, the masses of people traverse up and down one of two areas: 1) between the left row of booths and the center row and 2) between the right row of booths and the center row. Pretty straightforward. So why in god's name would you set up the ticket booths in such a way that the windows face the walkway area, resulting in the ridiculously long lines of people completely blocking the only path that the other non-ticket-buying people have to walk?? To the Taste Booth Set-Up Engineers: PUT THE TICKET WINDOWS ON THE SIDES OF THE BOOTHS THAT ALLOW THE LINES TO RUN PARALLEL WITH THE ROWS OF BOOTHS. I don't know a damn thing about event coordination and set-up of these things, but I'm quite certain that even a monkey could have figured that one out.

In theory, besides the areas that are blocked by ticket lines, there seems to be enough room for people to move around sufficiently. At least there would be if there weren't 7000 people with double-wide strollers, kids in wagons, and people in motorized scooters and wheelchairs. I'm not saying that people with children in strollers/wagons and people in scooters and wheelchairs shouldn't be at the Taste. I do not discriminate against the bearers of offspring and the handicapped so don't even start bitching about everyone having a right to go wherever, whenever, blah blah blah. I'm just saying that if you have children in strollers/wagons or you are in a scooter/wheelchair, at what point do you decide that bringing yourself and your vehicles to something like the Taste, with a million people mashed together, would be an even half-way enjoyable experience?? All I had was myself and a small purse and I could barely maneuver around anyone. Save yourself and others the misery and attend on less crowded days or just skip the Taste and go to the actual restaurants in Chicago. They're here all year round. Most even deliver.

Speaking of kids, I CANNOT believe the number of people who had newborn babies with them. As if it wasn't bad enough that they were getting in my way with the strollers, these idiots allow their babies to roast in the sun and 85 degree heat. And bust their eardrums with the deafening noise. Who are these people!??!!? I'm starting a campaign to stop newborn abuse at the Taste.

And what's up with always ending up with 1 or 2 left over food tickets that you can't use because nothing is 1 or 2 tickets?? Your only choices are to go buy a whole new pack of 11 tickets that you only need 2 tickets of (because of course they don't sell anything under 11 tickets), or just take it in the rear and toss the leftover tickets. Awesome. I love wasting money.

Besides the choice people-watching that I enjoyed at the Taste, it was a horrid experience. I wanted to love it, I really did, but nothing could have saved the day, not even my chocolate-covered frozen banana.

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.

http://toothpastefordinner.com/060905/you-just-solved-drews-clues.gif

http://toothpastefordinner.com/052505/less-famous-eating-disorders.gif

http://toothpastefordinner.com/060205/some-of-those-bumper-stickers.gif

http://toothpastefordinner.com/051905/get-paid-in-oxen.gif

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

http://primates.ximian.com/~jackson/Monkey_steals_peach.jpg