Breaking News

Want to know what Butch Davis and I have in common? We both resigned today. More on this tomorrow, I have to go force Mary to try a new restaurant. She's scared because she "doesn't know how to get there."

MINI Cooper

I got a production number for my MINI Cooper today. I ordered a MINI back in October. I knew I was going to move to Chicago, so my current rides seemed impractical. I am currently driving a Mustang Convertible and an Explorer. The Explorer sucks up gas like a porn star, which at $2.36 a gallon is not nearly as cheap as a porn star, and also is not your friend when you feel like parallel parking, which in Chicago is always. The Mustang is great fun in the summer, but once it starts to snow you'd be better off driving a sled, because at least you'd be able to steer it.

So I went with the MINI. It handles well. It has top safety ratings in it's class. It can fit in half a parking space. And it's a BMW so it makes me feel like I'm moderately successful.

My friends all seem to fall into one of two camps on this subject:

1) "Amber, you are the epitome of cool. You are the end-all, be-all of cutting edge trendiness, and I am so very envious of your discerning taste in automobiles. It is an honor to be counted as one of your friends. Perhaps you'll even permit me to ride with you among the elite. I hope someday to have a fraction of the coolness you exude from your every pore."

2) "Amber, you are a sucker and borderline retarded. I can't believe you would actually drive that little toy-looking hunk of junk. You are so pathetic that I'm only keeping you around out of morbid curiosity. I hope someday you live to regret this decision, and in the meantime I'm going to laugh at your stupid ass every single time I see you driving that thing."

I figure, if it's good enough for Marky-Mark in The Italian Job, then it's good enough for me. British Racing Green. Can't wait.

Football

I love football. I mean really love it. I usually start getting antsy about football before the baseball All-Star break. I watch the draft. I read every NCAA and NFL preview I can find. I'm the assistant sports book for our football pool at work, which has much less to do with football than it does with gambling, but still.

A little background for those of you who are not from Ohio: Ohio Loves Football. We really really do. It's a sickness. We go mad over high school football here, all over the state. People from Cleveland can name you half the players from Cincinnati Moeller and people from Cincinnati can name you half the players from Cleveland's St. Ignatius (who lost to Glenville, BOO-YAH! Take that you recruiting bitches!). A good week for an Ohioan would be a Thursday night NFL game, followed by high school action on Friday night, a Saturday afternoon Buckeyes win, Bengals and Browns split as early/late games so you can watch both, followed by the Sunday Night Game of the Week on ESPN, and a good match up on MNF. Then you sleep for two days straight and swear to God that you will Never Tailgate Again.

I have been a Browns fan my entire life. My birthday is in January, so therefore, during the playoffs. When I was younger and the Browns were actually good, I used to have birthday cakes that read "Happy Birthday Amber! Go Browns!" with orange and brown roses on them. Ah, I remember it like it was 16 years ago. Because it was.

In more recent history the Browns suck balls. This is not unusual for Cleveland teams in general. Even when teams from here are good, they always seem to choke at the end i.e. The Drive, The Fumble, The Shot, and though it has no cool one-word name, the hit that went 2 inches over Joe Table's glove and dropped for a hit in the Indian's World Series loss. Because of this, I feel quite comfortable moving to Chicago and becoming a Cubs fan. I have plenty of practice at rooting for teams that consistently lose when the chips are down, and also both Indians fans and Cubs fans hate the White Sox, so there's some common interest there.

Anyway, my point is, how do you throw for over 400 yards and 5 touchdowns...and lose? Can someone explain this to me? I was cleaning my house during the game yesterday, and it seemed like every time I walked out of the room for 5 seconds, someone else had scored. Did the respective defenses decide to go for a late lunch yesterday at Skyline? I mean really, from that game it almost looked like the Browns had, you know, an offense. Weird game. Weird. Hope nobody bet the under on that.

Photo Update

Ok, so Bia freaked when I told her I blogged her picture and she made me promise to take it off. So I did, and replaced it with a picture of just me, which I think is not as good, but what can you do? My friend Tim immediately volunteered to take photos of me dressed up in my black shrink wrap outfit, then ruined it for himself when he told me that he had taken some pictures of his wife which were well posed, but came out badly because "the photographer wasn't very good". Not the best way to go about selling your services, I must say. Silver medal try Tim, but I'm thinking no.

Ask and You Shall Receive

OK, since you guys asked. Here is a picture of me and my friend Bianca. Bianca is on the left and I am on the right. My most humble apologies for not wearing a skirt; I'm going to get someone to take a picture of me in my plastic outfit and post that here for you guys so you can all drop light fixtures too. By the way, I realize Bianca is way hotter than me, but I figure I'll get more fans by posting a picture where I have a hot Romanian chick rubbing her giant ta-tas on me than I will with a picture of me all by my little self. Although probably not as many as I would get if I posted a picture of me naked and eating a popsicle. Or something like that. Request lines are open.

Tipping

Tipping is good. My bartender friend frequently points out that it is appreciated. I feel like I personally must leave people really big tips. The reason, of course, is that I think anyone who has to put up with my bizarre antics ought to be well compensated. It goes back to the attention craving issue: If I say and do bizarre things, I will either 1) make my waiter's day because he will think I am so funny or 2) completely piss my waiter off because he will think I am a total jackass. Either way he's going to go home and say, "You would not BELIEVE this nut job customer that came in today." Therefore, I am completely incapable of giving a straight yes or no answer to simple questions such as "Would you like guacamole with that?" Instead I say something like "Absolutely NOT, because guacamole is made out of avocados and that's just weird." I realize it is not actually that weird, but why be dull? I also like to accuse them of stuff. "Can I get you any dessert?" "You're trying to kill me, aren't you? You're trying to make me eat so much that I will explode. What did I ever do to you that you would want to kill me in such a cruel manner?" "Um, I'll just bring your check." This weekend when I went out drinking with the bartender, he asked me what I wanted to drink, so I said "Beer." He gave me such a withering look I almost thought he was going to tell me I couldn't have any. Instead he said through gritted teeth, "What KIND of beer?" In the interest of maintaining the connection between my head and my neck, I thought better of my original answer "The yummy kind!" and asked for a Corona. Sometimes I think I should start tipping all of my friends just for being friends with me.

Depression

Funny thing, being depressed. Sometimes moments of happiness make you....utterly sad. Yesterday Brandon drove me to the airport. We were driving down Lake Shore Blvd, and I looked to my left and thought, "The lake is beautiful." I looked to my right and thought, "The city is even more beautiful. I can't believe that I'm shortly going to live here and I'll be able to look at this every day." I was elated. So when I got to the airport I ended up nearly biting off my bottom lip to keep from crying in front of people from the sheer misery of it all. And all day long today people are asking about my trip and I tell them what a great time I had, cause I did, and then I get all moody-like and go pout in my office.

It. Is. Time. To. Go.

Right now I am sitting in my office wearing my winter coat, and not for a fashion statement either. No, I have a coat on because it is rapidly approaching 0 degrees Kelvin in here and all molecular movement is about to stop. And my nipples hurt. I think it might snow in here.

Wrapped In Plastic, It's Fantastic

Yesterday I wore:

• A black miniskirt made out of PVC
• A red shirt with a mandarin collar
• A black raincoat made out of PVC
• A pair of black high heel boots that come up to my knees

The following things occured:

• Vic asked me repeatedly if I was waterproof.
• Michelle stood with her face literally 1 1/2 inches away from mine and imparted that I was soooooo hot in my skirt and my boots and I was sooooooo beautiful and if she was in charge she would put me in Cosmo, and then in Maxim, but Maxim without the shirt. And that she doesn't like girls, but I am absolutely beautiful and she can't stop looking at me.
• Vic asked me repeatedly if I was waterproof.
• Some construction guy that was putting up new street lights dropped and broke the entire light fixture. His buddy told him to pay attention to what he was doing instead of where I was walking.
• Vic asked me repeatedly if I was waterproof.

Also, my liver fell out of me and did a tap dance on Tai's floor before slithering out into the street and getting run over by a newspaper truck.

From the Desk of the CEO...

Today, the founder and CEO of my company told me he wants to promote me. Now, before you go congratulating me, let me give you a little bit of background:

This is not the first time since I've been here that I've been told by someone that they "want" to promote me. In fact, it's more like the 10th time. I used to get really excited a la Sally Field ("You REALLY like me!"), but after about the 3rd or 4th time, I finally realized that when people here say they "want" to promote you, it is akin to when I say I "want" a penis for 24 hours. As much as I dream of peeing my name in the snow, it ain't gonna happen.

But today was a little different. I was in his office having just gotten off a conference call when he said, "Amber, I have to talk to you about something. Actually, I don't have to talk to you about it. I want to talk to you about it."

Queue the red flags.

"How do you view your role in this company going forward?"

Uh oh. I don't view myself as having a role in this company going forward. I am moving to Chicago in 2 months. I wisely decide it is not the appropriate time to bring this up. I decide instead to take the extremely rare opportunity to give him some insight into what I do think.

"Well, I'll be honest with you. I think my skills are being under-utilized in this company. I am capable of handling much more analytical work than the things I am currently responsible for. I once was getting to do some of that work, but when the new system was brought online and didn't work, I had to stop doing that, and concentrate on getting done what is basically busywork for me. I was very disappointed." Yes, I really did use the word busywork. How many chances like this do you get?

"I understand how you feel. I'd really like, in the next few weeks, to start to transition you out of that role, and into a role of greater responsibility. [The Gander] has been asking me for a while to transition you to a support consulting role and assign you exclusively to him."

I kind of knew this already. There was even a time when I thought that was something I wanted. The Gander and I used to be friends, pretty close friends actually, but his tantrums and seizures became unbearable to me and ultimately destroyed not only my desire to work with him, but also our friendship. I no longer wish to fill this role. "Uh huh," I say.

"Now I know he can be hard to work with sometimes. [The Gander's] problem is that he overextends himself, and then he doesn't know how to prioritize all the work." (The Gander's problem is that he's a dick.) "He needs someone that can help him with setting those priorities and help him to get the work done." (He needs someone to kick him in the nuts and tell him to shut the fuck up.) "I think you are a person who could handle helping him do that." (I think I am a person who can handle kicking him in the nuts and telling him to shut the fuck up.)

At this point, possibly because he sees the maniacal look on my face as I imagine caving in The Gander's nads, he changes course a little bit. And here, dear reader, is where it gets REALLY good.

"Ambitious people need to look for companies where there is growth. Companies that are growing offer opportunities to ambitious people for greater responsibility and compensation." So I've heard. But I wouldn't know that firsthand, because I work here, and this is not one of those companies. "I think this is one of those companies." For the record, he also thinks the phrase "What is the process of statement processing?" is a double entendre, and that there is "a right way and a wrong way" to go about sleeping with your secretary behind your wife's back. But I digress. "Now when you are given an opportunity for greater responsibility, the greater compensation does not come with that right away. When you are given an opportunity, you need to prove yourself. Then you can come back in 6 months to a year or so and say, 'Look at all I have accomplished. I deserve greater compensation!' and no one will be able to argue with that."

Put your eyes back in your head; you read that right. He basically just told me that he wanted to promote me, but not pay me more. This is not the way I understood promotions to typically work. I think it goes like this: You get promoted BECAUSE you have proven yourself, and you get paid for your newly earned responsibilities accordingly. Right? Is that right? I think that's right. I've never heard of it working where the dude in charge said, "Well, we don't really know about her abilities. Let's give her something harder to do, and if she doesn't suck at it, we'll give her lots more money!!!"

"I think sometime next week, you, me and [The Gander] should sit down and talk about this a little more. What do you think?"

"Okay. That sounds fine."

"Good. I'll set it up. Thanks a lot lady." (he calls me that sometimes, I think when he forgets my name.)

I think when this resumes we should continue the discussion in MY office, where I can use my giant desk for support while I bend over.

Bowling For Soup

An excerpt from the lyrics to "Ohio (Come Back to Texas)":

...But then she moved to Cleveland
with some guy named Leland that she met at the bank.

There's nothing wrong with Ohio,
Except the snow and the rain
I really like Drew Carey
and I'd love to see the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

I play this phrase over and over. I don't even know how the song ends because I keep skipping back to it. I'm so proud my city is so prominently featured in a song by people not from here. I am such an attention whore. It's a sickness.

Does the fact that I like Bowling For Soup make me a geek? Jeff, don't answer that.

Office

The nice thing about having my own office is that when I got it, they gave me this huge enormous desk, which comes in handy for bending over when people who work here try to fuck me in the ass.

The "Real" Me, otherwise known as Hey, Fuck Off

I am somewhat flabbergasted by my conversation with my aunt last night. It appears this relationship is going to get better before it gets worse. No wait. Reverse that. I don't know why I was expecting some big catharsis, I always feel like a cement truck ran me over after I talk to her, there was no reason to expect differently this time. But I think it was marginally even worse than usual.

The topic, as always, was Why Don't You Tell Me Every Little Thing That You Are Hiding Deep Down In Your Soul? Her points are these:
1. I put up a wall and no one is allowed in.
2. I appear to have multiple personalities, and no one knows which is the "real" me.
3. My family wants to "help" me and they are hurt that I don't allow it.
4. Don't I want to learn from the people who knew her what my mother was like?

For once I really did make my best effort at giving her legitimate answers for these concerns. She seemed to feel better; I felt like I'd been mind-raped. I've always preferred writing to speaking. It gives me the time to formulate cogent points, and I think I come across much more clearly. It's much better than being on the spot when someone asks you "Why do you do this?" I do strive for honesty, despite what my aunt chooses to believe, and I like for my answers to be as considered and complete as possible. I can't do that on the phone; I am limited to what I can come up with in the amount of time allotted before my thoughtful silence becomes uncomfortable for the other person. So, despite the fact that I really did try, she still didn't get the full story she was looking for. What follows is the real answers to the enigma that is me. Think of it as a sort of crib-sheet - if I do something that appears on the surface to make no sense, even though you think you know me, refer back to these lines and the answer should become clear. If not, then I'm probably just drunk.

1. I put up a wall, and no one is allowed in. This is true, but not for everyone. There are actually a great many people who get in, you are just not one of them. The reason some people get past the door and some people do not is that I don't like what some people do once they get past the door. I am a great believer in the concept of privacy. I like being an American because privacy is something granted to me in The Bill of Rights, which I deeply appreciate. Privacy is rad. I revel in it. Sometimes though, I want to share something from my treasure trove with the people I care about. Here's the thing though - the sharing of my feelings/hopes/dreams/goals is NOT, I repeat, NOT an invitation for YOU to share with me your opinion on them. My mental bouncers have a tendency to throw people out when they do that. You cannot bribe them to let you back in. Trust me, when I want your opinion on something, I will explicitly ask you for it. Ask the people who are allowed in. They know I'm looking for their opinion because I start my statement with "Let me get your opinion on this...." If you have not heard that phrase, I guarantee I am not looking for your opinion.

I have attempted, on many occasions, to share with my aunt and others some of the things that float in my head. Every single time, without exception, open season was declared on my psyche. I was met with a barrage of condescension and disapproval. Even without speaking; often it took only a withering look to make me feel tiny and sad and so very very wrong. And those were over little things, they were ice-breaker attempts. If I can't share that stuff without an emotional beatdown, you are not likely to make any progress toward learning about the big things that are really driving me.

Finally, thoughts and feelings are not like math. There is not a right or wrong answer, they just are. And it's not my wall. Every time I see that look or hear that comment, you are only adding another brick. If you really want the wall to come down, you should stop mixing mortar.

2. I appear to have multiple personalities, and no one knows which is the "real" me. This implies a disparity where none exists. They are all me. Sad Amber, Funny Amber, Quiet Amber, Drunk Amber, Spiritual Amber, Jackass Amber, Happy Amber, Pit-of-despair Amber, are all facets of the same individual. Whatever you are seeing is how I am feeling at the time. I am not cunning enough to pretend one personality while secretly feeling another. I'm good at a lot of things, but I can't move my right arm clockwise and my right leg counterclockwise at the same time. Different situations call for different actions, variety is the spice of life, if you're happy and you know it clap your hands - whatever you want to call it, all people don't always act exactly the same way all of the time. None of it is fake. All of it is real. For that matter, all of it is valid (see "feelings are not math", above). I promise you, I am not trying to fool you any more or less than I am trying to fool myself.

3. My family wants to "help" me and they are hurt that I don't allow it. No. This is why I pay a psychiatrist. When I am blue, I go to her office and ramble on for a while. I feel better about myself. I go about my life. The whole point of being in therapy is so that I can go out and enjoy the rest of my life and not have to dwell on all the bad things I don't like about myself. That behavior tends to be a downer at parties. I love my time with my family. It feels like home, because, well, it is. This is why, sometimes, on Christmas or one of the other gathering days, you might occasionally see me sitting at the end of the table, talking to no one, just watching everyone else interact with a kind of punch-drunk look on my face. Here is how I am feeling right then: Warm. Safe. Happy. Content. I love you guys; I love watching how much you love each other. It is the closest feeling to pure joy I ever have. I never want it to end. It is brand new and nostalgic at the same time. I am blessed. Therefore, I do not want it mired down in everyday junk that sucks. I do not want to play How Do Bad Things Make You Feel. It's not because you are not needed - you are. But I need you for the former stuff, not the latter. The former stuff is the stuff that gives me a reason to fight through the 360 or so days per year when nothing good happens to me.

Now. Apparently the general sentiment is you all want to be needed for both the joyous times and the bad times. That is ok, your feelings are not like math either. You are entitled to them. Having said that though, let me offer you this: Too Damn Bad. That's something you all are going to have to work through on your own. You are already meeting all the needs I need you to meet. I'm not going to pretend I have other needs for you guys to meet just because it will make you feel better. That's bullshit posturing. I'd like to tell you how sorry I am that I didn't turn out the way you planned, but I can't do that because I'm not actually sorry. I deal with things in the way that works best for me, and that's not always going to include you. This is the drawback to raising a child to be self-sufficient. I'm not trying to hurt you on purpose, but if this is something that bothers you, well guess what, you're going to get hurt. I wish it wouldn't sound so harsh, but it is what it is.

4. Don't I want to learn from the people who knew her what my mother was like?
Yes and no. What I really want, I mean really really really really want, is to have my mother here, and to have grown up knowing her, and to have an adult relationship with her, which I was too young to have when she died. This is obviously not possible, and I live with that fact every single minute of every day. That's my cross to bear. There is nothing any of you can tell me that could possibly illustrate for me what that would be like. What I definitely don't want is to sit down and have a volleying questions-and-answers about Lydia session with anyone. I want to learn about her anecdotally. Like if something happens that reminds you of something and you say "You know what your mom did once, see we were milking this goat...." I cherish that stuff. Please go ahead with that. But if you're sitting around waiting for me to come to the table and say "Tell me about my mother" you're going to be waiting a long time. That's not how I assimilate information. I need context. Context is everything.

Here's an example. I never really knew Grandpa Stan because of shit that went down way before I ever existed. So when he died I learned a lot of things that I never knew before. I learned that he went to Mass every day, that he prayed his rosary twice a day, that he raised Kevin and Kenny like his own sons, blah blah blah. The stuff that sticks in my head though, the stuff that makes me feel like I know him better in death that I did in life, are the anecdotal stories. Like sitting in the stands on senior night at the football game, watching someone else's parents stand up for his son. That's the real man there. Tell me that kind of stuff. Whenever you happen to think of it. There's not a right or wrong time.

And finally, remember this: kids are deeply, ridiculously perceptive. I am betting that I know way more about her than you think I know. There are many many things that I was there for that you were not. I was the only one home when the phone call came with the test results. I was the one that always got to style her way cool new curly hair when it grew back for that short while. I was the only one out of everybody in the world that got to be her daughter, even if it was only for a while. And I will always have those things. And it is good. So potentially, maybe I'm the one who should be telling all of you stories.

Next Blog

See that little button in the upper right hand corner of your screen that reads "Next Blog"? Don't click on it. Honestly, I mean it. Don't push the button. Don't push the big, shiny, candylike button. Because if you think heroin is hard to kick, just try to stop clicking on it once you've started. I am not shitting you. It will turn you into a hamster. You know how hamsters have an attention span of about 1.3 seconds and they always have that look on their face like "Hey! What's this? Hey! What's this? Hey! What's this?" That is what you will be, except it will be "Hey! What's next?" I have lost hours of my life to this, and millions of brain cells. So don't do it if you don't want to end up in a "Next Blog" 12 step program. I'm only trying to protect you. Do as I say, not as I do.

Having said that, here's some stuff I found while next blogging. Damn, peoples is crazy.

Josh Levine

Mark Nicodemo

Nate Fancher

The Pogosphere

Jennie_Smash

Random Disjointed Bullshit

So, I was just thinking how pathetic it is that I have this blog and absolutely no one reads it. Except of course for Mary, but even so, she never leaves any comments and besides, she is me and I am her, so for her to be the only one reading my blog is the same as me keeping a journal with a little lock on it and keeping all my thoughts to myself. And most of this stuff she was there for anyway since neither one of us ever leaves work, except for the stuff that happens in Chicago, where she won't go visit with me cause she's a giant meaniehead.

Speaking of which, Cap's party is Saturday. Now, normally I don't obsess over what to wear to things, cause I'm just not that girly (although I must admit I do go around looking for opportunities to wear my "Rock This Bitch" t-shirt, but that's because I crave attention, not because I'm trying to look cute). But in this case, I've been thinking about it all week. Reason being, I'm trying to decide if I should dress up in something that will completely embarrass Brandon. I'm kind of on a roll, what with the whole Karen thing and his bizarre perception that I stole his bartender from him, so I figure electric blue snakeskin pants or a black miniskirt made out of PVC (both of which I actually own) might be in order here. Or not. Cuz on the other hand, that Bowman fuck-knocker is gonna be there and I don't need to hand him any more ammo than the shit he already makes up. But then again, fuck him. It's really fun to embarrass the shit out of Cap, especially at his own party. I hope he gets obliterated too, he's such a fucking tool when he's drunk. Cracks me up.

Here's another example of why I am a giant loser - I wrote a love poem the other day. In all the years I've been writing, even in the really prolific years before they gave me the drugs that made all the "I'm worthless" feelings stop (or potentially just hide), I never wrote a love poem. Ever. Not for pedo-george, or for alcoholic-dave, or for either of the two fabulous gentlemen I almost married. No, I always wrote really sad, hopeless odes to pain and suffering that make people cry. Until now. Who was it that inspired this artistic outpouring of joy and contentment? Has some fabulous knight ridden in on his horse to whisk me away to fairy-land? Have I decided that Karen or some other girl is all I was looking for all along, and now I am complete? No of course not. The poem is about my cat. In all of my life, the only thing to bring me enough pleasure to write happy thoughts down in metered verse is Kristen. Thank God for the drugs, otherwise I might have to go out and shoot myself right now on principle. I'm probably gonna end up being one of those crazy old ladies with 87 cats, who almost completely stops talking to human beings because they only want to be with their cats and almost never leaves the house except to go procure more cats and their clothes smell like shit and cat litter and all the neighborhood kids are scared of them and make fun of them behind their back. Maybe I'll post it here. It's totally embarrassing, but as I pointed out before, no one reads this shit.

Oh, hi Mary.

Screw you guys, I'm going home.

The Cherub

I am a big fan of our newest edition here at the office, The Cherub. The Cherub is very cute and little. She's not even 5 feet tall. I find that (most) things are cuter when they are in miniature. So she's got that going for her. She is also very very nice, disarmingly so. But most importantly, she has a bit of a naughty streak, to wit:

1. She attended her second sex toy party last weekend, and came back regaling us with tales of dildos you can suction cup to your shower wall. (???)

2. Her birthday is this month. Tim and Bia let her in on our favorite lunch place, the Crazy Horse(or Gold Horse or Platinum Horse or whatever it is they are riding on this month) strip club. Aside from having naked women (Athena is my fav) they also make a tasty burger. And The Cherub feels that it sounds like the perfect establishment for her birthday lunch this Friday.

Giddyup.

Sylph

Mary and I went out for Bourbon Chicken for dinner tonight. On the way there, we went past Public Square. They are putting up the city Christmas tree. I was looking at it and it looked kinda funny for a tree. It's kind of woman-shaped. Like it has a waist, sort of. I mentioned this to Mary, and she said "You mean like a sylph? Do you know what a sylph is?" Meaning "a graceful slender woman." But I thought she said "SILF". So after consideration I came up with "Spruce I'd like to fuck?" BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh we laughed and laughed and laughed.

Working With The Gander

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Famous People I Want To Sleep With

(in no particular order)

Pierce Brosnan - My friends wife once told him that if Pierce Brosnan made a movie where he did nothing but sit and read the paper for 2 hours, she would watch it. I concur.

Antonio Banderas - I like that bit about "smoldering good looks".

Halle Berry - Meow.

Keith Olbermann - Sexy in a geeky sort of way. I miss the old days of Keith and Dan on Sportcenter. The link goes to his Blog, making him even more nerdily cool.

Catherine Zeta-Jones - This woman holds the distinction of being the only woman who could make my friend Mary switch teams.

John Cusack - Geeky record store owner or professional hitman, he just does it for me.

Brent Spiner - I have no explanation for this one. The guy is 55 years old. Maybe it's because for most of his career he was covered in gold paint.

Salma Hayek - I don't know if you've noticed the pattern here, but I seem to have a thing for people with foreign accents.

Viggo Mortensen - Actually, it's not him that I like, but Aragorn as played by Viggo Mortensen.

Jolene Blalock - There was no picture on her Yahoo Actor page, so I went searching and found this Maxim page instead. You'll be glad I did. I'll be bookmarking that as a fav.

Lucy Liu - I like Asian chicks. A lot. She's one my favorites because she always plays really bossy characters. I like to get bossed around. Especially by Asian chicks.

Dave Navarro - Normally I'm not into the whole tattoo thing, but on him it works GREAT. Plus he's married to Carmen Electra, not a bad gig if you can get it. I'd probably sleep with her too.

Orlando Bloom - Any white guy that can pull off the name Orlando deserves props. Plus he's got that foreign accent thing going, which we've already established turns me on.

George Clooney - This guy became infinitely sexier when he started doing Coen brothers movies.

Hugh Hefner - Let's be honest. Who doesn't want to sleep with Hef? I mean, come on.

Tyra Banks - The Bartender's exact words were "Too much forehead." Good for him, at least we're not fishing in the same pond. I've had a thing for her for-e-ver.

Omar Vizquel - Accent. Plus he's got skills.

Andy Garcia - I like my Cubans unfiltered.

Bonnie Bernstein - Every day she gets hotter. How does she do that?

Patrick Stewart - The hottest bald guy alive. And he has the accent. Lay in a course for the bedroom. Engage.

Scott Patterson - This guy plays Luke on Gilmore Girls. He was also in "The Sponge" episode of Seinfeld. He was also a minor league baseball player for 8 years.

This is hardly a comprehensive list, but I think it will do for one evening. Everyone knows that sleeping with more than 21 people in one day makes you a whore and I wouldn't want to get a reputation.

Fuckin Guy

The Gander is at it again. He's in and out of my office throwing a tantrum like a petulant child because of something that is neither my fault nor my problem. Today he wants to know if some transactions happened for a particular client. I asked what accounts were supposed to have activity, and what date that activity was supposed to have started. I get this response: "I need to know what happened and what didn't happen." Thank you Captain Obvious, for clarifying that.

So I go on the website and print out all the transactions for the month of November thus far. I leave the stack on his chair. Five minutes later he storms back in my office and asks me what he is supposed to do with them. Here's an idea - try reading them and seeing what happened and what didn't happen. I certainly hope that I'm not expected to teach an Ivy League educated individual how to read transaction statements. So I told him I didn't know what he was supposed to do with them, but probably what I would do is add up the transactions to see if they moved all the money or not. He said, "FINE. THANKS." and stomped back off to his lair.

*deep breath*

I am trying to not get that upset, because he is under a lot of pressure and his job is hard. But MY job is hard too, and I am under pressure, and I'm not flitting around the office like a seething tyrant with a Napoleonic complex and e-mailing people nasty-grams at the slightest provocation. An even better comparison would be the Great One, who does the exact same job as the Gander, but without all the cussing and throwing things. It's total bullshit, he's pissing me off, and I don't feel like doing this anymore.

And it's fucking cold outside.

The Bartender

The bartender called this morning. I think my favorite thing about the bartender is that I'm never quite sure what he might say. He's one of those people that has cool weird stuff happen to him all the time. So sometimes, I might get a cool weird story. Like the time he called to tell me he got to watch two girls making out in Vegas. He also works in a bar, as bartenders are wont to do. So sometimes he calls with interesting bar stories. Or sometimes he just calls me with a list of the people I know who were in the bar that night, usually some combination of Gongolas, dickheads who work for the Bulls, and Gene Honda. If I had a nickel for every time he called and started a conversation with "Hey! Your brother was at the bar last night!" I'd have about 4 nickels. Sometimes he calls to express an opinion. Today's opinion was that girls use a different logic than guys, the girl's logic makes no sense, and the only way to defend yourself against it is to insult them. Obviously, apart from being interesting, he is also quite wise. And he makes a mean Captain and Coke. So next time you're in Chicago, may I recommend Tai's Til 4, and tell them Cap's sister sent you. Actually, you don't have to tell them that. They won't really care.

Kristen Kitty

My cat is the sexiest cat alive. Seriously. All the tomcats in the neighborhood stand outside my window and whistle at her. I caught one in the bushes the other day doing nasty things with his little kitty parts. Sick.

So, since I'm so enamored with my cat, and also apparently made of money, I made a trip to Target yesterday and bought her a new collar with little red and purple jewels on it, and a new silver charm for it with a "k" for Kristen. I also bought her a Christmas stocking, and a new little silver frame so I could put yet another picture of her up in my office. Then I went to the grocery store and bought her some seafood medley cat treats and some Catsip kitty milk. Then I robbed a bank since I was broke.

It was all worth it when I sat down to watch the Browns game (poetically it was the 7 yard shanked punt that sealed the loss, which I find personally comforting since I was so vehemently distraught over us not keeping Chris Gardocki. If we had had him, the punt wouldn't have been shanked, the Ravens would not have gotten the ball on our 9 yard line and, presumably, the Browns would have prevailed.) and Kristen came to sit by me so I layed down and put my head on her and then she stuck out her little kitty paw and put in on my hand as if to say "I love you soooo much! You are the best mom in the world!" and she purred and purred. I love my cat.

Wait til all the tomcats see her with her new bling bling. Yeowza! I'm going to have to put up a fence.

Monday Timisms 2

After a week of being asked "Hey Tim, what are opinions like?" Tim has this to say:

" I only said whatever because I didn't feel like saying assholes." Thank you for clearing that up.

Tim also says the election is not over. "Have the provisional ballots been counted? Have they been certified? Has the Electoral College voted? Has that been certified?" I didn't feel like arguing semantics with him, so I told him my left foot was about to vote for his nads, and then I backed down and threw a binder clip at him instead. That'll teach him.

Sweet Dreams

A poem I wrote a couple of years ago and forgot about, then rediscovered today when I was cleaning old crap off my hard drive:

Sweet Dreams


I dreamed a dream last night.
The air was warm; the breeze blew in so softly
The garden was alive with scent and light
The sun shone down and wrapped us in its arms.

I dreamt last night that you were at my side,
We walked along a path of fragrant roses
You held my hand; we spoke in wordless motions,
My love reflected back from in your eyes.

The wind turned cold last night
Your touch was gone, I stood in lonely silence
My tears fell on the roses, made them wilt
I reached for you, but you were never with me.

I woke from sleep last night,
And shivered in the bleak and stony darkness
My love returned by nothing but the walls,
The memories yielding slowly to the night.

I dreamt of you last night…



I remember that I wrote this in Buffalo when I ran away from home because 1153 did something mean to me. I also remember that I got so hammered that weekend my cousin ended up taking me home because he couldn't handle how obnoxiously drunk I was. And I really really wanted to go see strippers. Which I told everyone. At the top of my lungs. Repeatedly. I also said that if my brother had been there instead of me, that they probably would be seeing strippers, and that the only reason he wouldn't take me was because I was a girl, and that he should really rethink that and take me instead because "Brandon is a PUSSY". I think he over reacted. If he would have just pointed me in the direction of strippers, I'm sure I would have shut the fuck up, or at least reduced the decibel level some. Anyway, after the poem, the drinking binge and the blunt tongue-lashing from my Auntie Margaret(which are always that much harsher for being delivered in that brogue accent - she's Scottish) I felt better and came home. I showed the poem to 1153, he felt it was unduly hard on him and criminally unfair, so I saved it on my hard drive at work and forgot about it until today. Ahh memories...

Dennis

I've never been so popular in all my life. Just by virtue of living in Ohio too, I didn't even have to flash my tits or anything! The national news media descended on us en masse yesterday. I think they were looking for a long bout of legal wrangling. Bet they were disappointed when the concession call came in the late morning. But hey, check out my friend Dennis on the CBS Evening News! He's the guy standing outside of church talking about how moral values are always the most important factor for him in voting. I told him he should have just asked to be directed to the Fox News van, but they ended up airing him anyway, morals and all.

Bruce

Why go to the Kerry rally/Springsteen concert when you can sit in your 10th floor office on Superior Avenue and hear the whole thing? I AM TRYING TO GET SOME WORK DONE MOTHER FUCKERS!!!!!!!!!!! They're rockin out to "Born to Run" at the Point in Sandusky. "Hello Ohio" my ass, they can hear you people in Canada. Seriously.

Monday Timisms

Today's jems, uttered with love by my unique and interesting co-worker, Tim:

When asked his opinion on Teresa Heinz Kerry: "First ladies are unimportant to me, unless they're hot, like Jacqueline."

In regards to a statement that 77% of the budget for the Cleveland Metroparks goes to employee salaries seems excessive: "It's a service organization! What are they supposed to do, go out and buy squirrels?"

And finally, with no context because I can't remember what we were talking about (and it doesn't really matter anyway): "Opinions are, like, whatever. Everybody has one."

That last one really gets me. I keep spitting out cough drop juice every time I read it.

Bia had one too. She was sitting in a chair in my office and felt the need to impart this: "I wish I could kill myself for, like, five days." Random, huh? I laughed for about five days, I'll tell ya that.

It Never Ends...

Just saw this on the Channel 3 website. I am going to vomit. Michael Moore is a self-promoting propagandist nit-wit who stands for nothing except extending his already far-overrun 15 minutes. I am at the end of my patience with this election bullshit as it is. If one of these idiots is at my polling place tomorrow and so much as breathes in my direction I will bludgeon them to death with that tiny poking thing they give you to punch out those chads. In the meantime, Kerry is back AGAIN, this time with The Boss in tow, I think just to tie up traffic for me since I'm working late tonight.

I bought some chicken noodle soup from Susy's today since I'm not feeling well and walked into the middle of a political debate in the lunchroom. I picked up my crap and walked right back out and ate at my desk. Is there nothing else to talk about? Didn't anyone see any cute trick-or-treaters last night? Or watch any football? Or attend any parties? I dyed my hair red and purple, that's pretty controversial for a professional office, can we discuss that instead? Let get this thing over with tomorrow so we can all go back to making fun of Canadians.