a to do list for this blog

You know, I just can’t seem to get things done in a timely fashion.  Just to kick my bum into gear, I am going to write up the things that I have been knocking off of my 101 list, starting with these things:

• Learn to tango.
• Learn to make excellent risotto.
• Find a hat that looks good on me.
• Visit a friend who is far away.
• Eat a mangosteen.
• Grant a wish.
• Write my Senator.
• Write my Congressman.
• Find a rockin’ pair of glasses.
• Go a week without wearing make-up.
• Storm out of a room, dramatically.
• Get to 400 blog entries.
• Learn the Presidents, Vice Presidents, and a few bizarre facts about each.
• Have a conversation with a stranger.
• Spend an entire day in my pajamas.
• Read 5 books that I own, but haven’t read.
• Finish 5 books that I have started.
• Watch five movies that I pretend I’ve already seen.

While some aren’t, most of them are completed.  And bitches, I’ve got the photographic evidence to prove it!  That is, on some of them.  So by the end of next week, I will have completed my list of things on another list that I am to document.

Yeesh.

do you take it with milk or lemon?

I am asking this in a completely non-disparaging way:  What are the teabaggers protesting?

I have been seeing pictures on the news with gatherings of hundreds of people.  Some were calling for revolution while others secession, all carrying signs targeting the President and his administration.  Were they expecting that all of the economic troubles that began years ago to disappear within the first 86 days of the new Presidency?  

Our President and First Lady…

… slow dance like 8th graders.

I love it, love them, and wish them the very best.

People in love are just adorkable.

good grief…

Okay.  It’s been far too long since I have been updating this thing.  And why is that?  Probably the same reason why nobody else seems to be rocking their blogs.  

Real life.

Well that, and I have been seduced by the facebook.  Maybe it’s the combination of speed, feedback, and instasnark that has me so beguiled.  Why spend an entire afternoon spell-checking something that may or may not be read by anyone when I can throw out one or two smart ass comments every hour or so?  

On the downside, I think that my writing skills have atrophied beyond redemption.  So October ninth resolution, get back to it.  

Egad, this is like taking antibiotics.

free and clear… almost.

During the holiday season, traditions abound. Families will gather by the hearth. Some eat a big goose. Others indulge in an appetite inducing tramp through a nearby wooded area. More than a few will hoof it to the local mall to return those gifts that missed the mark. Recently, I heard of one that requires the involvement of a ceramic dolphin. As for my family, we are devoid of the routines that mar the yuletide, and happily so.

confronting the butterface

It was at Lil Yum’s going away, Jersey Shore extravaganza where I learned the term “Butterface.” Since most of y’all are well versed in the lingo, I’m not even going to try to explain it. Suffice it to say, the good feminist in me could not believe that the term even existed. I believed it to be the ultimate in obnoxious, frat dude mindset.

With that said, here is a special message to those who know and love me: I get it. Seriously? Woof.

November 9th resolution: No more drunk blogging. Starting now.

murdering language – part 2

During our latest marathon skype call, my Righteous Ms. Al and I parsed the following statement:

“He was hard not to miss.”

I ask all of the language geniuses out there to wrap their brains around that one.

murdering language

There are times when I think, “there is probably a better word.”

Other times I hear a word and think, “that’s not what it means.”

And then, there are the moments I take pause and wonder, “Is that a real word?”

Please place all electronical devices… – Security at LAX 

Um.

No.

It isn’t.

Rule 15c. Temporary Fan Status

Excepting the lovely company, Sunday was a wretched day. What the hell happened?! I could speculate, but there are far better people in this world to offer analysis and conjecture on the situation. The last thing anyone needs is another 2 bits tossed into the growing bank of Mets mockery.

There are a lot of things that go through one’s head when witnessing a collective meltdown of extraordinary players. Like all good fans, I feel the bizzaro need to take partial responsibility. In my heart, I know it has nothing to do with not wearing my number 7 jersey.  It isn’t that I wasn’t listening to their games as regularly as I could have. It wasn’t hubris. I know better than to get cocky about the September play of my Mets. At some point, I need to let go and recognize that I had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Sigh.

Ordinarily, such a collapse would also signal the end of my baseball watching season. Like so many sore losers, I am not above storming out in a huff. I have no qualms about curling up into the fetal position until February. I take no issue with pouting my way out of a seriously depressing September of play.

Then again, there is always Rule 15c:

15c. If one of your best friends loves a certain team that has a chance to win a championship, and your team is out of the picture, it’s OK to jump on the bandwagon and root for his team to win it all. That’s acceptable. Like Temporary Fan status.

Thank God for Bill Simmons.  As Chicago remains one of my truest loves, I want nothing more than a city of happiness.  As I live in the heart of Cubby-dom, I will throw my windows wide and let the organ stylings of Gary Pressy fill my home. I will join my dearest of friends in their Cubs affection. I will don my Cubbie blue like our poseur of a mayor.  I will humbly embrace my Temporary Fan status.

That is, until next spring.

my terrible timing…

Those who know and love me are well aware that my timing has been off by thees much. For the newest piece of evidence: Barack Obama will be holding a rally in NYC. Yep. My candidate of choice will be in NYC, only one short week after I have said goodbye to native ground.

For my NYC peeps, bail out of the office early and see him.*

NYC Rally with Barack Obama
September 27, 2007
Washington Square Park
Gates open at 5:00 pm

* You can RSVP at his site for a rapid entry pass. Though, I thought I had one when I went to Springfield, and ended up having to sneak in.

a moment to lose my cool…

Those who know and love me have good reason to worry. Girlfriend’s sanity is hanging by a piece of dental floss. At some point, my world view shifted in a way I can’t appreciate. I now have zero tolerance for those who are not entirely self sufficient. I have little to no patience for the judgmental people in my sphere. I am floored when I am required to repeat myself. Honestly, I am starting to believe the world to be populated by complete morons.

Idiots.

All of them.

This is not a good way for me to be. This isn’t me. Sigh. What happened to the sweet, fun-loving, party girl? Maybe I miss Chicago. It is odd to think, as I know and love so many people here. I grew up here. I was raised here. It’s familiar. It’s home. But frankly, this isn’t the same place it was when, you know, crack was king.

Maybe I was too young to notice, but since when did everyone in this city become so !@#$ competitive? It’s about who is working late every night. It’s about how much someone makes. It’s about who has the better apartment, who is wearing what dress, who ate at which restaurant, who is seen with what person, who is going to the better parties, who had the best weekend, blah, blah, blah.

Seriously. Give it a rest. For a girl who has spent a lifetime not giving a crap about the superficial, I can’t seem to escape it. If I want to spend the weekend in my jammies watching TV, eff you for judging me. If I want to see Transformers instead of Mon Meilleur Ami, get over it. If I want to order in from the cheap diner around the corner instead of hitting the new Sino-French fusion place, eat it.

Like I said. Girlfriend is so very close to losing it.

mr. math can’t catch – part 3

[Continued from part 1]

[Continued from part 2]

Part three is a doozy of a long post, but it’s the last one. That, and I couldn’t find a good place to edit the sucker.

mr. math can’t catch – part 2

[continued from part 1]

Pitchers and catchers report.

These words mark the first day of spring. They define the day when my boys of summer will converge in some sunny clime. They will work off the winter pudge, work the cold out of their elbows and knees, and get in shape for the long season ahead. Slowly, the rest of the line-up will join the early birds. Most everyone is healthy, vital, and excited to be back to baseball.

Within the evaporating miasma of winter, we will catch a first glimpse of new teammates and old friends, refreshing hope like the green buds of the first spring crocus. I will join the legions of fans that wish nothing but success for this team, pledging my support and allegiance, with hopes that they will bring joy to my city. I will be happy once more, though I know that my manic euphoria is fleeting.

Anything can happen in the long month to follow. Meaningless games might demonstrate potential weaknesses in the line-up. Egos will emerge, injuries occur, and reminders of the disappointments from the past September begin to creep forward. March is the month of worry and doubt. Then, in a flash, April arrives. It is Opening Day.

The poetry that is baseball fills the speakers of my car stereo once more, as John Rooney calls the play-by-play:

One out.

A line drive to right

6-4-3.

Double-play, leaving one stranded.

The Sox are up.

It’s the bottom of the ninth.

They are the classic words to a classic play. The game unfolds in my mind as I circle the block once more so as not to miss the end of the game. The home team wins, and hopes for a pennant bubble up once more. Though this bi-polar ride of emotions will continue for the rest of the season, I could not be more thrilled.

Baseball season casts a bright light on the most mundane work days. The furtive peek at the previous night’s box scores, the lunchtime recap of game highlights, and raucous discussions between amateur general managers makes every miserable day almost pleasant. A night game transforms an otherwise dismal commute into my favorite part of the day. On those evenings, I tailor my work days to end just before the first pitch. A few of my more clever coworkers understand my outwardly disordered schedule, while others might chalk it up as another perquisite of a consultant. It is of no matter. I exit the building, open the car door, climb into the driver’s seat, hit the 3-button on my car stereo, and begin my escape to baseball.

There are days where my escape can only be described as complete. These are the days when I wear my team jersey, tucked away under a sensible pants suit. My jeans are squeezed into the briefcase, shoved between my laptop and a third draft of an RFP. On those days, I work at a breakneck pace, delegate a bit of responsibility to a few of the more competent worker bees, and blast away from the hive. Leaving early, I join the traffic caused by other slackers with the same agenda. But truly, traffic is of little concern. Happily, I listen to the most banal of pre-game programming. In truth, it is a guilty pleasure when knowing it is the precursor to a trip to the park itself. The park: a place where one experiences the camaraderie, heartbreak, and ecstasy that is baseball. Even as a backdrop for crushing pain on an overcast Friday, the park is sacred.

[Continued in Part 3]

mr. math can’t catch – part 1

In lieu of doing any actual writing, I am going to enjoy the balmy summer weather. To keep you entertained, I leave for you a little piece that I quite enjoy. For those like AKA Stephanie, who only read this before bedtime (so she promises), I am breaking it down in easily digestible chunklets.

Those who know and love me have heard this story many times over. For those who haven’t had the pleasure, I promise that it gets funnier…

my heart, my waffle…

Growing up, my mom would make pancakes. Personally, I am a failure when it comes to making breakfast, but not my mother. She made excellent eggs, tasty taters, and bumpin bacon. But her pancakes? Her pancakes were perfect. They were round and crisp and fluffy, but not too fluffy. They were fragrant, and golden, and cooked to perfection. Truly, they were a thing of beauty.

But then again, they were just pancakes.

It wasn’t until Douglass that I had my first.

too many holes in my cone of silence…

In this wonderful technological age, I am confronted with too many options for communications, each one easier than the next. We can find anyone in a heartbeat. Oceans become mere puddles. The only time the world feels big is on an airplane. It isn’t like the days of yore. If I wanted, I can stay in touch with all my friends until my dying day. It is so easy. Therein lies the problem.

Easy.

Overnight, easy disappeared.

Last night, I said goodbye to a friend. Not just a fare thee well. See you later. Hasta la pasta. It was an institute the cone of silence, end it now for our own good, the misery is temporary goodbye. It was one of those we will never be able to explain this to anyone and get away with it so sayonara forever kind of things.

Horribly enough, this is the easy option.

So I beg of you my dear friends. How do you make someone disappear? Do you delete him from your phone? Block him from chats? Frontal lobotomy?

I’m not all Genghis Got Her Groove Back. That’s not what this is about. The difficulty of this easy relation is that somewhere along the way, the friend part became a little too… I have no idea.

I am not sure, but I think that my heart is a little broken.

plans gone awry…

I’d like to think that I have a positive outlook on my world. Life and lemonade and all. Though, every once in a while, this funny thing we call reality takes my lemonade and throws it in my face. It’s all pinchbeck from here on out, or at least for the rest of the week.

Forget the brave face, and stiff upper lip. Bump that. I am having a very bad week. There are certain disappointments in life, be it in myself, loved ones, strangers, or situations, that are completely overwhelming. To complicate matters, it can be any combination of the four. I think it works out to 15 possibilities. Any way you add it up, I am left seriously bummed.

Caffeine isn’t the self-med it used to be. I need a solid escape hatch. Alcohol is messy, shopping comes with a self-destruct button, and it’s never fun to gamble alone. I would run away from home, but my place is too messy for that. I’ve been trying to find ways to cheer myself up, but am failing miserably. Sigh.

If you need me, I’ll be on the corner of disappointments 8 and 13.

anonymous confession number 1

When I was very little, my parents fought. They would scream and yell and slam doors. My mom would get in the car and drive off, while my father would find a way to keep the anger alive. I was scared, and I was sad. I would hide away in a dark corner of the house until I fell asleep. Somehow, I always ended up in my bed.

I needed to find a way to feel happy. There weren’t a lot of option for a seven year old, but I found a way. I stole money from their wallets. A dollar here, a few quarters there. I took this money and bought something sweet from the Good Humor man.

I don’t like ice cream anymore. That, and I am lactose intolerant.

here’s to the good old days.

There are always decisions to make.

I just do not understand why they should have to be mine. I don’t have any of the answers, and I can’t tell you what to do. Try something. See if it works. If it doesn’t, try something else.

I don’t know how to make this situation better. I don’t know if it can be better. You want to try, then try. Don’t sit and cry that things are not how they used to be, then do nothing. If it bothers you so much, change it.

It’s true, I can’t stand looking at you right now. Maybe it is because you are completely on pins and needles around me. Maybe it’s because you look at me like I am made of cotton candy and it is about to rain. Everything I do or say makes you nervous. How is that fair to me? If I am not mistaken, I believe that I was the one that was wronged. Why should I have to be the bitch in this scenario?

I would say give me time, but that would be forever. I would say give me space, but I don’t think we could survive that. I would say that it is over, but that would break my heart.

I am not sure what to do. Can you fix this?