I'm Alive I Swear!

Please accept my humble apologies for my extreme laziness in posting. I'll do better, I promise. Please don't leave me!!!

Actually, it isn't laziness as much as busyness; I get paid to handle other people's money, I do not get paid to blog. Someday when my fairy godmother shows up I will blog and sing for a living. Until that day, I do math.

Let me think now: I've not graced you with a Week Four or a Week Five post. I'll sum that up here. Week Four was nearly identical to Week Three. There was much arguing and crying and yelling between the bartender and me, and between the bartender and Vicodin Jim. By Week Five we had all reached an agreement: the bartender and I called a truce, agreed to stop attacking one another, and to stay out of each other's way as much as possible. We spoke last weekend in a friendly manner for the first time in weeks when he called to share with me stories of my brother's extreme drunkenness that evening. I am officially permitted to return to Tai's. (Shameless plug: the bartender says the new trendy shot is going to be Apple Bombs. Bacardi has just put out an apple flavored rum, which apparently is way yummy when mixed with Red Bull. Tai's is serving them now. You heard it here first folks.) The bartender and Jim have decided they hate each other, at least for now, and are not speaking at all. They have both agreed not to drag me into the middle of their beef anymore.

Speaking of Cap, he was on his way out the door the other day to grab a sandwich, and while crossing his front yard he nearly crashed head on into Keanu Reeves. Apparently, he is filming a movie, and some of it was filmed on Brandon's street. In response to my inquiry, I learned that he's "not really" tall.

Cap, Nash and Lizak also invented a new variation on the game of Bags. If you aren't from an area where people play Bags, basically what you do is set up two wooden boxes across from each other. Each one has a small round hole in the top. Then you stand across the yard with a bunch of beanbags and throw them at the opposite box. You get points for getting the bags in the hole, and I think maybe points for getting them to land on top of the box as well. It's all the rage. Anyway, Cap, Nash and Lizak came up with this extra step where you can get some extra points or something by throwing the beanbags back at your opponent (football center snapping the ball-style), who is the "goalie". If you get bags past him, you get more points or something (I wasn't really paying that much attention to the details, because I don't particularly care). So they were playing this the other day when I stopped by. Unfortunately, they were playing Bags (2) IN THE HOUSE like the overgrown children that they are, and managed to break a pane of glass in my brother's liquor cabinet. Hindsight being 20/20, Cap mused later, "I guess that's why you don't play Bags in the house." Hmm. Bocce anyone?

I decided to go on an adventure last weekend. I wanted to go to IKEA, but no one was around to go with me. So, like the thoughtless spastic I have become, I just jumped in the car with no directions, hopped on the Kennedy, and figured I'd run into it eventually. I did run into it eventually, and bought new stuff. I know it probably seems a little stupid, traipsing around the suburbs with no map and no guide, but I figured, the worst that could happen is I never find it and have to turn around and go home empty-handed, so I did it anyway. The bartender was very proud of my successful stupidity and Jim told me I was retarded. I got a new dresser, and managed to piss off my downstairs neighbors by losing all track of time while assembling it and hammering on my floor (their ceiling) at 12:30 AM. Oops.

My cousin Bryan joined the 21st century and got his very first cell phone this week as well. He called me the other night to tell me about it and catch up. In the middle of this conversation we got cut off. He called me back and sheepishly said, "Yeah. Um, I guess my call got....dropped? I think that's right, isn't it? I don't know all the terms yet." HI-larious.

I am sorry to report that no midgets (naked or otherwise) moved in next door.

So all in all, the last two weeks have been devoid of any large scale events, so you all haven't missed much by my poor posting habits. I plan for things to pick up this weekend. I am trying to entice Bia to get the heck out of Dodge and come up here for a day or so this weekend, so we can go out and tighten up together and party like the rockstars we know we are inside. So post some comments to her so she'll get over herself and come play with me, otherwise you're all stuck with my boring, infrequent posts.

Shout Out

Steve G., who is my brothers Big from their fraternity, was at a party with me over the weekend. He mentioned he had checked out the Bizzybiz Blog, but didn't have 16 years to devote to reading my incredibly long posts, so he merely skimmed it. But in so skimming, he noticed a certain lack of acknowledgement on my part for the help I received moving my crap into my apartment.

Steve, I apologize for the oversight. Let it hereby be known that without the aid of my brother, Steve, Chris, Nash and Lizak I would currently be living out of the back of a U-Haul. Thanks for moving all my shit.

Holla.

(Also thanks to Nash for making me burst into tears at that party as well, way to make my nightmares a reality buddy.)

Haiku - Ode To My FAT ASS

Come to the office
there are some Girl Scout cookies
out on the counter

I see Tag-a-longs
shortbread cookies and Thin Mints
six fucking boxes

Fuck you, you temptress
go tell your evil daughter
to find a new hobby

Can I resist them?
Hardly. I stuff my fat face -
there goes my waistline

Yesterday also
ate Chipotle for dinner...
inhaled is more like it

But did I stop there?
Nope! At home had pizza rolls
and also grilled cheese

Over the weekend
Heather bakes me some cookies
sends them in the mail

I open the box,
read her letter and then I
eat them all at once

AMBER YOU LARD ASS!
WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM???
STOP FUCKING EATING!!!!

Alligator

This is so not funny, but taken out of context, the subtitle is.

Not Working At Work

An e-mail conversation that has taken away from any actual productive work at two different companies today:

Mary: Do you hate me?
Me: No, I hate me, asshat.
Mary: I knew you didn't like my hat!
Me: How do you know that doesn't mean I don't like your ass?
Mary: Well, I don't because I really don't understand the expression. It's a mystery to me.
Me: Asshat. Akin to fuck-knocker, dork-weed, meathead. Don’t you read my blog anymore?
Mary: Yes, but it doesn't all make sense. This would be an example of that.
Me: Just put two words together that normally don’t go together and spew it as an insult. Cuz it’s funny. You shitpencil.
Mary: Oh, I see, like boogerlamp.
Me: That made me laugh out loud for the first time in three days.
Mary: Yay!!!!!!!!!!!! Let me try again: Urineshoe.
Me: anusdress
Mary: Vomitframe!
Me: bilebottle
Mary: Well, that about tears it.
Me: I’m blogging this.
Mary: Walked right into that one.

Close Call

I had a minor heart attack the other day. As a lazy sloth-like creature, one of my least favorite chores is taking out the garbage. This is mainly due to the fact that it involves walking what I consider to be an extended distance - out the door in my kitchen, down the back stairway, out the back door across the yard, and through the gate to where the garbage cans are. It just seems like an incredible distance. As such, I've taken to throwing any non-food related trash into the hallway, where it piles up until I have too much food-related trash to ignore, and then it all goes out at once.

So my hallway had reached maximum capacity and I had to take the trash out. As I opened the door, Kristen, my fragile kitty-egg, the angel of my heart, my most precious possession, came out of nowhere and ran past me out the door. This would not have been that bad - the hallway leads up to an attic only I have access to and down to my back door, so she'd just wander around until she got hungry and then mosey back in, no worse for the wear - EXCEPT that my back door does not stay closed too well, and it had blown wide open since the last time I'd gone out.

Kristen skipped down the stairs, saw the open door and went right out.

My cat does not go outside. I'm afraid that she would not come back, which is probably irrational because she loves me, but also there are dogs and raccoons and diseases and sharp things she could step on and people who hate cats and like to punt or eat them...outside is a black hole of kitty danger and it is my job to guard the gate. I have failed.

Fortunately, since she never goes outside, as soon as she was through the door, she was so awed that she stopped dead in her tracks. She didn't even resist when I snatched her up and ran back up the stairs with her. So, I still have my cat, and she is safely back in my apartment.

Screw waiting for the landlord, that very night I went back outside and fixed the damn kitty-portal-of-hell door myself. All quiet on the western front.

Song for a Lousy Day

I'm not doing so well today, my friends. Luckily CAKE knows exactly how I feel:

End Of The Movie

People you love
will turn their backs on you
You'll lose your hair, your teeth
your knife will fall out of it's sheath
But you still don't like to leave before the end of the movie

People you hate
will get their hooks into you
They'll bring you down, you'll frown
They'll tar you and drag you through town
But you still don't like to leave before the end of the movie
No, you still don't like to leave before the end of the show.

Chicago: Week Three

This post could potentially be subtitled "My Life As A Sugar Mommy For A Broke Rockstar" but we'll get to that.

The entirety of my week involved basically two things: whining to and about the bartender and an all out ground assault on my liver led by my superior officer, General Vicodin Jim.

The bartender is still quite peeved at me. I'm probably doing little to help the situation by goading him with text messages that read things like "Sometimes it seems like hurting me is a sport for you" and "Don't you think it's a double standard that I can leave your bar with any girl I want, but I leave with one boy and you get all pissed?" For his part, sometimes he lets me bait him and sometimes he ignores me entirely. Vicodin Jim says that the good news is he's stopped bitching about me and doesn't mention me at all anymore, but the bad news is he estimates I'll be banned from Tai's for another month. The last communication was last night. I was out with Vicodin Jim and his new girly interest Hot Heather and one of the places we hit up was a late night hardcore punk rock bar called The Exit. I sent a friendly text to barkeep about how funny Jim was being telling everyone at Exit what a great big rockstar he is. From the message I got back I learned that following your punk friend into a punk bar when you are not a punk yourself makes you a poser, or as he oh-so-subliminally put it "POS -U- ER".

Vicodin Jim is alive and well (for now) and completely without so much as a nickel. This is indirectly because of his irrepressibly obnoxious bad-news roommate Jimmy O. Jimmy O is 20 years old, completely immature and somewhat of a drug addict. To support that little hobby, he frequently steals things from Jim. He also has a bunch of little druggie-obnoxious friends just like him who also like to steal things from Jim. Jimmy O had decided to hold an impromptu tattoo party on Tuesday night and somewhere between the time Jim went to bed and the time he woke up, one of Jimmy O's little hooligans had absconded with his wallet. And then went out and bought enough cartons of cigarettes to nearly wipe Jim out. So while he's waiting on replacement cards and getting everything settled, I told him I'd get his back. So far this has involved the purchase of massive quantities of alcohol, a midnight Burger King run, three dinners, four packs of cigarettes, cab fare and a new set of strings for his guitar. In return he lets me whine incessantly about the bartender and never complains or tells me to shut up. Although he did balk when I told him the bartender was the hottest guy EV-ER.

Jim has a wonderful new non-agenda, mind-fuck-free little vixen named Hot Heather. I met her Wednesday night at the Mutiny. The three of us, along with New Kid, his roommate and his ex-girlfriend sat around having a nice low key evening, drinking and watching a show about horror movies on tv. Later Jim wanted to go to another bar, and we all got up to leave. Until he happened to mention in passing that the bartender was up there, which was the whole reason he wanted to go in the first place. I told them they could go on ahead, but that I didn't think it was a good idea for me to join them. Jim tried to downplay the potential for drama, but I insisted that he text the bartender and tell him I was part of the entourage. When the message came back "WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO FUCK UP MY NIGHT?" he had to admit I had a point. They went out, I went home.

Thursday, there was basically uneventful drinking at Mutiny, except that Jim struck up a conversation with a guy in a hardcore band called Thirteen and a Half and was immediately asked to join the band. Also the bitch Jenny was up at Tai's with some of Jim's stuff, and he desperately wanted to go get it/pick a fight with her gaggle of boys she'd brought with her, so I took Jim and Hardcore Guy over to Tai's and dropped them off (around the corner so as not to enrage the bartender). Then I went home to my sweet sweet bed.

Friday, Jim elected to spend the evening with me because he felt bad that I had to cut out twice in the last two nights due to the bartender thing. We had dinner at my new favorite place to eat, Kitsch'n, and shot the shit for a while. Then we called Hot Heather up and told her to meet us at Mutiny. Heather and I talked. And talked. And talked and talked and talked and talked and talked. The talking continued after the bar closed, where we moved the whole conversation over to Underbar without missing a beat. Around 3 a.m., I figured that catching a few z's was probably in my best interest as I had promised to drive Jim out the suburbs for a show he was playing the next day. I headed for home; they headed for Tai's. Apparently at Tai's, Jim found my brother and the two proceeded to get belligerently drunk. I was assured a good time was had by all.

Saturday I woke up just in time to pick up Jim and go to the suburbs for his gig. The band du jour was really his solo/concept project, with Jimmy O playing bass and another kid named Steve on drums. We had several errands to run - Jimmy didn't even have his bass, we had to go pick that up, and Jim had his guitar, but no strings on it, so we had to stop by Sam Ash. That led to the first thing he did that day that impressed me, as he proceeded to first string, and then tune, by ear mind you, his guitar in my car as we were driving down the street. We got to the gig and listened to a couple of other bands play before it was their turn. Now, I've heard some of Jim's album work before. He is extremely talented, and I knew this. But I had never seen him play live. I was floored. The kid is amazing. He is awesome. He has so much stage presence there's barely room for anyone else on stage. He is funny and energetic and on pitch. He whipped his guitar around. He played it behind his back. He set it down entirely and started break dancing. It was such a far cry from the brooding, morose mother fucker I hang out with. If I didn't see it with my own eyes, I'd never have believed it. And the music is good, I mean REALLY good. It's stuff people who like music would actually buy. Wow. Just...wow.

On Sunday, Jim called in the afternoon and we grabbed a bite before heading out to Underbar and drinking ourselves silly until close at 4 a.m. Which brings us up to yesterday's "I'm too tired to post" post, so now you're all caught up. If you even stuck with it this far, which is doubtful.

My predictions for week four:

• The bartender will continue to cherish the vendetta building inside him. I will make it easy for him by texting "I still can't believe you called me a poser you dick!" tonight when I get home from work.
• Jim will get his credit cards back. Jimmy O will resume stealing his shit.
• Work will not make the slightest bit of sense. I will be too tired to care.
• Nudist midgets will move in next door.
• I will take another bath. Maybe two.

Happy Holidays

Today is Steak and Blow Job Day. I have no one to celebrate with. Phooey. I hope all my lovely gentleman readers do.

Today is also Pi Day. I celebrated this with Tim via e-mail this morning. We are the ubernerds.

I owe you all a Chicago: Week Three post, and I promise it's coming soon, but I was up til 4:45 am last night experiencing material to put in the Chicago: Week Three post and am running on an hour's sleep. I hit a wall about, oh, 40 minutes ago. I hit it hard, and it's going to leave a mark. I'm supposed to be drinking with Vicodin Jim for the 6th day in a row tonight, but I'm thinking a nap and an evening of beverages that don't contain alcohol is probably the more grown-up/healthy/non-inebretarded thing to do. Then again, a girl at a party I attended this weekend who had been living up the St. Pat's turn-the-river-green party all day came in and announced, "I puked twice today, but I rallied like a CHAMP and kept right on drinking!" so maybe I'm just being a wuss.

Reader Challenge!

My friends, your help is required. Cryptic over at Don't Feed The Monkeys and I are gearing up for a new holiday, Crab Legs and Cunnilingus Day, to be more colloquially known as CLC Day.

As we all know, having a quirky and memorable catch phrase is key to having your upstart oral-sex based holidays catch on in the mainstream. To that end, I've been brainstorming for something to use as a tag line. Something funny, perhaps a double entendre, a bit tongue-in-cheek, easily translatable to t-shirts, coffee mugs, greeting cards and bumper stickers. Here's what I've come up with:

• CLC Day - Open wide.
• CLC Day - Not quite finger food.
• CLC Day - Eat your heart out.
• CLC Day - Eat and be eaten.

People, I know we can do better than this. Send in your ideas now! If we like it, we will cut you in on our enormous imaginary profits, or at the very least, I promise to repeat the phrase over and over in my head when I'm playing in the bathtub (and if you're good I'll e-mail you regarding the results of that experiment).
Aaaaaannnnnd......Go!

Recipe For Fun

1 bathtub filled with steaming hot water
1 oz. strawberries and champagne scented bubble bath
1 jumbo bottle of Just Like Me water based lubricant
1 waterproof glitterific vibrator
4 AA batteries
1 CD of fuck music (alright, alright! It was Janet Jackson. So sue me.)
1 naked female

Combine all ingredients and stir vigorously. Repeat.

Serves one.

Asshat

I need to start using the word "asshat". I was perusing Best of Craigslist at lunch today and came across the word "asshat" about 80 times. I liked it every time. I'm going to use it from now on. Starting with you, asshat.

Today's Rant: Big City Irritations

Despite the fact that my job is a mass of unexplained chaos, and the fact that of the only two friends I have here (not counting my brother and nearly his entire fraternity), one now hates me and one keeps trying to kill himself, I really do enjoy life in the big city. I love that I take the train and having my very own el pass. I love that my office is in the Loop. I love almost getting run over by cabs every time I try to cross the street. I love giving people directions to my house that include the words "at 3400 North".

Having said that, there are some aspects of big city life I could definitely do without, to wit:

• People who talk too loud on the train. This morning's example comes from a girl I presume to be in college. She is talking, nay, screaming with someone about some concert tonight. "I DON'T KNOW THAT BAND. NO! I KNOW, I KNOW THE SONG, I JUST DON'T KNOW THE BAND. I DON'T KNOW IF I WANT TO GO SEE A BAND I DON'T KNOW. YEAH I KNOW....DER DER DER DER (serenades entire train with a half-humming, half-singing, entirely off-key rendering of some completely irrecognizable song) RIGHT, THAT SONG, I KNOW, I'M SAYING I DON'T KNOW THE BAND. WHAT? YEAH I'M ON THE TRAIN. I'M AT FULLERTON. (She's actually fully 5 stops north of Fullerton) I'M ON MY WAY TO SCHOOL. WELL, I DON'T KNOW MAYBE I'LL GO. WELL, I CAN'T TALK THAT LONG BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE THAT MANY MINUTES. YEAH, IT'S PREPAY. I DON'T KNOW I MIGHT. OK. OK. BYE-IE!" Thank God that's over. But no..."HI! OH NOOOO, ARE YOU SLEEEEEPING? I'M SO SORRY, I'M JUST CALLING TO SAY HI. BUT GO BACK TO SLEEP AND I'LL SAY HI LATER. HEHEHEHEHE (High pitched shriek that I think is meant as laughter) AWWW, THAT'S SOOOO CUUUUTE! NO. YEAH. I WAS JUST CALLING TO SAY HI, AND TO FIND OUT WHAT YOUR CLASS SCHEDULE IS? (states this in a voice that sounds like a question, even though it's not) WELL OK, GO BACK TO SLEEP THEN. ALRIGHTY. BYE-BYE!" Shut. The. Fuck. Up. You are on a train, a public train, where people who have just gotten up for work and are not happy about it are trying to commute in peace. If you "don't have that many minutes" why are you making a second call? I'm going to throw your phone into the fucking lake. Also, please don't EVER sing again.
• People trying to hand me stuff. What's the deal with this? I go out for a sandwich at lunch, and 57 people have to try to hand me some kind of pamphlet or flier or menu. I try to get on the el, and some dude is shoving a Red Eye in my face. Hi, do you see the book in my hand? That's what I'm reading today. It is not for hitting people over the head when they try to hand me something. Perhaps it should be. If I wanted to read the Red Eye this morning, I would have grabbed it out of the bin that is literally two feet from where you are standing. I have a book, a backpack, my purse and my el pass all in my hands. I don't have room for your newspaper or your socialist propaganda, or your crummy band's little advertisement or your Chokin' on a Chicken Wing lunch specials. And speaking of menus
• Coming home from work to find 89,000 menus in my mailbox, shoved between the slats on my stairs, rubber-banded to my railing, and taped to my front door. Is everyone else getting this? Or have they somehow figured out that I'm new? I really hope it's the latter, because the bulk of my trash is starting to be made up of menus for Chinese restaurants and pizza parlors. Do I maybe look too skinny? Maybe they're trying to put some meat on my bones. They can't all be new, there's just too many of them. Are they factoring the cost of all this door-to-door advertising into the price of my meal? I bet it's cheaper to eat somewhere where they're not chopping down an entire rain forest just to tell me that General Tso's chicken is $6.95 and comes with a spring roll. STOP IT. That is what the phone book is for. Geesh.

OK, rant complete.

Trial By Fire

My new job. Um, yes. It is my one week anniversary today. Go me. One week and I have no idea what is going on.

Training. I need training. I need training like a fat kid needs a bike. My replacement at the big H had 7 weeks of training with me. That is 35 business days of being joined to me at the hip. Me? I have had 6 hours of training. On a Saturday afternoon. Most of which went something like this: "Person X sucks. Stay as far away from person X as possible. See these boxes? (points to stack of boxes stacked haphazardly in the corner about 7 feet high) These are old things that should be moved off site. But don't move them off site, because I've left them there to piss off person Y. Person Y is a neat freak, and I have a personal vendetta against him. So just leave the boxes there. Our clients? They are annoying. Avoid talking to them as much as possible. Oh by the way, it's a giant secret that we do consulting. Don't tell anyone. Just market the mutual funds. Client X? They are invested in Sucky Fund I. Sucky Fund I sucks ass, but they won't sell it, because they've lost so much money. What? You want to recommend a search to replace Sucky Fund I? Don't bother. It sucks too badly for them to sell it. Did I mention Person X sucks? She'll try to get you to compliment her shoes. Don't do it. They are pilgrim shoes, and they're stupid. Let's get some lunch."

So, not real helpful. I tried to specifically ask for training on the software that I don't know, and the answer I got to that was "It's real easy, watch. (proceeds to go through some kind of process at lighting speed, with no verbal commentary as to what the fuck she's doing.) See? Easy." Um, thanks. Does anyone else here know how to do my job? No. I am the only analyst in the place. Is there a comprehensive client list somewhere? No. No such organized data exists. Is anyone interested in the fact that I have no clue what is going on? No. In one week I've been to 4 manager meetings, two manager conference calls, 4 sub-advisor conference calls, one custodian conference call, and three internal meetings. Today my boss said he was too busy to handle the conference calls with the other sub-advisors, could I do them myself? And also he's going to be out of town on Thursday, can I meet with Vanguard? They want to pitch us something. All of this stuff is what I ultimately want to be doing, but people, can I find out who the hell my clients even are first?

Some stuff is really cool here though. Like the fact that people just assume I am smart enough to make manager recommendations to clients all by myself. Oh, and the soap dispenser! The bathrooms here are all automated - automatic flusher, automatic faucet, that stuff I'm familiar with. But the soap dispenser, that's new to me. You put your hand under it and it squirts soapy goo out at you! I am fascinated with this. There is also quite a variety of teas to select from in the kitchen. Free tea. Free pop, free coffee, free Diet Snapple.

But I would sure like to know what is going on around here.

Chicago - Week Two

Week two of Amber's Chicago Adventure had mixed results. I lost my car, then I found it again. I had an evening out with Ms. Fabulous, which was in fact, quite fabulous (I had to take the post down due to Ms. Fabulous' concerns about who might come across it - despite that fact that her name is not in it, enough people know both of us to figure out who it is), but I was on death's door the entire next day suffering from my very first ever hangover. And I got laid on Saturday night, but lost my best friend in town over it.

This last point has been making me physically ill for days. I was distressed at the outset, and when I woke up this morning to a voicemail from my bartender telling me to stay out of his bar and his life, it got hundreds of times worse. And the worst part is, it truly is entirely my fault since I absolutely knew better and did it anyway.

The setup: I'm at Tai's by myself, waiting for Hutch and his entourage to show up and meet me there. I'd just finished listening to a hysterical story from the bartender about a crazy girl that went on their last trip to Vegas with them and was desperately trying to get some sex from a whole bunch of people who think she is gross and would never ever have sex with her. In walks Vicodin Jim with a couple of girls he knows and a new friend he'd only met the prior Wednesday. New Kid and I get to chatting. He tells me he's 22, has a degree in computer science, has a blog and is addicted to sex. I liked him immediately. We chatted amiably for a while, right up until he asked me how old I was. Now, I always always always go for the older guys. Right about 10 years my senior is the typical target. So despite the fact that New Kid is adorable, I had basically tuned him out as a prospective candidate at the word "22". Is that ageist? Probably. I don't care. I also am never on the lookout for someone to hook up with when I'm at Tai's because, while we never dated, there is a sort of unstated understanding that I'm the bartender's own little toy, and am off limits to everyone else as long as I'm on his turf. This is despite that fact that although he knows I have a ginormous crush on him, he has emphatically stated on numerous occasions that he could never date me for various reasons. But anyway, I'm not one to go prowling at Tai's for that reason.

I tell New Kid that I'm 27. His reaction to this is not remotely what I was expecting. He says he can't believe I am 27, and that in fact, the only reason he guessed I was as old as 21 was because I had to be at least that old to get in the bar. He then proceeds to tell me that I am incredibly hot, he wants to eat my pussy and can he kiss me right now? He has one arm around me and his hand resting on the edge of my skirt. What the hell? I've been drinking, I've been repeatedly shot down by the bartender and some adorable kid is gushing over me. So fine, I kiss him. He's really touchy-feely, and I'm kind of getting uncomfortable because I'm not generally one for the PDA's and I'm very cognizant of the fact that my bartender is feet away, as are a dozen people he works with who've seen us together, and I don't want to look like I'm trying to show him up.

The bartender...he's a fantastic bartender. One of the best I've ever seen. As such, he doesn't miss much. And while beer continues to appear in front of me before I even realize I need one, his attitude is suddenly slightly colder than usual in a way that is only perceptible to me. And I know why. But do I change what I'm doing? Noooooo, Amber has retreated into selfish get-me-some mode. New Kid wants to leave and go to my house. He keeps up a steady stream of suggestions as to what we can do when we get there that is doing much to win my attention. I grab my coat and head out the door with New Kid.

I am immediately and incessantly bombarded with text messages from the bartender for the rest of the night. They range in subject from "WEAR PROTECTION" to "I'VE LOST ANY RESPECT I HAD FOR YOU...IT IS GONE". But...I have a cute boy to corrupt and I figure I'll deal with the bartender in the morning.

Of course, when morning comes and I'm not drunk I immediately regret that decision. I know I'm in deep shit so I don't try to get a hold of him. Instead I sit down and start drafting a three page apology letter that I plan to leave for him on his car later that day. I figured he could read it, calm down a bit and we'd work it all out in a couple of days. That is, until I called Vicodin Jim.

Vicodin Jim had been in one of the best moods I'd ever seen him in on Saturday night. He was so cute...an accomplished punk rocker all dressed up like Eminem. But then the crazy ex-girlfriend - the one who shredded his rock opera - starts sending him text messages. I've never seen someone deflate so quickly in my entire life. He has now turned right back into the sulking, morose little punker I've come to know and love. He did not look so good when I left with New Kid, and I couldn't get him to talk about it. On my way out I admonished him not to do anything stupid and told him I'd call and check on him the next day.

So I call to check on him. He doesn't pick up. When his voicemail kicks in, I am treated to a half crying, half singing piece he had spontaneously written entitled "Goodbye Cruel World". I immediately text the bartender to say that I know he doesn't want to talk to me, but that I'm sure he's heard Jim's voicemail by now and can he call or text me if he hears something because I'm worried. I knew he'd be worried too, and he's known Jim much longer and therefore had a much better chance of finding him than I did.

I go to bed worried, not having heard from Jim or the bartender all night long. When I get up in the morning, there's a voicemail from the bartender. "First of all, Jim is ok, if you don't already know. So now that that's out of the way..." and then he launches into the most scathing tirade I have ever heard in my life. He went on and on until my voicemail finally cut him off. I was shaking listening to it. I've never heard anyone so angry in my entire life. There were also two text messages from him, which was I think the worst part of all. One reads "I HOPE IT WAS WORTH IT...YOU JUST LOST A LOT..YOU'LL NEVER KNOW HOW MUCH" and the other, simply "I HATE YOU."

So ok. I know that was wrong of me. Like really really wrong. Obviously it was not worth it - the greatest porn-star sex in the world is not worth losing a friendship with a truly beautiful person over. It was a dick thing to do. But I think I made an even bigger error in judgment earlier when he told me he didn't feel anything for me and didn't care what I did and I took him at his word. Because, I mean, that's a pretty strong reaction for someone who's gone out of his way to make sure I knew I wasn't all that important to him, don't you think?

Bottom line, I'm pretty sure there's no way I'm going to be able to fix this one and I just don't know what to do. So while I did have some good times in week two, I'm starting out week three from a giant hole. And also, where the hell am I going to drink now? What a mess...

An Evening Out With Ms. Fabulous

I've discovered a new joy as a result of my burgeoning alcoholism. For the first time ever in my life, I have a hangover. My head is aching. I am tired. I am starving, but I can't do anything about it because I am also nauseous. I want to sleep and I want to throw up, in no particular order.

This flat out fucking sucks. I mean, I am hurting here people. I don't deserve this hangover, it was not my idea to drink so much. This is what happens when you go out on the town with Ms. Fabulous.

Ms. Fabulous is another former employee of the number factory. She left last year to move to New York, which, being fabulous, is where she's belonged all along. Ms. Fabulous has a way of enchanting people when she talks to them. Get in a conversation with her and you will instantly start to believe that you are her best friend, that the conversation you are having is the most important conversation anyone has ever had, and that you desperately need to buy whatever it is she's trying to sell you. Her own personality is so vibrant and energetic and outgoing, you just can't help but to want to be around her. You can be completely turned off by her attitude, morals, politics, priorities, and agenda, but it doesn't matter. You will like her anyway. You have no choice. Oh, did I mention she is incredibly beautiful?

Ms. Fabulous had e-mailed me that she was going to be in Chicago on business, and did I want to get some dinner? Duh, of course I did. We made plans to hook up after a cocktail meeting she was having yesterday evening. When she called me, she was still cocktailing it, hadn't eaten, and was already 2 1/2 sheets to the wind. I drove downtown to the bar she was at to meet her. She was there drinking with her boss and we chatted for a while, until he left. At this point, Ms. Fabulous gave me the twinkle-eye and announced, "We are leaving this place, it is dead. We are going out on the town and we are going to find some boys and make out with them. We need to drink and make out with boys."

We get into the car and attempt to head to Rush Street. Except I don't have the faintest clue how to get there. Ms. Fabulous sort of does, but she's not really clear on it, plus she's drunk and trying to tell me a bunch of other stories at the same time. Therefore we drove around the city in circles for half an hour before we found what we were looking for. But I didn't lack for entertainment. Oh no, I did not. Ms. Fabulous kept up a running commentary for the duration of the trip. Here's some snippets:

"We could go to this one club, but I'm not talking to my friend who works there right now, because whenever I come and stay with her she gets mad that I always come home at 10 in the morning."

"I had this dream where I was having sex with this woman and it was the best sex of my life. I woke up thinking I have to find her. Really. Because if it's really that good, I might as well just ditch the boys altogether."

"I mean, come on, who HASN'T made out with random girls at a bar?"

"I stayed at that hotel once and I had this boy come up to my room and I just fucked the shit out of him. Done and done. It was a scene."

Obviously, we have many common interests.

We arrived at Oak and Rush and parked the car. As of this writing, that is the last time I saw my car. Alistair is either sitting right there waiting for me, or he's hanging out at the impound lot with the other cars who have drunks for owners. I plan to mount a rescue mission when I leave work today.

Stop One: Tavern on Rush. Ms. Fabulous assured me that the make the Best Mango Martinis there. So I had three. In the meantime, Ms. Fabulous immediately snagged a tall goofy looking guy. He guessed her age at 23 (she's 28). Her response to that was, "No honey, I'm not, but if I was we could go to my hotel and have a great time." She said this with one arm wrapped around his waist and the opposing hand stroking his chest. He was more than happy to pay for all our drinks. Unfortunately, Ms. Fabulous did such a number on him that his dorky ass started following us to the next bar (which I believe is called the Whiskey, but who can be sure?).

Stop Two: The Whiskey (potentially). Dork of York has followed us for two blocks, begging us to get in a cab with him and "go somewhere". We duck into the Whiskey (maybe). I am using the word "duck" literally, as she dragged me by the hand into the bar, down to the far end and crouched down on the ground behind 4 nice gentleman in suits, who were understandably intrigued. Once we were sure we had rid ourselves of Dork-o, we struck up a conversation with Ms. Fabulous' new targets. They all work for Smith Barney, one is originally from the west side of Cleveland (Westlake) and one had lived in Lakewood for three years (the suburb of Cleveland where we store all the trendy bars). The boys all took turns making out with Ms. Fabulous. But what they actually seemed more excited about were the times when none of them could make out with her because she was busy making out with me. Actually I was more interested in that myself. That and the "Will NHL hockey have a season next year?" debate I got into with one of the guys, who was quite taken with my ability to speak intelligently about sports. We smoked all their cigarettes (last time, Mary I swear. She made me do it...) and they put all of our pineapple martinis on their tab. I would have been happy to spend the whole of the evening chatting with them and making out with her, but they had a meeting in the morning (didn't we all?) so they begged off and headed for home. We headed for a club.

Stop three: Some club with a french sounding name that starts with "P". Several boys our age are milling around outside. The cover is $20. Ms. Fabulous announces she is NOT paying that. And of course, because she's Ms. Fabulous, some dude shells out $60 clams to get us all in. Now by this time I have had way too much alcohol, and I'm not feeling so hot. A nice gentleman from India named Vijay gallantly offers me his lap to lay down in. Ms. Fabulous is across the table sucking face with the guy we came in with. Vijay is trying to kiss me. I am trying to sleep and not throw up. Eventually, Vijay decides it's best if I go home, so he puts me in a cab. I went home, fell onto my bed and passed out with my boots on and my purse still on my shoulder.

Ms. Fabulous called from New York the next day. She had spent the morning throwing up between presentations, then threw up on the plane and in the cab basically the whole way home. The guy she had talked into paying our cover apparently wants to buy her the moon. He left her two messages to meet him at some jeweler at lunch because he wanted to buy her a diamond necklace, and he also wants her to travel to Australia with him in the Spring. She can't remember his name. She didn't seem at all phased by this; I think this kind of stuff happens to her all the time.

As for me...no more martinis. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go find Alistair and then hide in the trunk where it will be dark and quiet.

There is No One to Sleep With Here

My new company is small. Very small. Six people, one of which is me. It's a very relaxed atmosphere, what with there only being six people, and I'm enjoying it about as much as anyone can enjoy a brand new job when you have no idea what's going on or what you've gotten yourself into. Having said that, I have already discovered a major problem...there's no one to sleep with here.



I know what everyone is going to say, that it's a bad idea to get involved with people at work, it creates tension and interferes with efficiency and on and on and on. Yeah, well bull. It's simply not true. I've had co-worker flings at every company I've ever worked for except the last one, and it's never once come back to bite me in the ass (except when I specifically asked to be bitten on the ass).

But there are no prospects for workplace misbehavior here. Three of them are married, one is like 60 (even I have age limits) and one is single, nice and cute BUT not into girls. What oh what am I going to do? I have a new curved barbell for my navel with end caps that glow in the dark! How will I ever show it off if there isn't anyone to sleep with? And SBJ day is only 10 days away, who will I celebrate with? It's a major problem I tell you.

In other workplace news I Yahoo mapped the area and discovered there are 5 Starbucks within a 4 block radius of this office. Even from here I can tell that when Bianca reads this, she will be immediately jealous. In fact maybe I'll head out for a cup now, and hopefully meet someone on the way that I can sleep with...

Sometimes a Cigar is Just a Cigar

So a while back I posted about having reoccuring dreams about dropping my cell phone in the water. I couldn't figure out what my mind was trying to tell me in my sleep.

Apparently it was trying to tell me that I am a freakin klutz. I came home from Cap's last night with some blankets we had used for moving my furniture on Saturday. I opened the door to get them out, and when I did, my purse fell out onto the ground and submerged beneath an enormously deep puddle of water...with my brand new cell phone inside. Nice.

I took it inside and dried it off as best I could. It acted a little funny for a while, randomly telling me it was charging when it wasn't even plugged in and changing ring volume for no apparent reason. It seems ok now.

The moral of the story: if you repeatedly dream about dropping your cell phone in the water, keep a tight grip on it when you're anywhere near water.