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?  

I never said I was smart…

I was in class this evening and decided that I would take notes with my beautiful green pen. During our break, I went grab a couple of handouts from the teacher’s desk. When I returned, my pen was gone. I looked everywhere. My bags (three), my notebooks (two) my pockets (eight, it was an overall day), all turned up sans green pen. Needless to say, I was devastated.

Fast forward to now. I was getting ready for bed when I discovered my pen safely nestled in my ponytail. I’m a genius. A genius with a green pen.

Facebook for the G1

 

Long story short, I got the G1.  I might consider going into the selection process, my likes and dislikes, and all that, but instead, I will say this:

Facebook will work on the G1.  Using the browser, head on over to the facebook iphone web app page:

http://iphone.facebook.com/

It might not be the new version 2 iphone app, but it’s not so bad.  As long as facebook doesn’t start up with it’s anti-google rage, it’s a pretty nice option until a dedicated app gets built.

Cheers.

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.

beyond the rhetoric

There has been a lot of blah-bitty-blah from the Clinton machine, her supporters, and even those I love about Barack Obama. They criticize his experience, his rhetoric, and even his pie-eyed supporters. In as much as I would like to point an equally judgmental finger at all of the negative naysayers, I won’t.

left behind!

Those who know and love me are fully aware of my little jaunt over to the left coast last week. It seems that my folks felt I didn’t get enough golf over the holidays and needed to come out for one more week before the new semester.

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.

Clark and Michael

This is too funny for words…

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.

do not disturb…

On occasion, those who know and love me ask why I blog. Valid question. I have boiled it down to five reasons:

1. Practice writing – Lord knows I need it.
2. Vent about politics – My nearest and dearest don’t seem to share my enthusiasm.
3. A quick word to those I heart – A little less invasive than a mass email.
4. Message in a bottle – Mostly unnecessary blather that is of little interest to anyone within my circle but outside of my brain

Which brings us to reason number five. This, perhaps more than anything else, is the true reason:

old news, sad news…

Several months ago, a friend from my past died.

I just found out.

the continuing tale of my active non-unpacking

The massive distraction of the day award goes to the headset.

Being that some of my favorite people in life are overseas, it was time to get with Skype. Yeah, I know. Just call me the early adopter. It’s not about fearing the unknown. It has nothing to do with waiting for a stable version. It isn’t about hoping for the next best thing. It has nothing to do with price fluctuations. It has everything to do with my laziness. New technology means setup, migration, troubleshooting, and the like. For the most part, I just can’t be bothered. That, and my friends have a tendency to harass me when I geek out. But I digress.

mega millions math

From the roof deck bar atop the Hotel Gansevoort Tuesday past, the Imperialist, his cronies and I entered into a pact. It was similar to that which took place across the country – we would share the Mega Millions jackpot. Mind you, when we entered into the pact, the drawing had already taken place. You see, I bought $10 worth of tickets. Since we were all unaware of the results, they took the opportunity to buy into the potentially valuable tickets. Kind of like taping the game. Until the outcome enter your reality, anything is still possible.Everyone chipped in $2.50, and we were all proud shareholders in a fortune.

We won! Well, okay. The payout was only $3. Okay, according to NY State law, 2 out of the 3 Brits were ineligible to play. That’s neither here nor there.

Here is the ha ha. An interesting thing happens when smart people gamble. They tend to toss logic off the roof deck. Seriously, you wouldn’t believe the cock and bull math swirling about. Odds of winning were halved when doing this, or quartered when doing that. Now I don’t claim to know a ding dong thing about math, but I am pretty sure that in this case, my fu is good.

Here’s what we do know:

When buying a ticket for the Mega Millions, you will pick 5 numbers from 1 through 56. Next, you will select one number from 1 through 46. At the time of the drawing, if your 5 numbers match the numbers on the white pingpongs, and your solo number matches the drawn super duper deluxe gold mega ball, you are the mega winner. Doing a little mega math, we find that the odds of winning the mega prize are 1 in 175,711,536.

Combinatorics, baby!

So what happens when you buy 2 tickets? According to some of our lotto-drunk cohorts, the odds are cut to 1 in around 88 million. By that math, you are either cutting your odds in half with each ticket you buy, meaning you only need about 28 tickets to hit the big one, or you might as well stop after 100 tickets, as the rate of improvement with each dollar you spend will be a fraction of a percent.

Frankly, I don’t buy into any of this cockamamie hocus pocus. That is because for all of those numbers, there are 175,711,536 possible combinations. The winning outcome represents 0.000000569114597006311% of the total, a mere drop in the pool of combinations. If this was math class, we would round to zero. If you buy 2 tickets, you are selecting 2 possible combinations out of 175,711,636, or 0.00000113822919401262% of the total. Again, we would usually round to zero. And 20 tickets? Your chance of hitting the jackpot is a just over a hundred-thousandth of a percent. Say it with me, round to zero.

With all that, I say happily that girlfriend will keep buying those $1 day dreams, even though the math might say that there is zero chance of winning.

So there.

cramming my big head into a little box…

For an extended period of my brief history on this world, I have little to no photographic evidence. Occasionally, a snapshot will pass my way via doubles that Mrs. Wolcott was so kind to have made. Also on occasion, I might have purchased a disposable camera to record a bit for posterity. Then again, I have a lot of undeveloped cameras under some random pile of stuff.

All this has changed. As a proud owner of a Leica C-Lux, I have been kind of ridiculous with the picture taking. Mind you, these are hardly what you would call Annie Leibovitz, Diane Arbus, or heck even Amy Arbus. These are snapshots with a capital S.  Most of the time, I simply extend my arm and smoosh my face into that of a loved one.

Seriously, I have an insane amount of pictures taken this way. For the most part, my head is so huge, that I wouldn’t be able to tell where we were if not for the pictures before and after the shot. See exhibits 1 through bazillion.

To my noodles in the pictures, all my love!

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.

remarkable things in half-hour intervals – part 4

What follows is part 4 of a true story of a girl (me) and her on-going battle with addiction.

[continued from part 3]

My father believed that television sets should be like Americans: huge. I can’t recall what the screen dimensions were, but I remember it seemed enormous. Then again, I was very small.

I remember the furniture in the living room was arranged so that the television was the focal point. Every seat was angled in such a way that we would all get a good view of the set. For the greater part, this was an ideal setting. The only time this caused a serious problem was during the occasional prime time viewing of Hollywood Squares.

For some reason, I was extremely disturbed by the presence of Wayland Flowers, and more particularly his puppet Madame. The wicked looking Madame was considered to be quite a wit. Perhaps this was true. I don’t know. You see, every time she appeared on the screen I would scream in terror. It was a combination of her skull-like features and extra large nostrils that sent me into conniptions. Seeing her was torture; I did not know what I had done to deserve such agony.

Madame would arrive in my world completely unannounced. There I would be, lying calmly with my head resting on my mom’s leg when this witch of a puppet cackled her way into my line of sight. Everywhere I turned, her evil eyes and giant chin seemed to follow me. I knew that if I didn’t escape, she would bonk me across the temple with her grotesque head, and then chew off my fingers. That’s right. She nosh on my digits like they were 98° vienna sausages, with Mr. Flowers holding the jar of mustard. Rather than soothe my 5-year old soul, my parents would laugh at my discomfiture. Or perhaps it was howling. Who could recall such details?

My only recourse was to cover my ears while screaming bloody murder and run upstairs to my dear grandmother’s room. There, I would be reassured that no matter how much she seemed to want to, the carnivorous Madame could not climb out of the set.

The following morning, I needed to be certain that Madame was no longer infecting my airspace. I would walk past the television, double back, quickly turn the knob, and dive behind the couch. If she couldn’t see me, she couldn’t see my delicious fingers. Thankfully, her cackle was not for the morning. She was probably off terrorizing another little girl.

Or perhaps working off a hang-over.

continued in part 5…

need a little advice…

Someone’s feet stink. 

While I might be prone to hyperbole, I can honestly say that it’s the sixth worst smell I’ve ever encountered.  Literally.

We were watching TV when I first noticed it.  I thought that it might be me.  Mortified, I scrubbed my feet all the way to lemony freshness. Returning to the scene of the crime, I realized.  No.  This pungent aroma emanates from another source. 

Ugh.  The smell.  It’s the kind stench that takes up residence in your nostrils, and adds an extension throughout the rest of your nasal cavity.  No exaggeration.  Worst of all, it got in my mouth.  I gargled for a good ten minutes trying to get clean.  Nauseating.  Simply nauseating. 

I was hoping that it was a one shot deal.  I’ve said it before, and I will say it again.  If hope is a thing with feathers, my thing flew the coop.  My luck, it’s probably a chronic,  summer stink, or maybe a glandular thing.  Either way, his absolute ignorance of the tang is mind boggling.  

Can he not smell that?  I mean, really!  Does he think that I can’t?!  Did I mention that he likes to put the duo of rankness on the coffee table?  Good grief.

So how does one kindly let someone they know and love that their feet either need to be decontaminated, or hacked off and tossed in with the rest of the rotting compost?  Let me know.  Meanwhile, I’ll be waiting over here. 

Gagging.

remarkable things in half-hour intervals – part 3

What follows is part 3 of a true story of a girl (me) and her on-going battle with addiction.

[continued from part 2]

How did it pass that by the age of four my sister and I were speaking in full, if slightly juvenile sentences in both English and Korean? I believe the credit might belong to the Helena Rubenstein Foundation and the Children’s Television Workshop.

Grover was always my favorite monster. From the moment I saw him flying through the air with his knight’s helmet and “Super Grover” cape, I was smitten. He was cute, funny, fuzzy, and blue. With his exhaustive yet hysterical repetition, he taught me near and far. With the help of John-John, he taught me to count backwards. He was the main reason I sat still for Sesame Street, and still do on occasion.

To be honest, I can’t think of any other reason to watch Sesame Street these days. Maybe I’m too old, but I don’t remember this show being so boring. I blame it on the introduction of the ubiquitous Elmo, whose only redeeming value is that his segment’s Mr. Noodle is played by the brilliant Bill Irwin. Rather than being showered with baby talk, watching classic episodes of this show reminds me of a time where monsters spoke to kids like they were little adults. And what is with the “Elmo loves you” junk? Sure, Grover doesn’t use contractions, but at least he does not refer to himself in the third person. But I digress. With the help of Grover and his pals, English seeped into my mind, as did my affection for the television set.

Growing up, I remember thinking that our television was beautiful. I am not saying this from an addict’s perspective, but from a strictly aesthetic point of view. The picture tube lived within solid maple housing. The simple design offered but three knobs: the on/volume knob, the knob for VHF channels, and the last for UHF channels. The design was simple, yet versatile. Everything was placed in the exact location it should have been. It came with no instructions, save for the warning label stuck to the back saying “Removal of this panel WILL cause electric shock.”

I loved that set. It was functional art. Those were the days where you were expected to crochet a vast doily to protect its delicate surface. It was a time when built-in sound was the only option. It was an era where picture quality was adjusted by hitting the side of the cabinet, but only after failing with the tuning rings. It was the decade when cable was only for perverts.

My father believed that television sets should be like Americans: huge. I can’t recall what the screen dimensions were, but I remember it seemed enormous. Then again, I was very small.

continued in part 4…

remarkable things in half-hour intervals – part 2

What follows is part 2 of a true story of a girl (me) and her on-going battle with addiction.

[continued from part 1]

So where did I go wrong?

It’s not like there was a carrefour, or as the less imaginative might call it, a crossroad. I can’t put my finger on one point and say, “Ah yes. If I did this instead of that, my life would be much better.” Rather, there was a parade of tiny missteps and readjustments that led me to this less than astonishing life. I am not saying that it is bad. Just a little ordinary.

So how is it that a child full of dreams and possibilities, a child who had the complete map to a charmed life, take so many wrong turns? It is after deep reflection and with full conviction that I can say in truth, my world might be a fully realized dream had it not been for television. No really.

To drop a bit of science: as I understand it, language acquisition begins as early as two months. We begin with single words that identify our needs, such as mama, up, and cookie. By 18 months, we are stringing together a few more words to express more complex issues: all gone, no bed, and where puppy. We begin to understand the basics of syntax and sentence formation. By the age three, the hardened skull of a little genius has developed an early mastery of spoken word, albeit with an extremely limited vocabulary. All of these little miracles are made possible by the repetition from nurture and the wonders of nature.

In my case, the repetition that came from my nurture did not remotely resemble the words you read now. You see, as is common with immigrant families, my parents worked long and hard hours all the while speaking a language that was not their native tongue. When they returned from their respective jobs, they grew tired of the effort English required and relaxed into the comfort of Korean. They knew that they weren’t teaching us English, but they figured that as babies in America, we would learn it eventually. So how did it pass that by the age of four my sister and I were speaking in full, if slightly juvenile sentences in both English and Korean?

I believe the credit might belong to the Helena Rubenstein Foundation and the Children’s Television Workshop.

continued in part 3…

remarkable things in half-hour intervals – part 1

What follows is a true story of a girl (me) and her on-going battle with addiction.

I was the American Dream in progress. I was the second daughter of immigrant parents. A surprising child, I was cute, bilingual, articulate, and charming. I had an abundance of friends and the teachers were wild about me. I was an I.G.C., which was New York City public school-speak for smarty-pants. I soaked up knowledge like a sponge, and my penmanship was excellent. All signs screamed “THIS CHILD IS SOMEONE!”

Even my artwork, lovingly attached to the refrigerator by a rainbow of magnetic letters, suggested that my future held great promise. So with all of this before me, I can’t help but acknowledge that things have not turned out as well as they could have.

It wasn’t that my parents didn’t encourage me. On the contrary, they believed not only that all of my dreams could come true, but that indeed, they would come true. Further, they stressed that by my choice, I can make things happen. While they were not nearly as optimistic about my sister’s prospects, they wholeheartedly believed that everything in life was mine for the taking. And why wouldn’t they?

I had a game plan.

By the age of six, I decided that I wanted to be President. First, I needed a very big house.

By the age of eight, I realized that to make this happen, I must learn how to fight crime. Also, I should probably go to an Ivy League School.

By the age of nine, I understood that I should probably major in History, or as I called it, Social Studies. Oh, and it is very important to learn to pick a lock.

By the age of ten, I was certain that it was absolutely necessary to become proficient in a musical instrument, as all spies and academics were skilled in that way.

All of these thoughts were not the product of enthusiastic parents, but of my own precocious mind. As I knew it, these dreams were well within my grasp.

So where did I go wrong?

continued in part 2…

PSA: the deal breaker

Having been burned a few too many times to count, a few friends and I took to creating a special kind of list. It is a list that we call deal-breakers. As insane as it sounds, it’s a list of things that we don’t want in a partner. Yep. It isn’t a blueprint for our forever guy. No siree. Any gal can find a smart, witty someone who makes them laugh, likes to travel, and shares his dessert. They’re a dime a dozen. Heck, I bet you’re best friends with them.

You think I am full of it, but seriously. Take a look around. How many of your guy friends could you define as the greatest guy ever? A lot, I would guess. And are they single? Most of the time. These guy friends are everywhere. Half the time you want to set them up with one of your peeps. And why would you want to pan them off on someone else and not snatch up such a prize for your lonesome ownsome? It’s because you just don’t look at him that way. Why is it that so many of these awesome guys are better off decorating someone else’s arm? Usually, it is the honest to goodness deal-breaker. It is that very tangible something that makes them not quite right in our minds.

Being who we are, we wrote ours down.

In our defense, we are not a bunch of maids trying to bag ourselves a man. Heck, most of us go running in the other direction at the sign of anything more than friends who make out. Frankly, it’s an exercise in reality. It’s an honest look at ourselves. Then again, it lets us itemize the specific traits we don’t want, so that we don’t bother wasting too much energy where it doesn’t belong. Now mind you, we don’t go around to every person we meet and see if they meet up with our standards. Heck, half the time, we toss the list full aware that the dude is not nearly up to snuff. Nonetheless, the list is alive and well.

To be quite honest, the compilation of these lists were an extraordinary undertaking. To write these deal-breakers down can sometimes say something a little ugly about ourselves, our vanity, and our self-image. It is personal. You know what? I don’t think that I want to share my list with you. Sorry. But I will tell you how to make a list of your own.

• Grab your BFFs and a few bottles of wine: We went through at least three bottles of wine, a few beers, and a whole lot of girl drinks during this undertaking. Mind you, while making the list wasn’t the goal of the evening (FYI: It was to get hammered, old-school), we each walked away with a hangover in the making and some seriously comprehensive guidelines.
• Know the deal-breaker: A deal-breaker is just that. It is that something that makes you say, “Sorry, but I am going to have to go over there.” It’s not a nebulous something. It’s not something that you can’t put your finger on. It’s a specific something that draws that brrr/eww/argh/yuck noise for which I can’t seem to find a spelling. But like trash and treasure, it is a completely personal revulsion and not something that should be rationalized, questioned, criticized, or borrowed from the list of another.
• The physical deal-breaker: Sure, we don’t want to admit our vanity, but the physical deal-breaker is exceptionally useful for the gals who don’t want to bother. Some are put off by girth, others by height, and others by goiters. While this is usually a shocking realization to find out you are as vain as all that, it’s usually for the best. For instance, I know with absolute certainty that my friends will never set me up with a pockmarked, small-toothed, delicately featured man, who is shorter than me.[1] The physical deal-breaker is immediately recognizable. It usually takes less than one hour for discovery. Upon recognition, one should just walk away.
• The personality deal-breaker: This is another quickie of a deal-breaker. It’s usually one of the first non-physical traits to make itself evident. It can be as obnoxious as humor ala Robin Williams, irritating as discussing personal finances, or as arbitrary as discussing movies as art. Actually, this type is the one that prompted me to writing this entry. I was told that Erin McKeown was a cross between Rilo Kiley and a folk Prince. Um… Okay. I know and love the grand Ms. Erin, so don’t try to explain something to me that I might already know so that you might seem a bit clever. That, and no she isn’t. What the hell is a folk Prince anyway? Welcome to my newest deal-breaker: unnecessary synthesis.
• The hidden personality deal-breaker: This is one that does not make itself known until a few weeks and many hours together. They are especially annoying because you have already invested a bit of time and energy, and then out they pop. Nonetheless, all deal breaking should be strictly enforced. When they appear, you will know that a saner you would never tolerate these things, and that the crushed out you should probably not make excuses. These can be things like casual racism, anger management issues, and my personal peeve, Asian fetishes. When identifying them, don’t ask yourself, “Is this something that I can live with?” Just cut the fish loose.
• The emotional deal-breaker: With very few exceptions, these puppies usually make themselves known deep in the midst of a, how do you say, relationship. When these monsters come up, the last thing you want to do is consult a list. As cruel as it might be, the list is there for a reason. If you want kids, or you don’t believe in marriage, or do believe in God, well… that’s the reason for the list. So ask yourself, are they hypothetical deal-breakers, or are you pretty locked down. Remember, of all the things that might evolve in your thought process, these are the ones that usually won’t. You can’t ask someone to change their politics, religion, or mind and expect it to work. And frankly, no one should ask that of you.

That’s pretty much the long of the phenomenon that we call our deal-breaker list. In all honesty, it is a heck of a lot more useful than going all Dr. Frankenstein and trying to piece together the perfect man. After all, where can a girl find a slight-of-hand magician who is a sweet, charming, gentleman, with good skin, good singing voice, a mind for trivia, is independently wealthy…

Let’s just say that the perfect guy is as much about what he isn’t, as who he is.

______________________________________________________

[1] In my defense, I am only four apples high. As a majority of the adult world towers over me, I don’t think that my standards are that high, literally.

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.

my double x-chromosome failed me…

There are moments that I love being a girl.

This is not one of them.

busting chops for fun and profit…

I love my friends.

I do. Really.
I think they are great.

Yup. Great.

Okay, so sometimes my friends are a-holes. That doesn’t mean I don’t love them. It means that every now and again, I get the urge to club them over the head, fur trapper style. Or maybe throw some oranges in a pillow case and go to town.

the new corporate speak for yup…

After a week of driving myself into the ground, I did what any self-respecting gal would do.

I ran away from home.

It was off to LBI for me. What ensued was a weekend of companionship, crying, commiseration, and crafting. I napped on the beach and went hard at work on that long over-due suntan. By Sunday, I was more whole than I had been in quite some time. That was, until it happened.

Somewhere around Exit 148, the Professor and I were deep involved in a conversation about class size, students, and next semester’s course load. I asked the Professor what the expectations were for mid-term deliverables. At that point, I needed to duck the spit take of Diet Coke bursting through the Professor’s lips.

“Expectations for mid-term deliverables?!”

Was that me?! Who talks like that? The Professor called me out, tout de suite. Between my horror and the Professor’s amusement, we figured something out. Since my personal world has been a bit of a wreck, I tossed myself into work. By doing such, I destroyed completely my natural cadence of speech. In part, it’s because I’ve been hanging with way too many Brits. For another, my NYC verbal stylings have been blossoming like tulips in spring.

But for all of these reasons, the greatest culprit is the language of Corporate America. In a land where so many things are unacceptable, where granularity and accountability are king, and where transparency will save the day, I can’t seem to carry on a normal conversation. Not for not trying. The only way I’ve found where I might protect the joy I find in words is to openly validate the kooky.

You see, gentle readers. For all of the street, NYC, hipster, B.S. coding that I’ve been injecting into my adult conversations, I have but one touchstone. My one very special saving grace. That’s right. In this place, the land of my childhood, amongst the voices of home, within throngs of my peeps, I cling to the verbal cues of my new digs. I sing the language that is purely Chicago. Therein, my dear friends, lies my crowning achievement. I have overwhelmed my colleagues, friends, and cubical partners with my use of two words that are unapologetically, unabashedly middle America.

I have infected these jaded New Yorkers with the kooky. From the cosmopolitan continental, to the beaten Bushwick brother, to the sullen Staten Islander, and the angry Astorian, I got them all.

There is little more satisfying than hearing these hardened drawls accidentally uttering my favorite four syllables:

OKIE DOKEY!

Coming to a corporate cube near you.

when not to send in the British…

Last Wednesday, I asked the relatively new imperialist, aka Steve History, what he would be doing over the weekend. He answered that he would be going to the track.

Wait a second. “The race on Saturday?” I asked. His response: “I have no idea. It might be.” For those who are countrymen of the relatively new imperialist or have been living under a rock, Mr. History was to see the Belmont Stakes, the third in the Triple Crown, the “run for the carnations.”

Me being me, I asked Mr. History to put down a few bets. He kindly agreed. To make life easier for the lad, I sent him an email:

Hey Mr. History,

Can you place a few bets for me? They are contingent on these post positions being final:

1 Imawildandcrazyguy
2 Tiago
3 Curlin
4 C P West
5 Slew’s Tizzy
6 Hard Spun
7 Rags to Riches

If the post positions don’t change, you can just show this to the guy at the betting window:

Race 11: Belmont Stakes

$5 exacta box 7, 2, 3
$5 exacta key 2, with 3, 7
$5 Superfecta 7, 3, 2, 6

HORSES!

Simple enough. I figured that Rags to Riches would win, but there would be an outside chance that Tiago would rock it. Hedge the bets, right?

The race results: 7, 3, 2, 6.

Okay, not that the outcome was a huge surprise, and it wasn’t like there was a huge field, and it wasn’t like I know too much about the horses. Turns out, I know enough to hit the superfecta. In this particular race, it wasn’t brain surgery, but it still felt nice!

At least it did for a little while. Dreams of new 500 thread count sheets evaporated like the steam off a pile of horse manure. It seems that Mr. History didn’t go to the track that afternoon, but attended a barbecue instead.

June 10th resolution: Never send in the British when cash is on the line.

what doesn’t kill you leaves you for dead.

B.H. McTease was in the midst of a massive something at his work-a-day. It was during the hullabaloo where someone bemoaned, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Uh. Not really.

Not to be a major downer, but I don’t know if that truism is even mostly true. And frankly, if we were to parse the statement, don’t most things kill you? Sure, sometimes it is in super slo-mo, but still. Let’s think about it for a second.

Veggies: Unless someone drives a celery through your heart, chances are good that your veggies are not going to kill you. They might even make you stronger. Score one for the truism.

Fruits: Once again, unless you choke on it, it won’t likely kill you. Unless of course it’s a kiwi, and you are me. Then you will die. Or at least suffer anaphylaxis. On the chance that you do survive, you won’t be stronger. You will just feel itchy, and a bit swollen from the steroid treatment. All this talk about fruit and steroids is making me hungry. And a little resentful. On fruits, I am calling it a draw.

Exercise: Give another shout to the truism. Although you might drop, you might also give me twenty. Breaks you down, and makes you strong.

tales from the dark city…

[EDIT: When I wrote this, I was imagining Humphrey Bogart ala Maltese Falcon. Maybe it got lost in the translation...]

Details in the story may be smaller then they appear. Please use caution.

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.

the Subway Series series: Part 3 – The Mets, the NYPD, and the inconsistencies of pocket pals

Part 1 – The Rant ::::: Part 2 – ¡Buen viaje!

[EDIT: Fixed the footnotes. Sorry about that! st.oki]

After a short morning in the Jerse pretending to help my Righteous Ms. Al get ready for the move to Bonus Eye Rays, we rushed to get me back to the city. You see, my dear friends. Girlfriend had another game to attend. The “Second Chance” offered by the Mets site was definitely kind to your girl. I was able to pick up four tickets to the Saturday game, and was over the moon excited.

When purchasing the tickets, the plan was to bring Mr. Math, Miss Boom Boom, and her roommate, Ms. Same Name As My Sister (aka MS. NAMS). It was my feeble attempt at a thank you so much for letting me invade your futon while I get my crap together. Unfortunately, MS. NAMS makes doing nice things very difficult. Though she would have loved, loved, LOVED the tickets, she and boy were hightailing it to Boston for the weekend. [1] Probably for the best, as she is a Yankees fan.

In a completely unrelated turn of events, Mr. Math was heading up to Boston as well. Could it be that Mr. Math would leave me without my baseball bookend?! Well dang. He sure did. It seems that I was running low on people who might truly appreciate the fun of this game.

I turned to Miss Boom Boom and asked her if there was anyone she wanted to invite. This question was a no brainer. She was going to invite my little Pocket Pal, Flaky. Needless to say, I was super excited. My pocket has long been lacking a cute little something, and Flaky always fits the bill.

Using my revisionist powers, guest number three was the phenomenal Ms. Dig that Crazy J. When approached with the notion of going to the game, her response: “Where should me and my giant foam finger meet you?!” Seriously, could you ask for a better plus one? You could try, but you would probably fail. Where was I? Ah, yes. Game time. I returned to Astoria for a quick freshen, and sanity check. The troops have been assigned, I’m in my home team black, and I have but one question. WHO’S READY TO ROCK?!?!

Apparently, just me.

You see, Miss Boom Boom was coming off of a boon of business travel, and just about ran herself into the ground. By game time, she was down for the count. My poor dear was exhausted, curled up in the fetal position, and groaning up a storm. As much as I wanted to pull out my powers of guilty persuasion, I just couldn’t. Seeing Miss Boom Boom in all of her pathetic glory was reason enough to leave my superpower in check.

Well, all is not lost. I had been texting Flaky the Pocket Pal for most of the afternoon. I would just have him bring another adorable Pocket Pal, and we would be right as rain. Simple. Or umm… maybe not.

You see my dears; the name Flaky is more than apropos. Apparently, my sweet little thing decided that he was far too hung over for a journey out to Shea. It was nice for him to give me a little warning though. And by little, I mean fifteen minutes before we were to leave for Flushing. And by warning, I mean texting Miss Boom Boom a wishy-washy excuse and hiding from my calls. [2]

Okay. Now I have two tickets that might go unused to the Subway Series.THE G-D SUBWAY SERIES! What does a girl do? Well, she texts her entire tri-state contingency and said that the tickets are up for grabs to anyone who can get to Flushing. By the way, did I mention that the first pitch was in a mere 35 minutes? For cryin’ out loud! I have two tickets to a game that a majority of the baseball fans within a 100 mile radius were pining for, and I can’t give them away. Or so I would like to believe.

Miss Boom Boom kindly informed me that I might be able to sell them, either at Shea, or on the 7 train on the way to the game. “But isn’t that illegal?” Famous last words. I love her, but her notion was dubious at best. Not only was the weather overcast, bordering on rain, but the game is in frickin’ Flushing. Why would anyone head out there if they didn’t already have a ticket, now 20 minutes before the first pitch? Your guess is as good as mine. So there I am, wandering up and down the train, trying to sell these tickets. People are looking at me like I am the scourge of the earth. By the time I reach Shea, I am disheartened.

At this point, I am already late, and I am late meeting up with Ms. Dig that Crazy J. What to do, what to do? Then, a light at the end of the tunnel. These two cuties walk up to me. I swear, one of them looked like the Commish, except tall. The asked “Are you selling any?” I said, “Yeah. I have two.” Then they said, “How much?” I said, “the game already started. I will give you two for one.”

In a moment that I can only call part eighty-five in my comedy of errors, the cute, non-Commish boy frowns, shakes his head, and said, “Damn. You are such a sweet girl. I hate to do this, but I am going to have to give you a ticket.” I said, “I don’t want any tickets. I am just trying to get rid of mine.” He said, “No. I am going to have to WRITE you a ticket. Reselling tickets is a crime.”

Um… But I am from Chicago?

Try as I might, the boys in not-so-Blue wouldn’t budge. I tried cute, charming, proletarian, watering the eyes, anything. “Come on! This is a victimless crime if ever there was one,” I plead. Nothing. Then, I took a long hard look. They were wearing Yankee jerseys. Ugh. I should have known. In a strange turn of events, they said, “we are supposed to confiscate these, but just take them.”

Huh?

In moment eighty-six, a frat-boy from Cleveland came up to me and asked if I was selling. Where were you ten minutes ago?! I gave the dude the tickets, no strings, and wished him well. The cop said, direct quote, “This is a very sweet girl. She is doing a very nice thing. You better buy her drinks and dogs for the rest of the game. I know where you are sitting.” Love the commish, even if the bastage did give me 5 demerits!

Saying farewell to the hall monitors, I raced around Shea to see Ms. Dig that Crazy J standing there panicked, foam finger and all. We finally went in, saw a great game, and watched all of the people with the expensive seats get rained on, while we working class had it made in the shade.

THE END

[1] There is sweet, and then there is insulin coma inducing sweet. MS. NAMS is just about the most accommodating person I have known. She barely knows me, and on Miss Boom Boom’s recommendation, she has allowed me to invade hearth and home. I have been trying to find the right gift, but she neither wants nor needs anything. ARGH! I am having kittens trying to find a way to thank her properly. Perhaps it is my need to convey my appreciation. Perhaps I’m trying to compensate for my intrusion into her world. Perhaps it’s that I don’t want this wedding day favor hanging over my head. In any case, I am obsessed with finding a way to buy her off. It’s not like she’s going to leave a banjo head on my pillow if I don’t comply. I am just saying.

[2] To all of my loved ones who approach potential disappointment infliction by hiding, please cease and desist. It is annoying and really frustrating. It drives everyone crazy, and makes us not want to include you in plans. Then, you wonder why you weren’t invited.

the Subway Series series: Part 2 – ¡Buen viaje!

Back to Part 1 – The Rant

A couple of weeks ago, I happened upon a few tickets to the Friday and Saturday games of the Subway series. Nothing elicit, I assure you. I was selected as part of the”Second Chance” drawing c/o the Mets site. Lucky me, right? I am allowed up to 6 tickets total, so I am thinking, two for Friday, 4 for Saturday.

It was decided that Friday night would go to my Righteous Ms. Al. As she would be leaving for Bonus Eye Rays the following Monday, we needed serious quality time before her foreign sojourn. With a little revisionist recollection, we were able to rationalize the whole evening as a last brush with Americana.

Americana did not let us down. Hot dogs, beers, and a blast, BABY! We CHAAARGE-ed at the top of our lungs without a hint of irony, begged Mr. Met to shoot swag in our direction, and sang along happily to “Enter Sandman” when Billy Wagner took the field (heck of an entry,BTW).

My Righteous Ms. Al described the game, and I am paraphrasing here, as “really boring, and then really interesting.” She wasn’t wrong. I think that the Mets are kind of goofy like that. When it looks like a game is an easy win, maybe they start getting lazy. Maybe they think it’s fun to give themselves a challenge. Maybe it’s to get the crowd back into the game. Maybe because they like sliding around in the rain. I can’t tell. In any case, when time begins to run short, it’s back to business they go. The bidness, that is, of kicking some serious bot-tom.

After cheering my Mets to a very soggy victory, we hopped on the 7 train, and it was back into the city for us. As many of you know, riding the subway is always an adventure. Early in our ride, we were gently accosted by a few drunken frat boys who were asking our opinion on the politics of a booty call. Then, on the tails of that conversation, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

The tapping person asked, “Is that girl’s name Amy?” I said yes, though he might swear that I said no. Any who, turns out that this guy knew my Righteous Ms. Al from her days as a co-ed. Did I mention that this was on the subway. In New York. CITY. Serendipity aside, the dude was a tool. Long story short, we all went out for a few drinks, he bored and annoyed me to tears, and we sent him a-packin.

In fact, we sent ourselves a-packin, as we needed to high-tail it to the Jerse for a diner run. We rushed to Penn Station, where I took this picture. Other than the person my Righteous Ms. Al is speaking with, a sloppy kiss to the first person who can tell me what else is wrong with this picture!

Part 3 – The Mets, the NYPD, and the inconsistency of pocket pals…

the Subway Series series: Part 1 – The Rant

:: BEGIN RANT

Like many baseball fans worth their salt, I believe that interleague play should be abandoned. It is an irritating practice that is used by the man to make money off of contrived historic match-ups.

Let’s face it. While some fans might be amused by the practice, it completely devalues the games of relevance. The Subway Series, The Crosstown Classic, The Battle of the Beltway? Big effin’ deal. On the hard-earned chance that any long-time rivals get to dance at the big show, where is the g-d gravitas?!

Mets v. Red Sox, folks?

I like interleague play the way it was meant to be.

In the frickin’ World Series.

:: END RANT

Part 2 – ¡Buen viaje!

so very far behind…

Yep. I have been very far behind on the updating tip. To that, I offer my humblest apologies. Excuses abound, and I will share them all!

First, I am too busy!

Second, I am too tired!

Third, there is too much!

Fourth, I would rather talk on the phone and tell you all individually how much I miss you rather than do it on an impersonal blog posting!

Fifth…

fifth…

sigh.

I am out of excuses now. I will be better about it. To entice you, tonight, I will explain away the weekend that I like to call “The Mets, the NYPD, and why you should never count on your pocket pals.”

baci!

girlfriend can do SO much better…

Boarding a plane is an insane experience. There is the slight flush when you see that your row is empty. Could a girl be so lucky? Usually not. You hope for the best, but to no avail. You make the best of a situation and hope that the person next to you is either cute, interesting, or very sleepy. You hope that they don’t smell, have an ample supply of gum. You hope that they won’t roll their eyes when you accidentally start making small talk. Any hope that one might harbor is immediately dashed when a gushy couple invades your beautifully empty row. Welcome to my world.

It was 0700 hours, and there I was on an ATA flight out of LaGuardia. As I said, it’s probably too much to think that I might get an empty row. They appeared out of nowhere. Actually, that’s kind of what it felt like. I was in the exit row, and they went around the row in front and snuck to the inside seats. Like skulking Jedis. Guess you had to be there. Kind of hard to paint the word picture. Anyhow, it was not a minute before they started with the canoodling.

Seriously, get a room. It was seven in the morning, and they were being ridiculous. I try to ignore it, but they were right there. So then I took a good long look. The girl was kind of adorable. She had that slightly aged, varsity cheerleader look to her. The guy? Egads. I don’t like to think of myself as vain, but woof.

There was nothing pretty, or even slightly charming about this dude. Greasy hair, bad skin, little teeth. How on earth did he get this chick. I really don’t get it. To pad his resume of charm, he whips out a photography magazine and starts lecturing his gal pal on the pros and cons of aperture settings. Not for nothing, but half the turds flying from his mouth were totally wrong. That just made him uglier. Of course, me being me peeked over to see what magazine he was using as his prop, and he thought that he had captured another admirer. My luck, it encourages him. He starts speaking louder, in that bizarre, slightly strained tone that one takes on when they want others to overhear their conversation. You’ve done it, so don’t pretend you don’t know what I am talking about. FYI, not everyone is interested. I privately cringed and then put on my iPod. That’s right. We weren’t even at 10,000 feet! I am such a rebel!

May 11th resolution: Tune out the ugly man. Tune in AC360.

corporations as a foreign language…

From a corporate America perspective, I have been a bit out of the loopy. Not that it is that difficult to jump right into, but I will admit as readily as the next gal. I am a bit behind on the jargon. Take comfort, dear hearts. I was not completely lost. There will always be the gems that won’t die, no matter how much they should.

“Out of the box” is one. I think that Miss Boom Boom said it best: “If you actually use the term ‘out of the box,’ it could actually be considered ironic.” For those of you still inside the box, that means that the tired phrase is so overused, it is the box. In any case, paper cut to the eye. Fortunately, I have only heard that wretched phrase once since I started at the new gig. Unfortunately, I have only been there since Monday, but hey.

Some of the jargon comes right back, no matter how hard I tried to avoid this distress. The one phrase that sets me on nails is “speak to that.” You know how it works: “There is no milk left in this container. I am not sure who left it in the fridge, but I am sure that Mr. Generic can speak to that.” Speak to that. Is that even correct English? Every time I hear that phrase, I keep thinking, I am not sure why he will speak to that. A milk carton won’t answer back. Speak to that. No. I don’t think it will ever sound right. Chime in Al?

Not saying that I am an expert, or even an enthusiastic amateur on the language we call English. I will say this. Corporate America has a language all its own. It reminds me of when I see little kids dress up in their mothers’s clothes. They will start with the dress, then the shoes, then put on as much of mom’s jewelry as their tiny arms can handle. Then the hat. Always the hat.

It seems that the machine is like that with language. I can just hear the collective wheels spinning: Here is an obscure word. We should try to use it as much as possible. People will think we are wicked smart. While I am sure that there is an honest way to say what we are trying to say, let’s try it this way. Let’s novate. Much better. That is fun to say! What a fait accompli! Even Todd says so, and verbiage is of Todd’s core competencies. I am sure that it won’t negatively impact our bottom line. In any case, let’s brain dump on this. I will get back to you by end of day. I will have to speak with control to make sure that it is within the appropriate processes, but either way, I will better speak to that by our 3:30 call. If I can’t find you, I will just leave a sticky.

Welcome back, me.

i might be pooped!

There is a sign that a gal might be exhausted, and it is this. A very few minutes ago, I found myself sobbing hysterically in an apartment in Astoria while watching Disney’s “Ice Princess.” Seriously.

It was the part of the movie where the skater grrl experiences a disastrous moment (she face plants her triple lutz) in her long program of the regionals, and she is filled with despair. Just when all hope begins to seep from her downtrodden spirit, she spots her mother in the crowd. Did I mention that she spots her mom while spinning?

Spot a face. Turn. Familiar face. Turn. Is that mom? Turn. I think it is. Turn. I need her support. Turn. It’s her! Turn. Is she mad? Slow the turn. She is smiling. Turn. Losing momentum. Come to a stop. Stare. Smile. There is a pregnant pause as she is filled with the joy of mom support. Juiced up by the happy grimace of Joan Cusack, our heroine triple loops her way to a second place finish. Well heck. I ain’t made of stone! Tears, ugly face, everything. Then, I realized what I was doing. “What the hell is wrong with me?!” Clarity followed by hysterical laughter.

So very pooped.

This has been a spectacular weekend. To start, I can finally say that I have been to Long Island. Boy did I! After a harrowing experience at the airport, a near miss at Islip, and a long, long drive out to East Hampton, the ensuing weekend with the newly married Rohs was a blast and a half. The wedding was picture perfect, not to mention fun, fun, FUN! Major credit where credit is due: best plus one ever! Major shout out to Mr. Math for making a good weekend great. Nothing to do with anything, but the mushroom to the left was part of the meal. And by the way, that isn’t a mushroom. It is actually a potato. The funny thing was that while everyone at the table was eating it, they were seriously bummed that it wasn’t a mushroom.

Anywho, after a fantastic weekend in the Hamptons (gosh I love saying that), I have settled in for the short haul at the home of Miss Boom Boom Bruschi. She is one of those longtime friends. You know the deal. You lose touch, you find it again. It feels like nothing has changed, although everything is completely different. I think that might be an ongoing theme in my world. YEESH! How’s that for a Doogie moment? Someone needs to go to bed.

PILGRIMS!

I’ve been a bit cryptic about a few things lately. Humblest apologies, as jinxes abound. You know, eyes to be dotted and tease to be crossed. For the biggest one, it looks like everything is just about final. I guess there is only one thing left to say to my New York peeps:

 

WHO LOVES YOU BABIES?!

 

That’s right, my friends! Grab the glitter, free up some bail money, and get ready for the whirlwind! Your girl Genghis is coming home, right coast style! Badder than ever, with an attitude to match!

Whew. Needed to get all of those exclamation marks out of my system. So here is the story in a nutshell: A few weeks ago, Mr. Taylor offered me a position on a project that will be based in NYC. It’s the perfect interim while waiting for grad school, n’est ce pas? It took a few weeks to iron out the details, but it seems that everything is go, go, GO!

I will be leaving my beloved Chicago on Friday morning, head to Hamptons for the wedding of the summer, and finally settle my pretty little self in one of the five for the next few months. I have left most of y’all in the dark about this, save for those few whose couches I will call home base, and a few in Chicago that might miss me too much.

To my New York contingency, enjoy the love while you can, as this is only temporary.

To my Chicago crew, I will be back on a bunch of weekends, but will still miss you more than you could know.

arsy-versy, or my life as a lottery ticket…

Those who love me will know what a strange few weeks it has been. In the immortal words of TMBG, “Everything right is wrong again.” Not bad, just a bit disconcerting.

April was a doozy of a month. Thank goodness it’s over, as there is only so much my little heart can bear. Highs, lows, excitement, boredom, and weekends filled with moments of “?!” With all that is said and done, I can begin with May and think, huh. Second verse, same as the first. I begin this month in the same place as the last. Except not.

You see, April was my life as a lottery ticket. It goes something like this. When I buy a lottery ticket, I go through the process of choosing numbers. Maybe I will pick the numbers with some semblance of meaning. Maybe I will leave it up to chance. Dollar and a dream.

I buy the ticket, and think about what I would do if I won. Maybe I can get that apartment in Paris, or open a recording studio, or buy a house for the Changs. You see, I don’t kid myself. I don’t really expect to win the booku bucks, but it is my moment to imagine. Flights of fancy and all that. Easy and fun. Something kind of nice.

A few days might pass, and I wonder when the numbers will be drawn. Maybe I will stay up and see what will happen. The first number will fall, and I think, well, that seems kind of lucky? The second number will fall, and I think, yea me! But alas, the third ball falls, and the wings begin to melt. Then the fourth, and the fifth. Sigh. Fancy spills everywhere.

But then again, there is always ball number six, the Powerball. That one that says, “Hey, you may not be the big winner, but you are still a winner to me.” The small payoff, with a chance of a mere one in seven hundred and forty-five point forty-five (check the math Mr. Math).

That, my friends, is what brings me to May.

360 degrees, imaginary weekend style

My life in turn around might have turned all the way around and come back to where it started. I received a bit of news today that put a crimp in my six month plan. A plan that didn’t exist before Saturday. With everything that still might happen, I can’t help but feel that I imagined everything. All I am saying is that I probably should have left the SI Cover off of my blog.

Still cryptic? As always. Suffice it to say, I am not too concerned.

It is a world of extremes, I guess. Either I am too careful, in a “Watch out! You’ll break it!” kind of way, or living at the polar opposite, overly enthusiastic “I am the coolest human alive, so stuff that!” manner. Kind of a strange way to live, but it works for me. Sort of.

The first leaves me in the protective, cotton wool of honest pessimism. Don’t put yourself out there, you might get hurt. Don’t tell that person something, you might be wrong. Don’t want that, you will just be disappointed. Don’t open that door, there might be a boogie man on the other side. Not the best attitude I will admit, but it has kept me alive. Alive, and very, very bored.

It wasn’t always like this. My duvet of safety is a product of my ridiculously enthusiastic brain. As a rule, enthusiasm is a dangerous toy. Things have a tendency to lean towards ruin when propped up with too much joy. They become pipe dreams of a tier one school. They become a job that, as of now, is going through serious materialization problems. They are cute boys with histories longer than the Napoleonic Wars. Maybe that last one isn’t so bad.

ARGH! April 25th resolution: to heck with it. Don’t worry so much. Be excited. Disappointments are temporary, but time bored is gone forever. I guess that whatever happens, happens. If I am staying in Chicago, it is hardly what I can call a bad thing. After all, barbecues!

I am off to paint some faces!

my life in turn around…

This has been a pretty bizarre week. Bizarre good.

It seems that after you throw the lemonade into the face of life, it just might give you the oranges you wanted in the first place.

So that is where I am.

Good things, maybe great things are happening. Dear loved ones. Before you join in a hallelujah, no. It has nothing to do with school. Fear not, my eyes are still on the prize.

I am going to have to remain cryptic for now, jinxes and all.

rudeness, customer style…

Working at the coffee house has been a delicious caffeinated treat. For the most part, the neighbors have been friendly, welcoming, and really supportive of a coffee that isn’t served by a multi-national corporation. But then, what would a day be without the presence of the least part?

On my first day, a fellow barista served up a double espresso. It seems that a woman ordered this beverage to-go for her husband. He was waiting outside. She received her drinks, paid with a credit card, and took off. A few minutes later, she returned.

She came up to me and sotto voce said, “This espresso is cold.” I asked if she wanted a new one, and she said, “No. That’s alright. My husband is a chef. He wanted me to tell you that it was cold.” Um. Okee doke. How about a refund? Then she repeated, “He just thought you guys should know.” What I think she was gently trying to say was “Mr. Chef said that you gave him a cold espresso.” Either that, or “Mr. Chef thinks you have discovered a great method for cold extraction and we should go into business together!”

After Mrs. Chef left again, I began my investigation. That’s right. I stuck my finger in the drink. Yes, I licked it. I am not ashamed, scientific method and all. I’d do it again. Visually, the crema was beautiful and plentiful, and the coffee seemed the perfect color and texture. On the down side, the thermometer read 57°F and any aromatics were gone, gone, gone. I went to the machine and pulled a test espresso. 23 second pull, serving temperature a piping 155°F. So much for cold extraction. Well then, why would Mr. Chef think we would serve cold coffee?

Mr. Chef doesn’t understand thermodynamics.

Quick math problem: if you put 3 fl. ozs. of 155°F espresso into a paper cup, wait 30 seconds for a credit card to clear, give it a 16 second jostle while trying to rebalance three beverages and a purse, and then take a 40 second walk across the street to deliver said beverage to Mr. Chef, who has been waiting outside on a 38° F afternoon, what will the temperature of the espresso be? If you said frickin’ cold, give yourself a gold star. Mr. Chef should know better. Props to Mrs. Chef for rolling her eyes when delivering the message.

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.

the picture of a collapsed resolve.

After a year’s worth of punchlines, e.g. “I have to write about this on my blog…,” I have finally broken down and gotten one.

Though, I absolutely refuse to get a myspace account. And that’s that.

Welcome to my first entry.

are you on myspace?

I don’t want a myspace account.

No, no, no! I am horrendous at replying to emails, I rarely update this blog, and I can’t even figure out how to upload a picture to my profile. I am not in a band, promoting a movie, a reality TV star, a teenage girl, or a middle aged pervert. While I understand that it is a convenient place to advertise that I might have friends, that kind of validation is not necessary in my world.

Way back in the day, I was forced onto friendster. Again, why? It is a lumbering dinosaur of a site with no redeeming value. I have a friend there that does nothing but add more and more pictures. To this day, she is still beating that dead horse. While I am amused at her photoshop skills, enough already. I don’t know anyone who has made a new friend, acquaintance, or love connection. In fact, I know more people who have met by way of craigslist.

At this point, to get a myspace account would be weak. I have no need for being bleeding edge, nor do I care about what’s the what, but I refuse to buy a ticket for the 2:45 bandwagon. I would rather climb into my wayback machine and jump back to 2003. That way, I could hit myspace when there was a modicum of hipster appeal. Oh, wait. I can’t. No matter. Now that it is owned by Rupert Murdoch, it is way past over.

Just like I will remain one of those few that have never seen Titanic, I will be that girl without a myspace account.

I can only hope that my loved ones will understand, and support my decision.

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?