The Things I've Done

I am back in a totally non-zombie way.  Things got... a bit crazy for a while there.  Let's take a look at my itinerary from the last six weeks or so, shall we?

• Thanksgiving:  The Dude met My Sister the Lawyer, and no one died.  Mostly importantly, me.
• The Dude proved himself to be the worst friend ever, but his friend did specifically request a roasting.
• My company Christmas party.  Open bar.
• The Hobbit:  Desolation of Smaug!  Followed by beer.
• Christmas party with the Dude's enormous Irish family.  Open bar.
• Christmas #1, with the Dude's mom.
• Christmas #2, with my family (Sandwiched by Christmas Eve and Christmas #3 for the Dude.
• Hangover.
• Light show at the arboretum
• New Year's Eve pajama party.  With beer.
• Hangover.
• Inventory at work (yay!...).  Followed by beer.
• Lunch (and beer) with friends
• Computer-building with beer.
• Karaoke!  Beer-fueled karaoke!
• Hangover.
• Board game party.  (No beer--recovery.)
• Frozen!

Honestly, I think I'm forgetting about half the things we squeezed in.  Some of it is probably lost in a semi-drunken haze.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, I missed you while I was away.  But beer!


(True:  I actually don't drink a lot.  Partially because drunk me is an exact replica of the worst B-actress's portrayal of badly-written drunkenness--who actually slurs?--but mostly because I've never found drink and fun to be mutually inclusive.  I think some of the Dude's friends think I'm a teetotaler.)

Man of My Dreams

When I was very, very small, I had a dream.  In this dream, a bad man was executed.  First, his skin was peeled off.  Then, his muscles were boiled off.  His skeleton fell apart, and so he was nothing but veins and teeth and eyeballs.

He didn't die--in fact, he managed to escape into the woods.

I've always been prone to recurring dreams, and as I watched and rewatched the bad man's unsuccessful execution, he watched me.  In perfect dream-logic, I knew he was angry at me for witnessing his humiliation and escape.  And that when he got better, he would come for me.

He did.

It took a couple of years, but I dreamt of a house.  A giant, ancient, four-story house where the rooms were connected by balconies overlooking a central great room.  I was in my early teens at this point, and Antiques Roadshow was pretty much the greatest thing ever.  So while the adults argued over boring legal stuff, I went exploring in rooms untouched for years.

He was following me.

Not obviously, but lurking in shadows and flitting out of the furthest reaches of my field of vision as I turned my head.  He was keeping some distance, so I pretended I didn't see him.  I slowly began making my way back to the great room, where the adults still shouted.  I still stopped in several rooms--my curiosity was unabated, and I didn't want to blow my cover.  As I got closer to the stairs, I realized:  He knew I knew.  He was teasing me, luring me into a false sense of security. 

I abandoned a trunk of clothes and toys and hurried to the door, trying to look casual.  The staircase was a large stone spiral, and the sound of my footsteps was so much louder than I wished--not casual at all.  I abandoned that tack and ran.  The man--all in black, with a hoodie or jacket pulled up so I could never see his face--his footsteps echoed above me, gaining on me.

I missed the door to the first floor, which would have led me to the great room, to my family.  It was too far from the stairs to that huge room, and he was too close behind me.  I'd never make it.  I kept going down.

There were several basements, and all of them were twisty and confusing and damp and cold and dark.  It seemed I could keep going down those stairs forever.  But he was very close behind me now, just around the bend of the spiral.  Desperate, I ducked into a room and hid behind the open door.

There was immediate silence.  Had the man in black run past me?  Or was he standing on the other side of my door, relishing my fear while he waited for the perfect moment to grab me?

I wake up at this point. 

I've had this dream so often now that I know that house backwards and forwards.  I know all the basements now, and where the kitchen is (on the far side of the house on the first floor, with a large table for prepping), and what the exterior looks like (large tidy lawn, bushes below the first floor windows, six stairs leading to the heavy double front doors, columns holding the balcony above).

But the man in black isn't trapped in this house.  He lurks in dreams about my job, about grocery shopping, about cupcakes and any other crazy thing that swirls through my sleeping brain.  In these other dreams, he's at his scariest--he waits.

It's Official. I am Too Old to Understand the Concept of "Cool."

Tomorrow is my birthday.  Happy birthday, me!

Happy birthday to me
Happy birthday to me
I look like a monkey
So I'm glad you can't see!

The Dude pointed out that the milk in the fridge expires tomorrow.  "Yeah," I said.  "Everything goes bad then."

I went to a concert this weekend at a college bar.  There was a group of guys flexing for photos, and I saw a woman who appeared to be wearing an unironic, metal-studded G-string on her head.

I am officially to old to go to concerts at college bars.


(True:  I learned this week what c-string is.  They look... uncomfortable.)

Office Supplies. They Matter.

My office recently switched to a new toilet paper, and it's pretty innovative.  The manufacturer has, it seems, discovered a way to make toilet paper that is just one molecule thick. 

This really makes peeing a thought-provoking experience.  Your tentative, gentle grasp punches your fingers through the tissue, simultaneously make one feel like the Hulk with a china teacup and driving home the fragility of human life.

And then there's the adventure of it:

There's only half a roll left--will this be enough to cover my needs?

And coping with menstruation under these circumstances becomes fraught with all the anxiety of the apocalypse.

It does make for great calisthenics, though.  I stretch my arm all the way out, as far as I can without tipping over, and then foldfoldfoldfold (haha, fourfold) to achieve something akin to the bare (lol) minimum of adequacy.

But don't blow your nose in it.  If there are no Kleenex to be had, I'd recommend using sandpaper before our new toilet paper.  It's softer, and you're infinitely less likely to shoot your snot right through it and onto your hands, desk, and any passers-by.

A sneeze would be catastrophic.

Well, I Guess They've Got to Shop Somewhere.

So, my dad sometimes reads this blog.  Hi Dad!  The work you did on your yard this weekend looks great!  Please stop reading this post now, 'kay?

I was just at Marshalls, shopping for underpants.  Like you do.  And maybe I was looking at the not not-sexy underpants, if you get my drift.  Because I'm an adult (sort of) and I shouldn't have to feel embarrassed about that.

Something on the other side of the rack caused me to look up.  I'd like to think it was devine intervention, but judging by what happened next, probably not.

With my hands full of skimpy underwear, I locked eyes across the rack with a nun.

Good Lord.

Life Lessons

Yesterday I learned:

• To never wear sandals in a dog-friendly park.
• That dating a nurse is totally helpful in determining whether or not you need stitches.
• And that it's generally considered inappropriate to make Weekend at Bernie's jokes at a funeral.

These three lessons are fortunately not related.

My Spirit Animal Is A Marsupial, But It Doesn't Matter Because I'm Dying.

I'm sick.  Not with the plague, as I was surprised to learn.  It's one of those unnotable, unspecial summer head colds that just make you want to die.  Someone asked me yesterday how I was feeling.

I answered promptly and with confidence:  "My head is wallaby."

Like this.

Suffice it to say I had a fever, as this word choice made perfect sense in that moment.  "Wallaby" sounds like it should be an adjective, and they live in Australia.  So, you know, they're upside down.  Which pretty accurately describes how my head felt yesterday--not right and generally askew.

(First it was the possums...  Now my blog collection of marsupials is growing.  Be afraid--very afraid.)

On a side note, I'd like to make it known that I do not have pink eye.  I scratched my cornea last weekend doing yard work.  My eye and my head are two completely separate things.

Oh, you know what I mean.  Don't judge me!

Also I'm never doing yard work again.


(True:  The Dude is also sick.  We spent last night feeling very, very sorry for ourselves and each other, and watching Doctor Who.  Which I think makes a pretty legit pity party.)

I'm Still Not Dead

But I am moving.  Real posts to follow once the dust has settled.

Here's some stuff to tide you over....  (Pardon the lack of hyperlinks.  I'm in a hurry.)

http://dogbehaviorscience.wordpress.com/2012/09/29/100-years-of-breed-improvement/

(Wherein breeds from now are compared to the same breeds from 100 years ago.  Interesting read, and a bit worrisome.)


http://kateharding.net/2009/10/08/guest-blogger-starling-schrodinger%E2%80%99s-rapist-or-a-guy%E2%80%99s-guide-to-approaching-strange-women-without-being-maced/

(This article should be required reading for every single person upon reaching puberty.)


http://realtorstotherescue.org/

(Realtors who will help you find pet-friendly housing.  Yay!)


http://www.themilitantbaker.com/2013/03/things-no-one-will-tell-fat-girls-so-i.html?m=1

(This chick kicks ass.  I think I love her.) 


(True:  Moving sucks.)

I Almost Got Peed On By a Lesbian and Other Coincidences

Hello, dear reader!  I know you have missed me terribly since I last posted--almost a whole week!  I'm so ashamed!  But fear not, for I have been on the lookout for crazy, and the crazy has been plentiful.



First, I should tell you that I'm looking for investors for my new business.  I'm going to install a soda fountain in the trunk of my car and drive around looking for uncaffeinated people.  The way I see it, I should be able to get a government subsidy for this, since it is obviously a much-needed public service.  Uncaffeinated people are tired people.  Tired people are cranky people.  Cranky people don't buy stupid shit at the spur of the moment.  My plan with quite literally stimulate the economy.

I expect the money to come rolling in any moment now.



Second, you look like you need a pun.  Here you go:

Never tell a pun to a kleptomaniac.  He'll take it literally.

(This is not an original joke.  The Internet came up with it.  Or something.)



Third, I almost got peed on by a lesbian.  I went to the Pride Parade here in Chicago on Sunday, and it was awesome.  It was like a regular parade, but with more glitter and naked buttcheeks.  The crowd was very festive and friendly, but there are jerks everywhere, and one woman--who had as much personal space as a crowd that size allowed--threatened to pee on me.  I'm not quite certain why.  But she certainly thrust her butt into me in a bid for more space often enough, and every time I worried she was going to follow through with her threat.  She bragged loudly to her friends that she was assertive.  I think she added too many syllables to that word.



Fourth, I just got a call from a customer.

Customer:  Do you have any xxxxxx in stock?

Me:  Let me check....  No, we don't.

Customer:  Of course you do.

Me:  ...........


(True:  I've been informed I wear my crazy on my sleeve.  I figure this is healthier than hiding it, right?  Right???)

I'm Getting a Fashion Update. Or Downdate. Or Something.

It wasn't a fanny pack (bum bag for you British folks, and please pardon my language).  I swear to god it wasn't a fanny pack.

But it was a belt with a pocket in it that had just enough room for your ID and maybe one key.  And it was flat!  Flat does not equal fanny pack, okay???  I just didn't want to deal with a purse at a theme park, and the belt was totally hidden beneath my t-shirt.  So just stop maligning my dignity right there.  I am unquestionably dignified at all times.

Needless to say, I took a lot of flak for it.  But then I discovered these:

Via

It's a chatelaine, and women in the 18th century hung them from their belts to carry their necessities.  Pretty, right?  So I took everthing out of my purse, and I'm going to make one for my necessities.

Classy, right?


(True:  Last weekend I saw a dude unashamedly rocking a fanny pack.  But he also was wearing short shorts and work boots with the shoelaces artistically untied, so I don't know if that's a sign the fanny pack is making a comeback or if he was just a hipster prepared for the zombie apocalypse.)

I used to weep drunkenly into my keyboard, obviously.

In the mirror, no one stares back.
Eyes and lips are drawn, lids and cheeks colored.
And so a face appears from nothing.
The mannequin, costumed, proceeds to the door
And out into a world, peopled.
Chatter can be heard--syllables crash and twinge and jab.
The sounds wash over each other and away
With the smog of the evening commute,
Leaving only traces of grime on unoccupied bus stop benches.
In the night-place, there are box-sounds and can-laughter,
And dinner, which is the same.
Finally, the face and day are scrubbed away--
Only naked honesty remains.
In the mirror, no one stares back.



Don't be alarmed.  I am perfectly (I almost wrote "pervertly," and that's pretty accurate, too) fine.  I just sort of stumbled upon/remembered a bunch of things I wrote in/immediately after college.*  Some of it isn't half-bad.  Some of it is pretty awful.  Some is super-dee-duper angsty.  And most of it was written mid-drunk.

Dear readers, let me introduce you to me, five years ago...



A Downer Commons Lamentation

"Why ever did I think
It'd be a good idea to sink
My teeth into that fried
Wildebeastie?" I cried.
Now my belly's a-churning
And my mouth is a-burning.
I think I'll just lay down and croak.
Do you have Sprite?  No, not Coke.
Alkaseltzer or Tums?
When I'm gone, tell my chums
That I'll miss them.

Ode to Vicks

You smell real nice,

And make me tingle.

My sticky chest

Keeps me single.

But it's hard to mind

When you're around, dear,

Since you've the talent to

Make my nasal passages clear.

Some people don't like you,

But I really don't get it:

There's nothing better

When I'm feeling like shit.

To sum up, quickly:

When you're looking sickly

There're no excuses

Not to use this.

Rather than toaster and tub

Try Vicks Vapo-Rub!

*Some of this may or may not be posted online in an abandoned blog.  No, I'm not linking to it.  By "some of it is pretty awful" I mean, good lord, almost all of it.

(True:  It is probably terrible that now-me finds past-me pretty freaking funny.  If, you know, hungover.)

Mr. Sandman, Bring Me a Dream. Not a Fucking Mess, You Asshole.

I live on the top floor of my building.  Heat rises.  So in the summer, my apartment gets really hot--generally, whatever the temperature is outside, it's ten to fifteen degrees warmer in my home.  (Thank god for my window AC--that keeps it about the same temp as outside.)  And in the winter, all the massive amounts of heat pumped out by our cast-iron registers--which is either on or off for the entire building--creeps up to my apartment.

I sleep with the windows open.

But something that happened last week is making me rethink the wisdom of that.  Because apparently, even on the third floor, weird shit can get in your windows.

Like sand.  I woke up one morning last week with a significant amount (maybe a cup or a cup and a half) of motherfucking sand all over the windowsills and nearby floor. 

How does that even happen?!


(True:  I just referenced The Chordettes in this post title.  I am officially old.)

Order Matters

Not the Good Housekeeping/Martha Stewart-approved kind of order, obviously.  Anyone who has seen my apartment, or my car, or my purse can attest to that.  (Though I maintain that I'm visually organized--if I can see it, I can find it.  So it's not clutter.  It's visually available.)

No, what I mean is the sequential kind of order.  Specifically, the order in which one's thoughts leaves one's mouth.

So, when I was talking with a work friend about what a bummer is was that his band had missed the cut-off for entry in an industry battle of the bands event, I probably should have put my sentences in an orderly sequence, instead of blurting them out in the order I thought them.

Compare what I meant versus what I said:

True:  I am an accidental asshole.

I Have My Chainsaw at the Ready

Because in the last five hours, I've been rained on, snowed on, hailed on, and nearly kited off by the wind--twice.

Because in the last day, I almost accidentally turned my car into a boat in an attempt to ford a river drive on one of the few streets that was still open.

Because my fifteen-minute commute has turned into a two-plus-hour one.

Obviously this is the beginning of the apocalypse.  And you know what always comes in handy in an apocalypse?  Chainsaws.


(True:  There are perks to living in a third floor walk-up.  Not only is my place not flooded, when the zombies come, I can take out the stairs and have an easily defensible position.  Now I just need to stockpile enough toilet paper...)


(Also true:  Women in post-apocalypse movies are never seen scrambling to find tampons in a world of ravaged supply lines.  Which is odd, because they do that often enough now, even with Super Walmarts on every corner.)

Just Say No--to Scissors

Don't run with scissors.

I'm pretty sure it's a warning exactly nobody takes seriously.  I mean, sure, children probably should avoid the motion + sharp objects equation, but we grown ups ought to be able to handle it, right?  As long as we aren't simultaneously making stabby motions with them?

Not me.  At least, I assume not--I haven't actually had a run-in with scissors yet.  But last week, I split my thumbnail smack down the middle with an apple slicer.  Two weeks ago I took a chunk out of my index finger when I was chopping vegetables and missed.  I have a nasty scar on the knobby bit of my wrist from when I juggled a razor in the shower.

If scissors are a gateway cutting tool, I've skipped straight to the hard stuff.


(True:  Super glue is a useful tool to have in one's first aid kit.)

A Hairy Situation: Vote on It!

It's damp and disgusting out, and I have a date tonight.

So I have three options:

1. I can leave my hair "as is" and go out with Hermione Hair.
2. I can spend thirty minutes straightening my hair.  It will look nice until the minute I step outside--then it will return to its natural state, Hermione Hair.
3. I can apply hot curlers, which takes very little time (I can finish getting ready while they set) and will hold all night.  This option will give me hair such as an '80s porn star's dreams are made of.

I don't feel like making any decsions today.  So I'm leaving it up to your vote.  Comment below, and I'll go with whatever has the most votes when I need to get ready.  I'll even post a photo!  (Of my real face, people.  This is unprecedented.  And goes to show my brain is incapable of rational thought today.)

It's a Grisly Affair

When I was little, I thought Barbie was what being a grown-up woman was all about.  She was a doctor/veterinarian with impeccable clothes and hair who balanced her career, glamorous outings with Ken (or more likely, G.I. Joe) on the jet-ski, and possibly a family (a beautiful, silent baby) with ease and long vacations to Italy.

When I was little, I was stupid.

Here is what being an adult woman is really like:

• WORKWORKWORKWORKWORKWORKWORKweekend.
• BILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSmoney?
• NO ONE REALLY LOOKS LIKE THE KARDASHIANS DO ON TV.  THE KARDASHIANS DON'T EVEN LOOK LIKE THE KARDASHIANS DO ON TV.  Stop judging my sweatpants.
• Uncomfortable bras, and worst of all, strapless bras.
• You only get your period when you think it's safe to wear your favorite underwear.
• I could go out.  Or I could stay in, gorge on pizza puffs, watch bad television, and be in bed before the ten o'clock news.
• That event so awful I won't name it here.  (But it involves stirrups and a vicious lie along the lines of, "It'll just be a pinch.")
• Wolf whistles.
• Grubby children pulling your birth control out of your purse in front of mixed company.
• Childbirth war stories.  (Seriously--can mothers answer me why none of you seem to have PTSD?)
• The expectation of the general populace that you just can't wait to experience that particular miracle.

And what women have to look forward to:

• Smashing, painful mammograms.  For years.
• Menopause and the accompanying misery.  For years.
• Death.

Surprisingly, I'm not saying being a woman is such a bad thing.  It's worked out pretty well for me so far.  I'm just saying, thank the ladies in your life for being seriously hardcore.  And that maybe women deserve a little something for tolerating all the shit we do--like the Permanent Fund Dividend in Alaska, where they give you money for living there year-round.

Because, fuck.

Via

(True:  Today I had the grisly distinction of bearing witness to several women's very detailed discussion of mammograms.  I am suddenly terrified of life.)

A First-Person Narrative

I'm eating hummus for lunch and I just stumbled across the terrifying words "Honey Boo Boo."

So there went my idea for today's post.  It must not have been very important.

So, here are some thoughts on my day:

Someone has been sitting on my chair.  Someone adjusted my chair.  My feet don't touch the floor!  Who has been sitting in my chair???  Jerk.

Someone once told me the hydraulics in swivel chairs are powerful enough that a malfunction could shoot the base all the way through your butt. 

If this is a promotion, why am I sitting at the short bus desk?  I had a bigger desk in third grade, and that had a flip top for storage.  This one just has a cartoon that says, "Weenie Hut Jr's."

At what point is it reasonable to ask for my borrowed pen back?  It's been twenty minutes.  And that pen is perfectly broken in.  Is the borrower at lunch?  Maybe I could steal it back.  Crap.  It's not in plain sight and there are too many people around for me to rifle through drawers.



(True:  No, this is not a real post.  I'd sell my left foot--that's my ass-kicking foot--for a nap.  And I'd be open to negotiation.)

In a Surprise Twist, I Actually Survived

And mostly intact!  WhirlyBall was pretty much more fun than ought to be legal, although I did end up with some bruising on the insides of my legs that might raise some eyebrows if I decide to sport my Daisy Dukes this weekend.  You know, if I had any.  Or thought that was a good look for me anyone me.

But what can I say?  A center steering column in a bumper car leads to suspicious bruising.

In other news, overnight my voice has subsided to a subauditory squeak.  I went to lunch with some friends, and they spent the entire meal pretending (sort of pretending) they couldn't hear me, and the entire ride back mocking me.

I'd write up a proper post, but I have Frutti di Bosco gelato to eat, so you're out of luck.


(True:  I am wearing a ponytail today.  One of our salespeople came up behind me and pulled it.  To be perfectly clear, my ponytail is not an invitation to touch me, no matter how often we talk on the phone.  Especially from behind, without announcing your presence.  Geez, people!  Haven't we moved past this yet?)

It's Been Nice Knowing You, But Now I'm Headed toward Certain Doom.

Pray for me.  If you are certified, please include Last Rites.  (That's something you have to be certified for, right?)

Tonight, I am learning how to play WhirlyBall. 




This can only end in tears.  The last time I was in a bumper anything, I was about seven.  My grandparents had taken my cousing, my sister, and me to Little Ammericka, and my sister conned me into going on the bumper boats with her, even though the engines were unhealthily (yes, that's a word, because I say so and so does Merriam-Webster) loud.  It was just the two of us, because my cousins chose that opportune moment to disappear.  My boat's engine cut out, and My Sister the Lawyer bumped my boat over and over while I was stranded until I cried.  It took the operator about six hours (okay, probably about fifteen minutes) to figure out how to retrieve me.

Ah, the memories.

Now, I'll be adding a sports element to an activity that's already cutthroat, and I'm not exactly the most coordinated person...

Take this morning.

This morning, I decided to wear a pencil skirt.  It's sort of sunny out, and I sometimes like to pretend it's spring.  Everything went swimmingly until I tripped on my skirt in the bathroom.  So naturally I tore the seam, which runs down the back of my skirt

And of course the hole is exactly ass-level.

If this is karma, I must have been Genghis Khan in a past life.



(True:  It's a good thing I'm wearing tights.)