Mrs. Sizemore: vicodin is WEIRD
just a psa
me: um....?
oh, from your tooth
Mrs. Sizemore: yeah
i thought i would be tough and not take it
but that lasted about 4 hours and then i caved
me: yes, my old roommate jim was a big fan of that particular weirdness. mixed with copious amounts of beer and goldschlager
Mrs. Sizemore: oh yikes
i do not want to mix with anything
me: he has a bit of a death wish
Mrs. Sizemore: i keep getting waves of this strange, swimmy feeling
also, i keep crying
me: from the vicodin? i guess that would explain jim's penchant for emo, emo eyeliner
******later******
Mrs. Sizemore: blaaah
i officially do not like vicodin
why anyone would use this recreationally is astounding
me: reality is for people who can't handle drugs
Mrs. Sizemore: side effects?
me: of reality? walls staying still, only seeing one of something, inanimate objects do not talk and/or stare at you, no imaginary limbs growing out of your abdomen or flesh melting off your hands, etc.
Mrs. Sizemore: hmm
those are all correct
the side effects of the vicodin are not as pleasant
i am dizzy and hot
and also i keep wanting to cry
me: i would definitely stay away from the Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance CDs then
Showing posts with label Vicodin Jim. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vicodin Jim. Show all posts
Friday, May 01, 2009
Thursday, September 29, 2005
The Right Way and the Wrong Way to Talk Smack
One of the more juvenile things that I love to do is to get in flame wars over the internet. Yes, I realize that this is very 7th grade of me but I DO NOT CARE. Because I think it's fun, and besides, I don't want to grow up, I'm a Toy'R'Us kid.
If you're going to talk smack on the internet, though (or really anywhere for that matter), there are some things you can do to avoid looking like a complete ass (or at least, slightly less of an ass than you already look like for engaging in this kind of behavior in the first place):
1. Attack the post, not the poster. Being outright mean to people just isn't nice. Also, responses like "Oh yeah? Well, you're ugly!" make you look really fucking stupid. (Thanks to Fish for articulating this point much more eloquently 3 months ago)
2. Be able to back up what you say. This doesn't mean be willing to punch someone in the face if they don't agree with you. It means that you need to have a solid argument before you start. For example, if you say "My cat is HUGE compared to yours" I shouldn't find that your cat is a quarter inch longer than mine when I measure them.
In case you are still unclear of the rules, I offer this example from MySpace bulletins posted today. The first, our "wrong way" example, is from Vicodin Jim, who fancies himself some sort of baseball fan:
Yeah!
My Friars took the NL West Division title.
What about the Cubs? Oh yeah. The Cubs suck. The Cubs suck a lot.
Padres baby, eat it Cubs fans.
While this is all true (the Padres DID win the NL West and the Cubs DO (sadly) suck), it implies in it's comparison that the Padres are a far better ballclub than the Cubs. As you will see from my well researched "right way" post, this implication is somewhat misleading:
Hmm, DO the Cubs suck?
Honestly, yes. Yes they do. They suck exactly two games more than the Padres suck.
As of this writing, the Cubs 4th place record is 77-81, while the Padres division clinching record is 79-79. It's not the Cubs fault that they don't play in the hands down worst division in all of baseball.
Speaking of a 79-79 record, when I do the math on that I come up with a division winner that is only a .500 ballclub. Wow, congratulations. That means all they have to do is win ALL FOUR of their remaining games in order to NOT earn the record for fewest wins for a division champion, set by the New York Mets way back in 1973.
Oh and what's this? Oh, they'll be playing the Cardinals in the first round of the playoffs? The St. Louis Cardinals with the best record in baseball, currently three games shy of having a 100 win season? Wow, I bet they're worried. *shiver*
That, my friends, is how it's done. Now if you'll excuse me, the bell is about to ring and I need to go to my locker and get my backpack.
If you're going to talk smack on the internet, though (or really anywhere for that matter), there are some things you can do to avoid looking like a complete ass (or at least, slightly less of an ass than you already look like for engaging in this kind of behavior in the first place):
1. Attack the post, not the poster. Being outright mean to people just isn't nice. Also, responses like "Oh yeah? Well, you're ugly!" make you look really fucking stupid. (Thanks to Fish for articulating this point much more eloquently 3 months ago)
2. Be able to back up what you say. This doesn't mean be willing to punch someone in the face if they don't agree with you. It means that you need to have a solid argument before you start. For example, if you say "My cat is HUGE compared to yours" I shouldn't find that your cat is a quarter inch longer than mine when I measure them.
In case you are still unclear of the rules, I offer this example from MySpace bulletins posted today. The first, our "wrong way" example, is from Vicodin Jim, who fancies himself some sort of baseball fan:
Yeah!
My Friars took the NL West Division title.
What about the Cubs? Oh yeah. The Cubs suck. The Cubs suck a lot.
Padres baby, eat it Cubs fans.
While this is all true (the Padres DID win the NL West and the Cubs DO (sadly) suck), it implies in it's comparison that the Padres are a far better ballclub than the Cubs. As you will see from my well researched "right way" post, this implication is somewhat misleading:
Hmm, DO the Cubs suck?
Honestly, yes. Yes they do. They suck exactly two games more than the Padres suck.
As of this writing, the Cubs 4th place record is 77-81, while the Padres division clinching record is 79-79. It's not the Cubs fault that they don't play in the hands down worst division in all of baseball.
Speaking of a 79-79 record, when I do the math on that I come up with a division winner that is only a .500 ballclub. Wow, congratulations. That means all they have to do is win ALL FOUR of their remaining games in order to NOT earn the record for fewest wins for a division champion, set by the New York Mets way back in 1973.
Oh and what's this? Oh, they'll be playing the Cardinals in the first round of the playoffs? The St. Louis Cardinals with the best record in baseball, currently three games shy of having a 100 win season? Wow, I bet they're worried. *shiver*
That, my friends, is how it's done. Now if you'll excuse me, the bell is about to ring and I need to go to my locker and get my backpack.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Sicko de Mayo
I have been sick all week long. This is the fault of PGS Joe, who breathed on my roommate, who in turn breathed on me. Wednesday night we pathetically sat on the couch together, eating chicken noodle soup and watching pathetically bad movies whilst going through an entire box of Kleenex. I creatively dubbed the evening "Misery loves company" and speculated on Hot Heather's possible reactions to finding both our dead bodies on the couch with Miss Congeniality playing in the background. Jim would have laughed, but his lungs hurt.
At any rate, I went to work on Thursday despite a fever and the shakes because I really have that much to do, and unlike the number factory, there are no other people here who can cover for me. As I lamented having to get up and attempt to be functional, Vicodin Jim was lamenting that he couldn't go out and party for Cinco de Mayo.
A word on Cinco de Mayo: Chicago, where Jim and I reside, is not in Mexico. If it were, it would make no difference, because they don't get nutty over this in Mexico like we do in America. The fact that we do merely proves to me that we are a country of drunks, and that alcoholism is the true national pastime. And I have absolutely NO PROBLEM with this whatsoever. I just don't need to make up holidays as an excuse to get drunk. I'm happy to get drunk any old time. So missing the festivities of Cinco de Mayo was not on my list of things to be crabby about while I rode the train to work Thursday morning with fire in my lungs.
After putting in a 9 hour day, I was looking forward to drinking that sweet elixur NyQuil and passing out indefinitely upon my arrival at home. Alas, it was not to be. Well, the drinking and the passing out was, just not the NyQuil.
I wearily climbed the stairs to my second floor abode, but could not enter due to a 6 foot tall human with a bottle of Jose in one hand and a shotglass in the other sitting in a chair with a pile of chewed up limes in front of it and a fresh box of tissues at his feet. This human would be my roommate Vicodin Jim. "I thought you were sick, " I wheezed. "What are you doing?"
"I am sick," he replied cheerily, "but I can't even tell now because I've had 10 shots of tequila and a whole bunch of beers. I'm not going to let being sick ruin my Cinco de Mayo! Holy shit! You look like death! I mean really, you're all pale! Are you ok? Heather, go make Amber some tea before she passes out. Do you want me to make you some tomato soup? Oh and Heather, could you cut up another lime and bring a beer for Amber too?"
It was true. I was pale and I did look like death. Because of this I protested Jim's plan. Tea was ok, beer not ok. Tea, NyQuil and my bed. That was the plan I was sticking to. Jim would have none of it. "No. Some tea to revive you, and then you're drinking with me. Now, go put on some sweatpants, get a shot glass and come back out here."
At what point, exactly, did I lose all instinct for self preservation and the ability to think for myself? I'd like to go back to that moment, if you please, and slap myself.
I got some comfy clothes, scrounged up my shot glass and trudged wearily back to the porch, where I found Heather with my fresh cup of tea, freshly cut up lime, and freshly opened bottle of Corona Light. Jim poured us each a shot, while Heather informed us that we were on our last lime. Let the debauchery begin.
Jim and I went through the final lime in the space of about 10 minutes. Being that Jim was drunk, Heather was tipsy, and I was on my way, we decided it would be best if we walked the 2 blocks to our local Jewel to replenish our limes. By the way, shopping when drunk is worse than shopping when hungry. Erring on the side of caution we bought no less than 14 limes. Additionally, the spirit of the holiday hit Jim as we were leaving the store, when he attempted to get into some fisticuffs with a little Mexican kid standing outside.
After Heather and I dragged him home, we settled in on the porch. Things escalated quickly. Here is what I remember: 3 beers, 6 shots of tequila, hiding Jim's phone to prevent him from sending drunk text messages to his ex, eating chex mix, and waking up in my bed when my alarm went off at 6 the next morning.
I was confused. How did I get here? I don't remember walking here. Did I walk here? How do I feel? I'm not hung over. Am I still sick? Yeah kinda. But seriously, how did I get here? Another mystery: as I showered I discovered two HUGE bruises; one on each kneecap. Hmmm...
Heather filled in the blanks later. She estimates 10 or 12 shots of tequila were consumed by me, and approximately 25 by Jim. It seems I also drank a few more beers. We were, I am told, visited at some point by our friends the Smash and VonDouche. I have exactly zero recollection of seeing these people. My trip to my bedroom consisted of Jim hauling me to my feet and Heather walking me there. The tequila was emptied. Most of the limes were destroyed. I did not, it seems, do anything untoward, such as fall down the stairs or try to suck anyone's dick, which is good I suppose, but does little to explain the bruises on my knees. I may never know the story of that.
The moral of the story is...well, there really are no morals in this story. But what I learned was sickness needn't prevent you from getting pissed on fake holidays, tequila seems to have the ability to wipe out my memory and if I'm going to be drinking it, it's best to be at home amongst caring and helpful roommates and not out and about, because who knows how many people/canines/fire hydrants I would have tried to sleep with and/or beat up on my way home?
But I would really like to know what happened to my knees.
At any rate, I went to work on Thursday despite a fever and the shakes because I really have that much to do, and unlike the number factory, there are no other people here who can cover for me. As I lamented having to get up and attempt to be functional, Vicodin Jim was lamenting that he couldn't go out and party for Cinco de Mayo.
A word on Cinco de Mayo: Chicago, where Jim and I reside, is not in Mexico. If it were, it would make no difference, because they don't get nutty over this in Mexico like we do in America. The fact that we do merely proves to me that we are a country of drunks, and that alcoholism is the true national pastime. And I have absolutely NO PROBLEM with this whatsoever. I just don't need to make up holidays as an excuse to get drunk. I'm happy to get drunk any old time. So missing the festivities of Cinco de Mayo was not on my list of things to be crabby about while I rode the train to work Thursday morning with fire in my lungs.
After putting in a 9 hour day, I was looking forward to drinking that sweet elixur NyQuil and passing out indefinitely upon my arrival at home. Alas, it was not to be. Well, the drinking and the passing out was, just not the NyQuil.
I wearily climbed the stairs to my second floor abode, but could not enter due to a 6 foot tall human with a bottle of Jose in one hand and a shotglass in the other sitting in a chair with a pile of chewed up limes in front of it and a fresh box of tissues at his feet. This human would be my roommate Vicodin Jim. "I thought you were sick, " I wheezed. "What are you doing?"
"I am sick," he replied cheerily, "but I can't even tell now because I've had 10 shots of tequila and a whole bunch of beers. I'm not going to let being sick ruin my Cinco de Mayo! Holy shit! You look like death! I mean really, you're all pale! Are you ok? Heather, go make Amber some tea before she passes out. Do you want me to make you some tomato soup? Oh and Heather, could you cut up another lime and bring a beer for Amber too?"
It was true. I was pale and I did look like death. Because of this I protested Jim's plan. Tea was ok, beer not ok. Tea, NyQuil and my bed. That was the plan I was sticking to. Jim would have none of it. "No. Some tea to revive you, and then you're drinking with me. Now, go put on some sweatpants, get a shot glass and come back out here."
At what point, exactly, did I lose all instinct for self preservation and the ability to think for myself? I'd like to go back to that moment, if you please, and slap myself.
I got some comfy clothes, scrounged up my shot glass and trudged wearily back to the porch, where I found Heather with my fresh cup of tea, freshly cut up lime, and freshly opened bottle of Corona Light. Jim poured us each a shot, while Heather informed us that we were on our last lime. Let the debauchery begin.
Jim and I went through the final lime in the space of about 10 minutes. Being that Jim was drunk, Heather was tipsy, and I was on my way, we decided it would be best if we walked the 2 blocks to our local Jewel to replenish our limes. By the way, shopping when drunk is worse than shopping when hungry. Erring on the side of caution we bought no less than 14 limes. Additionally, the spirit of the holiday hit Jim as we were leaving the store, when he attempted to get into some fisticuffs with a little Mexican kid standing outside.
After Heather and I dragged him home, we settled in on the porch. Things escalated quickly. Here is what I remember: 3 beers, 6 shots of tequila, hiding Jim's phone to prevent him from sending drunk text messages to his ex, eating chex mix, and waking up in my bed when my alarm went off at 6 the next morning.
I was confused. How did I get here? I don't remember walking here. Did I walk here? How do I feel? I'm not hung over. Am I still sick? Yeah kinda. But seriously, how did I get here? Another mystery: as I showered I discovered two HUGE bruises; one on each kneecap. Hmmm...
Heather filled in the blanks later. She estimates 10 or 12 shots of tequila were consumed by me, and approximately 25 by Jim. It seems I also drank a few more beers. We were, I am told, visited at some point by our friends the Smash and VonDouche. I have exactly zero recollection of seeing these people. My trip to my bedroom consisted of Jim hauling me to my feet and Heather walking me there. The tequila was emptied. Most of the limes were destroyed. I did not, it seems, do anything untoward, such as fall down the stairs or try to suck anyone's dick, which is good I suppose, but does little to explain the bruises on my knees. I may never know the story of that.
The moral of the story is...well, there really are no morals in this story. But what I learned was sickness needn't prevent you from getting pissed on fake holidays, tequila seems to have the ability to wipe out my memory and if I'm going to be drinking it, it's best to be at home amongst caring and helpful roommates and not out and about, because who knows how many people/canines/fire hydrants I would have tried to sleep with and/or beat up on my way home?
But I would really like to know what happened to my knees.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Aren't We (all) Pretty?
An associate from our parent company who shares office space with us stopped by my cube for a chat yesterday. In my cube hanging on my wall/tackboard is this picture of me, Hot Heather and Vicodin Jim from a show Jim played a few weeks ago: 
.My associate asked about the photo and I told him it was my roommate and his girlfriend and that, yes, he does look scary, but he's really a very nice guy. G leaned in for a closer look and said, "Wait a minute. Is he wearing....eyeliner?"
Hot Heather laughed when I told them the story. Jim...did not.
.My associate asked about the photo and I told him it was my roommate and his girlfriend and that, yes, he does look scary, but he's really a very nice guy. G leaned in for a closer look and said, "Wait a minute. Is he wearing....eyeliner?"
Hot Heather laughed when I told them the story. Jim...did not.
Serendipity
I first saw her at the Jewel on Western on Friday night. Jim, Heather and I were having Slumber Party Night, and Jim and I were stocking up on greasy, fattening snacks. She came walking up the candy isle as we were walking down it, a vision of sadness and beauty: tall goth chick with short black hair, except for her bangs, which were magenta. A long black trench coat. Lime green leather gloves with the fingertips cut out. The biggest, soulful brown eyes I have even seen, framed by the longest eyelashes in existence. I may have imagined it, but I swear she was being followed by a heavenly light shining down upon her. As she glanced our way, I silently cursed my decision to leave the house in my Mickey Mouse pajamas in an attempt to amuse myself and my roommate.
"I saw her first!" Jim hissed at me after she had walked past.
"You have a girlfriend!" I hissed back savagely.
Jim thought this over. "Damn you!" he finally decided.
I told the bartender about her the next day. "She was perfect! Jim tried to steal her from me but I pointed out that he had Heather."
"Kick ass. Did you talk to her?"
"____________...."
"You're stupid, Amber."
"Shut up. Besides I was in my pajamas."
And then I went about my life.
Imagine my surprise when I happened to glance up from the book I was reading on the train on my way home last night and saw magenta bangs and lime green leather gloves sitting on the seat directly in front of me. It is fate. Fate I tell you! She will be mine and we will live happily ever after, or sadly ever after 'cause, I mean, she's a goth chick. I sent a text to Jim: "You will not BELIEVE who is sitting right in front of me on the train."
He called me back. "Who?"
"Goth chick from Jewel," I tried to whisper, though probably screamed. As I say this, she gets up and walks to the door of the train.
"NO! You should get her digits," he says, as I watch the doors open and she gets off at, presumably, her stop. "Did you talk to her?"
____________.
I hate being stupid.
"I saw her first!" Jim hissed at me after she had walked past.
"You have a girlfriend!" I hissed back savagely.
Jim thought this over. "Damn you!" he finally decided.
I told the bartender about her the next day. "She was perfect! Jim tried to steal her from me but I pointed out that he had Heather."
"Kick ass. Did you talk to her?"
"____________...."
"You're stupid, Amber."
"Shut up. Besides I was in my pajamas."
And then I went about my life.
Imagine my surprise when I happened to glance up from the book I was reading on the train on my way home last night and saw magenta bangs and lime green leather gloves sitting on the seat directly in front of me. It is fate. Fate I tell you! She will be mine and we will live happily ever after, or sadly ever after 'cause, I mean, she's a goth chick. I sent a text to Jim: "You will not BELIEVE who is sitting right in front of me on the train."
He called me back. "Who?"
"Goth chick from Jewel," I tried to whisper, though probably screamed. As I say this, she gets up and walks to the door of the train.
"NO! You should get her digits," he says, as I watch the doors open and she gets off at, presumably, her stop. "Did you talk to her?"
____________.
I hate being stupid.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Ruining All The Kids' Fun
"tag your [sic] it" read the message from Hot Heather. The dinging of my phone had interrupted my leisurely reading of The Restaurant at the End of the Universe. I don't have a lot of leisure time during this season at work. But I carved out a little yesterday, Jim wasn't home and I was trying to enjoy it. I was not interested in playing tag or anything else. It was supposed to be just me and my book.
"Tag, you're strange..." I sent back. I went back to my book. The universe was about to end, I didn't want to miss it. I read for a few minutes.
DING! said my phone.
"we're playing tag...you have to tag someone ELSE"
I don't want to tag someone else. I want to read my book while I still can.
"But it's bizarre" I send back. I pick up my book again.
DING! "So?"
I sighed. Clearly she wasn't going to go away until I went along with her game.
"Fine. I'll go tag Jim since he's the only other person I know..."
I text Jim: "Apparently we're playing tag, which means you are it."
There. That takes care of that. I snuggle deeper into the couch and open my book.
DING!
I throw my book across the room. What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Want????
It's Jim. "You didnt call no tag backs you're it!"
I clench my jaw. Lucky for them they're in the suburbs, otherwise I'd hunt them down and beat them. I'm smart so I get an idea that I think will make them go away.
I text them both simultaneously: "You are both insane. I will now stay it and tag you later in person when you least expect it...MUAHAHAHAHAHA!"
I smile to myself. That's gonna piss them off for sure. I hold all the cards. No one can tag me if I'm it. I can read my book in peace. Damn kids.
Hot Heather sees her dilemma and tries one last time: "Tag Nick..." with his number.
I'm giggling now.
"No. I'm it. Which makes me important. So there." I hit send with a look of smug satisfaction on my face.
Ten whole minutes pass. Then...
DING! It's Hot Heather. "FINE THEN!"
I did read for quite a while after that, but I kept imagining the pouty look she must have had on her face when she sent me that.
How fucking bored do you have to be to play text message tag anyway? Asshats.
"Tag, you're strange..." I sent back. I went back to my book. The universe was about to end, I didn't want to miss it. I read for a few minutes.
DING! said my phone.
"we're playing tag...you have to tag someone ELSE"
I don't want to tag someone else. I want to read my book while I still can.
"But it's bizarre" I send back. I pick up my book again.
DING! "So?"
I sighed. Clearly she wasn't going to go away until I went along with her game.
"Fine. I'll go tag Jim since he's the only other person I know..."
I text Jim: "Apparently we're playing tag, which means you are it."
There. That takes care of that. I snuggle deeper into the couch and open my book.
DING!
I throw my book across the room. What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Want????
It's Jim. "You didnt call no tag backs you're it!"
I clench my jaw. Lucky for them they're in the suburbs, otherwise I'd hunt them down and beat them. I'm smart so I get an idea that I think will make them go away.
I text them both simultaneously: "You are both insane. I will now stay it and tag you later in person when you least expect it...MUAHAHAHAHAHA!"
I smile to myself. That's gonna piss them off for sure. I hold all the cards. No one can tag me if I'm it. I can read my book in peace. Damn kids.
Hot Heather sees her dilemma and tries one last time: "Tag Nick..." with his number.
I'm giggling now.
"No. I'm it. Which makes me important. So there." I hit send with a look of smug satisfaction on my face.
Ten whole minutes pass. Then...
DING! It's Hot Heather. "FINE THEN!"
I did read for quite a while after that, but I kept imagining the pouty look she must have had on her face when she sent me that.
How fucking bored do you have to be to play text message tag anyway? Asshats.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Career Change
I'm bored. I'm bored of doing math. Don't get me wrong - I love the dynamics of statistics; between you and me, it's secretly the main reason why I like baseball so much. But baseball is a 6 month affair. Investment analysis goes on all year round.
Part of my professional dissatisfaction is due to the fairly close proximity of Vicodin Jim. The rock star life looks pretty attractive from the outside. Keep basically any hours you damn well please. Win affection rather than a meeting with the HR manager for dressing up like a complete freak. Actual "work" consists of practice (basically a big jam session), promotions (talking about yourself), and shows (people clapping for you and trying to talk to you/get your autograph/sleep with you). Granted, I have much nicer stuff than he has, but the accumulation of stuff is not one of my larger goals.
I don't want to be a rock star myself per se; what I want is to get paid to do something I would be doing anyway. I've come up with a few possibilities, as outlined below:
Professional Den Mother - Organizes activities, prepares snacks and desserts to be served during or after activities, drives small groups around to activity destinations. Can serves both groups of children and groups of adults.
Qualifications: Creativity; the ability to both cook and bake well; vehicle ownership; an aggressive mothering complex; an overwhelming desire to please other people, often at the expense of my own happiness and/or sanity.
Barriers to Entry: Real mothers who choose to fill this role for free. Broke rock stars will have difficulty paying for these services.
Professional Wry Observationalist - Observes human behavior and comments on it. Commentary should be geared towards, but is not limited to: stupid people, stupid behavior, social ironies and the very very obvious.
Qualifications: Ability to find some type of ineptitude in most people; disdain for society in general; a willingness to spend a great deal of time in bars; above average sarcasm.
Barriers to entry: Ragging on others does not generally imbue them with a desire to give you money.
Male to Female/Female to Male Translator - Translates ambiguous and sometimes not-so-ambiguous phrases from their original gender to the opposite. Some examples would be "It's not you, it's me", "I'll call you later", and "I love you".
Qualifications: Status as an anatomical female; a reputation for "thinking like a guy".
Barriers to entry: No offense, but sometimes I just don't get any of you people.
Professional Procrastinator - eh I'll finish this one later.
Part of my professional dissatisfaction is due to the fairly close proximity of Vicodin Jim. The rock star life looks pretty attractive from the outside. Keep basically any hours you damn well please. Win affection rather than a meeting with the HR manager for dressing up like a complete freak. Actual "work" consists of practice (basically a big jam session), promotions (talking about yourself), and shows (people clapping for you and trying to talk to you/get your autograph/sleep with you). Granted, I have much nicer stuff than he has, but the accumulation of stuff is not one of my larger goals.
I don't want to be a rock star myself per se; what I want is to get paid to do something I would be doing anyway. I've come up with a few possibilities, as outlined below:
Professional Den Mother - Organizes activities, prepares snacks and desserts to be served during or after activities, drives small groups around to activity destinations. Can serves both groups of children and groups of adults.
Qualifications: Creativity; the ability to both cook and bake well; vehicle ownership; an aggressive mothering complex; an overwhelming desire to please other people, often at the expense of my own happiness and/or sanity.
Barriers to Entry: Real mothers who choose to fill this role for free. Broke rock stars will have difficulty paying for these services.
Professional Wry Observationalist - Observes human behavior and comments on it. Commentary should be geared towards, but is not limited to: stupid people, stupid behavior, social ironies and the very very obvious.
Qualifications: Ability to find some type of ineptitude in most people; disdain for society in general; a willingness to spend a great deal of time in bars; above average sarcasm.
Barriers to entry: Ragging on others does not generally imbue them with a desire to give you money.
Male to Female/Female to Male Translator - Translates ambiguous and sometimes not-so-ambiguous phrases from their original gender to the opposite. Some examples would be "It's not you, it's me", "I'll call you later", and "I love you".
Qualifications: Status as an anatomical female; a reputation for "thinking like a guy".
Barriers to entry: No offense, but sometimes I just don't get any of you people.
Professional Procrastinator - eh I'll finish this one later.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Friday, April 08, 2005
That's What I get For Tempting Fate
I should not have written either of these lines yesterday:
“I like to come home and know that no one will be having an impromptu party despite the fact that they know I have to get up at 4 am the next day.”
and
“I can’t wait to find out what awaits me when I get home today!”
Karma can be a mother fucking whore.
I stopped for a couple of drinks at Tai’s, a trip which has its own set of bizarre stories (remind me if I forget: Holdup at the Citgo, the bartender’s new lecture series “What not to do if you want to score with chicks”, Brawlin’ at the Bar: Drunk Chicks vs. Arrogant Pricks).
Being a person of the grown-up persuasion, I had to work in the morning, so I said goodnight to the bartender and headed for the serenity of home and sleep.
I walked up the stairs and was about to put the key in the lock, when I realized there was a loud buzz coming from inside my apartment. “Huh,” I thought to myself, “What could Vicodin Jim be doing in there? Installing florescent lighting?” I shrugged and entered.
I walked into the living room…and stopped dead in my tracks.
On the couch, cuddled up like two lovebirds, were Hot Heather and her little girlfriend. I will call her Hot Chef Girl (she’s in culinary school). They looked cozy, spooning there under a pink fuzzy blanket (which belongs to Jim) and watching Trainspotting. My coffee table was littered with empty wrappers and cups from Burger King. Also scattered about the table were packs of cigarettes, some lighters, half a dozen half-empty glasses of Kool-Aid and assorted cell phones. My lounge chair was blocking the entrance to my bedroom. Shoes and jackets were scattered about the floor.
Jim was sitting in one of my dining room chairs, which he had pulled into the living room. Beside him was a fold-out card table that I didn’t recognize, containing some tools unfamiliar to me, a huge box of latex gloves, and a few rags. I cast about for the source of the incessant buzzing.
Directly behind Jim in another of my dining room chairs sat a scruffy looking boy I did not recognize. Beside him on the floor sat a sharps container. Jim’s right arm was extended out behind him, and was resting on a little stand, which the scruffy boy was hunched over, peering at it in what appeared to be great concentration. The buzzing sound seemed to be coming from his general direction.
As it turns out, Jim was not installing florescent lighting – the scruffy boy was installing ink into Jim’s elbow.
Jim acts as if this were all perfectly normal. “Where’d you go? Tai’s?” he asked me with a patronizing smile. “I wish you wouldn’t go there anymore,” he continued in his best benevolent tone of voice. “He’s just going to do something to make you cry again, and I don’t want him upsetting you anymore. He’s not good enough for you anyway.”
He is referring to the bartender. I find this entire lecture about my being upset to be very odd, given that it was coming from the mouth of someone who had invited a stranger to set up a tattoo parlor in my living room without telling me.
I attempted to maneuver through the obstacle course that has overtaken my home and get to my kitchen. There I found a sink full of dishes, an empty box of Girl Scout cookies and the remnants of the last of my Texas toast. Defeated, I went back to the living room and flopped down in my lounge chair. Figuring there was nothing to be done about it, I decided that I too should pretend there was nothing amiss and did my best to watch Trainspotting in lieu of strangling Jim.
Hot Heather turned toward me. “You’re out of sugar.”
“Oh?”
Heather shrugged. “I had to make Kool-Aid.” Yes, cherry Kool-Aid is a necessity in a living room tattoo parlor. I looked at the glasses of Kool-Aid dregs. There were far more glasses than people. This means one of two things:
1. There were far more people in my house earlier than the ones I see now. If this is the case, I don’t want to know because I will be livid.
2. These non-dishwashing children feel the need to have a fresh glass every single time they pour a drink. If this is the case, I don’t want to know because I will be exasperated.
I address Heather. “So what you’re telling me is, I’m out of sugar AND Kool-Aid. Is that correct?”
“Um, yes.”
I don’t respond to this. My head turns at a flash of motion on the other side of me. Kristen has opened my bedroom door a crack at the sound of my voice, and has poked only her nose out into the room to try and find me. “Did you guys lock her in there or did she do that herself?”
“She must have done that. We haven’t seen her all day”. All day? You’ve been here all day?
I give up on the genius brigade and climb into my bed. Ahh, sweet rest.
But no.
Through the door I hear ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ from the tattooing as loudly as if scruffy kid had been drawing a thorny rose tattoo on my ear drum. It’s like Chinese water torture. Kristen and I stare at each other, dismayed and wide awake, until Jim’s new body art is completed. This momentous event finally occurs at 3:30 in the mother fucking morning. By the time they close up shop, retrieve their belongings from the places they had thrown them, admire Jim’s arm for 10 minutes, dance a reel, and leave, it is 4. Wisely, Jim decided to go home with Heather, thus preventing his bloody early demise at the hands of his completely frayed roommate. I need to get up at 6. I can’t go to sleep or I’ll never get up, so I text the bartender and tell him to call on his way home so that I’m forced to stay awake. As of this writing I have been fully conscious for the last 36 hours and 14 minutes.
I will not be including any flippant remarks about what might be going on at my house today in this post. Clearly that’s just asking for it.
“I like to come home and know that no one will be having an impromptu party despite the fact that they know I have to get up at 4 am the next day.”
and
“I can’t wait to find out what awaits me when I get home today!”
Karma can be a mother fucking whore.
I stopped for a couple of drinks at Tai’s, a trip which has its own set of bizarre stories (remind me if I forget: Holdup at the Citgo, the bartender’s new lecture series “What not to do if you want to score with chicks”, Brawlin’ at the Bar: Drunk Chicks vs. Arrogant Pricks).
Being a person of the grown-up persuasion, I had to work in the morning, so I said goodnight to the bartender and headed for the serenity of home and sleep.
I walked up the stairs and was about to put the key in the lock, when I realized there was a loud buzz coming from inside my apartment. “Huh,” I thought to myself, “What could Vicodin Jim be doing in there? Installing florescent lighting?” I shrugged and entered.
I walked into the living room…and stopped dead in my tracks.
On the couch, cuddled up like two lovebirds, were Hot Heather and her little girlfriend. I will call her Hot Chef Girl (she’s in culinary school). They looked cozy, spooning there under a pink fuzzy blanket (which belongs to Jim) and watching Trainspotting. My coffee table was littered with empty wrappers and cups from Burger King. Also scattered about the table were packs of cigarettes, some lighters, half a dozen half-empty glasses of Kool-Aid and assorted cell phones. My lounge chair was blocking the entrance to my bedroom. Shoes and jackets were scattered about the floor.
Jim was sitting in one of my dining room chairs, which he had pulled into the living room. Beside him was a fold-out card table that I didn’t recognize, containing some tools unfamiliar to me, a huge box of latex gloves, and a few rags. I cast about for the source of the incessant buzzing.
Directly behind Jim in another of my dining room chairs sat a scruffy looking boy I did not recognize. Beside him on the floor sat a sharps container. Jim’s right arm was extended out behind him, and was resting on a little stand, which the scruffy boy was hunched over, peering at it in what appeared to be great concentration. The buzzing sound seemed to be coming from his general direction.
As it turns out, Jim was not installing florescent lighting – the scruffy boy was installing ink into Jim’s elbow.
Jim acts as if this were all perfectly normal. “Where’d you go? Tai’s?” he asked me with a patronizing smile. “I wish you wouldn’t go there anymore,” he continued in his best benevolent tone of voice. “He’s just going to do something to make you cry again, and I don’t want him upsetting you anymore. He’s not good enough for you anyway.”
He is referring to the bartender. I find this entire lecture about my being upset to be very odd, given that it was coming from the mouth of someone who had invited a stranger to set up a tattoo parlor in my living room without telling me.
I attempted to maneuver through the obstacle course that has overtaken my home and get to my kitchen. There I found a sink full of dishes, an empty box of Girl Scout cookies and the remnants of the last of my Texas toast. Defeated, I went back to the living room and flopped down in my lounge chair. Figuring there was nothing to be done about it, I decided that I too should pretend there was nothing amiss and did my best to watch Trainspotting in lieu of strangling Jim.
Hot Heather turned toward me. “You’re out of sugar.”
“Oh?”
Heather shrugged. “I had to make Kool-Aid.” Yes, cherry Kool-Aid is a necessity in a living room tattoo parlor. I looked at the glasses of Kool-Aid dregs. There were far more glasses than people. This means one of two things:
1. There were far more people in my house earlier than the ones I see now. If this is the case, I don’t want to know because I will be livid.
2. These non-dishwashing children feel the need to have a fresh glass every single time they pour a drink. If this is the case, I don’t want to know because I will be exasperated.
I address Heather. “So what you’re telling me is, I’m out of sugar AND Kool-Aid. Is that correct?”
“Um, yes.”
I don’t respond to this. My head turns at a flash of motion on the other side of me. Kristen has opened my bedroom door a crack at the sound of my voice, and has poked only her nose out into the room to try and find me. “Did you guys lock her in there or did she do that herself?”
“She must have done that. We haven’t seen her all day”. All day? You’ve been here all day?
I give up on the genius brigade and climb into my bed. Ahh, sweet rest.
But no.
Through the door I hear ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ from the tattooing as loudly as if scruffy kid had been drawing a thorny rose tattoo on my ear drum. It’s like Chinese water torture. Kristen and I stare at each other, dismayed and wide awake, until Jim’s new body art is completed. This momentous event finally occurs at 3:30 in the mother fucking morning. By the time they close up shop, retrieve their belongings from the places they had thrown them, admire Jim’s arm for 10 minutes, dance a reel, and leave, it is 4. Wisely, Jim decided to go home with Heather, thus preventing his bloody early demise at the hands of his completely frayed roommate. I need to get up at 6. I can’t go to sleep or I’ll never get up, so I text the bartender and tell him to call on his way home so that I’m forced to stay awake. As of this writing I have been fully conscious for the last 36 hours and 14 minutes.
I will not be including any flippant remarks about what might be going on at my house today in this post. Clearly that’s just asking for it.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
My Chemical Roommate
Two nights ago, I had a terrible headache of the please-I'm-begging-you-to-stab-me-through-the-ear-with-some-scissors-and-put-me-out-of-my-misery variety. After some Excedrin and a nap, I felt much better, and decided to further sooth myself by painting one of my bedroom walls (home improvement is my favorite hobby). I'm happily painting away, all dressed up in my painting pants (I deliberately spill paint on them from every room I've ever painted, like so many brightly colored memories. Also I'm a big klutz.) My cell phone rings and I see that Hot Heather is calling. "Are you at home?"
"Indeed."
"Then why aren't you answering your door?"
I must have been in the painting zone or something, because sure enough, I opened the door to find Hot Heather and Vicodin Jim standing on my porch. They had brought with them a laundry bag full of clean clothes, a bunch of spiked belts (punk-rock kid wardrobe staple, you must own at least 6 and wear at least half of them at once), a box of girly, fruity toiletries, another box full of shoes, and some DVDs. I was perplexed. "Is it my birthday? Or have you two finally decided you can't be seen with the preppy girl in public, and brought me some punk clothes so I can play dress up?"
"I'm moving in," Jim announced.
Queue headache rebound.
OK, it wasn't as big of a surprise as I'm making it out to be. Jim has been complaining more and more often about the antics of Jimmy O (et al.), the condition of his apartment (squalor) and the status of his material possessions (missing). He peppers these laments with little comments like these: "I'm getting out of there, by hook or by crook." "I should just crash over here." "This storage room you have is pretty big." "I love your neighborhood." and my personal favorite: "You're my best friend." All of this is designed to manipulate me into thinking that I want to have a roommate, and that said roommate should be Jim.
Amber and roommates don’t go well together. Ask Heather – she’ll remember my wacky college roommate experiences. I’ve proven this to myself over and over again. I like peace. I like quiet. I like my stuff to be where I left it. I like to walk from the bathroom to my room without any clothes after I shower. I like to come home and know that no one will be having an impromptu party despite the fact that they know I have to get up at 4 am the next day. Roommates are not conducive to these desires.
Unfortunately, I also have two huge personality defects: a mothering complex and an inability to tell people no. So there is Vicodin Jim, standing on my doorstep with his clothes in a bag, deliberately trying to look pathetic. My poor little friend. Trapped in a filthy apartment in a shitty neighborhood with a cokehead roommate and no heat or stove because the landlord won’t pay to have the gas line to the house fixed. Giving me puppy dog eyes and the ever-persuasive but always fictional promise: “Just for a while until I find a place…”
With a deep sense of foreboding I reply, “Can I help you carry anything?” I am Amber, Captain of the Idiots, and he is Jim of Borg. That is, resistance is indeed futile.
Yesterday, he is singing to himself gleefully when I get home. He’s cleaned out my storage room and shoved most of my stuff in the attic. The bathroom smells like apples or something. I find him piling crap into my medicine cabinet and talking to either me or himself, I’m still not sure. “Strawberry body wash…. razorblades ….make up bag….nail polish…”
“WHAT??? Is this Heather’s crap or something?”
(Indignantly) “NO, it’s MINE. I have to have nail polish for shows, so that I look bad-ass. And I’m wearing black eyeliner and black mascara every day now, ‘cause it makes me look all goth.”
“Fine. But strawberry body wash? I don’t even have shit like that.”
“Why shouldn’t I get to smell nice just because I’m a guy? Huh? HUH? Now, let’s see…deodorant…body spritz…”
I shake my head sadly and go to my room to change. I’m standing in my bra with my skirt unzipped before I realize, oh yeah, I have to shut the fucking door now. Thankfully Jim is still unloading his Channel No. 5 or whatever the fuck he’s “spritzing” himself with.
Five minutes later, I’m in the kitchen looking for something to drink before I go out and run some errands. I notice that I am missing both the half gallon of milk and the carton of orange juice that were in there when I left that morning. I also notice half a pizza in my fridge. I check the freezer. Just as I suspected – he’s eaten my drunk pizza. He yells from inside the bathroom (6 feet away) “Hey, let’s go get some dinner!” Oh yes, lets. Dinner of course means “let’s eat somewhere expensive and then stop by my old house and pick up more of my crap and then have Heather come over and bring Napoleon Dynamite and whine until you agree to stay up all friggin night and watch it”. In 24 hours, I am already going insane.
The good news is that I KNOW this will lead to some excellently funny posts, probably almost daily. My loss is your gain, people. I can’t wait to find out what awaits me when I get home today!
Seriously though, body spritz?
"Indeed."
"Then why aren't you answering your door?"
I must have been in the painting zone or something, because sure enough, I opened the door to find Hot Heather and Vicodin Jim standing on my porch. They had brought with them a laundry bag full of clean clothes, a bunch of spiked belts (punk-rock kid wardrobe staple, you must own at least 6 and wear at least half of them at once), a box of girly, fruity toiletries, another box full of shoes, and some DVDs. I was perplexed. "Is it my birthday? Or have you two finally decided you can't be seen with the preppy girl in public, and brought me some punk clothes so I can play dress up?"
"I'm moving in," Jim announced.
Queue headache rebound.
OK, it wasn't as big of a surprise as I'm making it out to be. Jim has been complaining more and more often about the antics of Jimmy O (et al.), the condition of his apartment (squalor) and the status of his material possessions (missing). He peppers these laments with little comments like these: "I'm getting out of there, by hook or by crook." "I should just crash over here." "This storage room you have is pretty big." "I love your neighborhood." and my personal favorite: "You're my best friend." All of this is designed to manipulate me into thinking that I want to have a roommate, and that said roommate should be Jim.
Amber and roommates don’t go well together. Ask Heather – she’ll remember my wacky college roommate experiences. I’ve proven this to myself over and over again. I like peace. I like quiet. I like my stuff to be where I left it. I like to walk from the bathroom to my room without any clothes after I shower. I like to come home and know that no one will be having an impromptu party despite the fact that they know I have to get up at 4 am the next day. Roommates are not conducive to these desires.
Unfortunately, I also have two huge personality defects: a mothering complex and an inability to tell people no. So there is Vicodin Jim, standing on my doorstep with his clothes in a bag, deliberately trying to look pathetic. My poor little friend. Trapped in a filthy apartment in a shitty neighborhood with a cokehead roommate and no heat or stove because the landlord won’t pay to have the gas line to the house fixed. Giving me puppy dog eyes and the ever-persuasive but always fictional promise: “Just for a while until I find a place…”
With a deep sense of foreboding I reply, “Can I help you carry anything?” I am Amber, Captain of the Idiots, and he is Jim of Borg. That is, resistance is indeed futile.
Yesterday, he is singing to himself gleefully when I get home. He’s cleaned out my storage room and shoved most of my stuff in the attic. The bathroom smells like apples or something. I find him piling crap into my medicine cabinet and talking to either me or himself, I’m still not sure. “Strawberry body wash…. razorblades ….make up bag….nail polish…”
“WHAT??? Is this Heather’s crap or something?”
(Indignantly) “NO, it’s MINE. I have to have nail polish for shows, so that I look bad-ass. And I’m wearing black eyeliner and black mascara every day now, ‘cause it makes me look all goth.”
“Fine. But strawberry body wash? I don’t even have shit like that.”
“Why shouldn’t I get to smell nice just because I’m a guy? Huh? HUH? Now, let’s see…deodorant…body spritz…”
I shake my head sadly and go to my room to change. I’m standing in my bra with my skirt unzipped before I realize, oh yeah, I have to shut the fucking door now. Thankfully Jim is still unloading his Channel No. 5 or whatever the fuck he’s “spritzing” himself with.
Five minutes later, I’m in the kitchen looking for something to drink before I go out and run some errands. I notice that I am missing both the half gallon of milk and the carton of orange juice that were in there when I left that morning. I also notice half a pizza in my fridge. I check the freezer. Just as I suspected – he’s eaten my drunk pizza. He yells from inside the bathroom (6 feet away) “Hey, let’s go get some dinner!” Oh yes, lets. Dinner of course means “let’s eat somewhere expensive and then stop by my old house and pick up more of my crap and then have Heather come over and bring Napoleon Dynamite and whine until you agree to stay up all friggin night and watch it”. In 24 hours, I am already going insane.
The good news is that I KNOW this will lead to some excellently funny posts, probably almost daily. My loss is your gain, people. I can’t wait to find out what awaits me when I get home today!
Seriously though, body spritz?
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
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 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.
Monday, March 07, 2005
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...
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...
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Chicago: Week One
Ah, the Windy City. Mother Fucking Cold as a Witch's Tit City would be a more appropriate moniker, I think. Despite that, things are going well. Some highlights:
I found an AWESOME apartment, one which I was repeatedly told did not exist. It's a one bedroom in a two flat, and it's in Roscoe Village. For those of you I've lost (most of the Cleveland contingency, I would think) a two flat is a rowhouse with two apartments in it, basically a duplex. Much of this area consists of two flats and three flats. And almost all of those are two or three bedroom places. When Cap asked me what kind of a place i was looking for I said I wanted a one bedroom, and I wanted it in a house, like his. Oh, he laughed and laughed. So did all of his fraternity brothers, the bartender and his crew and a girl I made out with at Tai's. One bedrooms don't exist in two flats and three flats, they said. Hmm. Well. I found one. And not only that, but the kitchen and bathroom were both completely remodeled so everything is new AND I have a dishwasher AND a dining room big enough for my ginormous table. So raspberries to all of them.
I also had an interview this morning. The firm really seemed to like me, so I hope it pans out. It's an even smaller office than where I came from, only 6 people. In fact, I interviewed with every single person in the firm. I'd be the only Analyst/Support Consultant in the firm if I get it. We will wait and see.
Cap is thoroughly enjoying Alistair. For one thing his car no-go right now. But more importantly, as he puts it, "This thing corners like it's on rails! ON FUCKIN' RAILS!" I've been pretty much letting him do all the driving since he knows where he's going and I don't.
Speaking of not knowing where I'm going I had the chattiest cab driver EVER on Wednesday morning. The guy would not shut up. I didn't really mind, I played along, told him I just moved on Sunday, loved it here, yada yada yada, and was rewarded with a comprehensive list of, I think, everything there is to do in Chicago. Then he asked how I was getting around, so I told him I never have any idea where I am, unless I can see it from Tai's. He suggested that I learn the grid system, and then launched into a monologue about how great the grid system was and why don't other cities have this? I said, "Well, it helps if you've burned down the entire city and started from scratch."
I also attended two new bars on Tuesday night. Vicodin Jim was texting me like there was no monyana trying to get me to go out with him because he is depressed and needs someone to talk to. Yeah, alcohol is good for that. "IM AT THE MUTINY. U HAVE TO COME I NEED HUMAN COMPANY," he sent.
"I am tired, I want to go to bed, [the bartender] blew me off earlier and I don't even know where that bar is," I replied.
"WESTERN"
"Western? Western and what? I'm not from here remember?"
"WESTERN AND FULLERTON"
At this point, Cap, who was following the play by play, volunteered to drop me off. "on my way" I sent to Jim.
The Mutiny is a complete dive that looks extremely sketchy from the outside, but on the inside is a very nice bartender named Rhonda, who immediately liked me because I ordered her favorite drink. Also inside was a worn out looking stripper who was shooting pool with Jim and trying to distract him by flashing her tits and rubbing herself everytime he took a shot (Jim won). And my friend Karen, the aforementioned girl-I-made-out-with-at-Tai's. She was not feeling so hot, so Jim ordered her a Sprite so she wouldn't puke on us, and shortly thereafter the girl she was with took her home.
The Mutiny closes at 2, but here in Chicago, the party is just getting started at 2, so Jim and I hopped in a cab and headed over to the Under Bar, which is a late night bar that is filled with punks. Everyone was decked out in black, most had chains, interesting haircuts, 7 pounds of metal in their face and arms full of tattoos. Also everyone was very very nice, and were polite enough not to make fun of me, despite the fact that I looked like a complete asshole in my khakis and t-shirt with a cartoon chearleader on it. I told Jim that if I was going to hang out with him on any kind of regular basis, I was just going to have to own many more black shirts and pants. There are dozens and dozens of mirrors on the wall in this place. I pointed out to Jim that it was freaking me out. "You're freaked out by mirrors?" he asked.
"No, no, it's just that there's so many of them. Everywhere I look I see multiple copies of the same people and the people who are here just aren't attractive enough to warrant this many images, including us. I mean, look, I'm everywhere."
"But we're cute," Jim replied. I tried not to look anywhere but at Jim or the table. Way too many mirrors. I sent a text to the bartender, "Underbar? All I know is there's a lot of mirrors in here."
So. Witch Tit City has treated me well so far. We'll see how next week turns out.
Oh, by the way, my keychain vibrator? Showed it to Jim. He pretended to think it was wierd, but I think he was secretly digging it.
I found an AWESOME apartment, one which I was repeatedly told did not exist. It's a one bedroom in a two flat, and it's in Roscoe Village. For those of you I've lost (most of the Cleveland contingency, I would think) a two flat is a rowhouse with two apartments in it, basically a duplex. Much of this area consists of two flats and three flats. And almost all of those are two or three bedroom places. When Cap asked me what kind of a place i was looking for I said I wanted a one bedroom, and I wanted it in a house, like his. Oh, he laughed and laughed. So did all of his fraternity brothers, the bartender and his crew and a girl I made out with at Tai's. One bedrooms don't exist in two flats and three flats, they said. Hmm. Well. I found one. And not only that, but the kitchen and bathroom were both completely remodeled so everything is new AND I have a dishwasher AND a dining room big enough for my ginormous table. So raspberries to all of them.
I also had an interview this morning. The firm really seemed to like me, so I hope it pans out. It's an even smaller office than where I came from, only 6 people. In fact, I interviewed with every single person in the firm. I'd be the only Analyst/Support Consultant in the firm if I get it. We will wait and see.
Cap is thoroughly enjoying Alistair. For one thing his car no-go right now. But more importantly, as he puts it, "This thing corners like it's on rails! ON FUCKIN' RAILS!" I've been pretty much letting him do all the driving since he knows where he's going and I don't.
Speaking of not knowing where I'm going I had the chattiest cab driver EVER on Wednesday morning. The guy would not shut up. I didn't really mind, I played along, told him I just moved on Sunday, loved it here, yada yada yada, and was rewarded with a comprehensive list of, I think, everything there is to do in Chicago. Then he asked how I was getting around, so I told him I never have any idea where I am, unless I can see it from Tai's. He suggested that I learn the grid system, and then launched into a monologue about how great the grid system was and why don't other cities have this? I said, "Well, it helps if you've burned down the entire city and started from scratch."
I also attended two new bars on Tuesday night. Vicodin Jim was texting me like there was no monyana trying to get me to go out with him because he is depressed and needs someone to talk to. Yeah, alcohol is good for that. "IM AT THE MUTINY. U HAVE TO COME I NEED HUMAN COMPANY," he sent.
"I am tired, I want to go to bed, [the bartender] blew me off earlier and I don't even know where that bar is," I replied.
"WESTERN"
"Western? Western and what? I'm not from here remember?"
"WESTERN AND FULLERTON"
At this point, Cap, who was following the play by play, volunteered to drop me off. "on my way" I sent to Jim.
The Mutiny is a complete dive that looks extremely sketchy from the outside, but on the inside is a very nice bartender named Rhonda, who immediately liked me because I ordered her favorite drink. Also inside was a worn out looking stripper who was shooting pool with Jim and trying to distract him by flashing her tits and rubbing herself everytime he took a shot (Jim won). And my friend Karen, the aforementioned girl-I-made-out-with-at-Tai's. She was not feeling so hot, so Jim ordered her a Sprite so she wouldn't puke on us, and shortly thereafter the girl she was with took her home.
The Mutiny closes at 2, but here in Chicago, the party is just getting started at 2, so Jim and I hopped in a cab and headed over to the Under Bar, which is a late night bar that is filled with punks. Everyone was decked out in black, most had chains, interesting haircuts, 7 pounds of metal in their face and arms full of tattoos. Also everyone was very very nice, and were polite enough not to make fun of me, despite the fact that I looked like a complete asshole in my khakis and t-shirt with a cartoon chearleader on it. I told Jim that if I was going to hang out with him on any kind of regular basis, I was just going to have to own many more black shirts and pants. There are dozens and dozens of mirrors on the wall in this place. I pointed out to Jim that it was freaking me out. "You're freaked out by mirrors?" he asked.
"No, no, it's just that there's so many of them. Everywhere I look I see multiple copies of the same people and the people who are here just aren't attractive enough to warrant this many images, including us. I mean, look, I'm everywhere."
"But we're cute," Jim replied. I tried not to look anywhere but at Jim or the table. Way too many mirrors. I sent a text to the bartender, "Underbar? All I know is there's a lot of mirrors in here."
So. Witch Tit City has treated me well so far. We'll see how next week turns out.
Oh, by the way, my keychain vibrator? Showed it to Jim. He pretended to think it was wierd, but I think he was secretly digging it.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Mean People Suck
I have this friend in Chicago named Jim. Jim is a little punker friend of the bartender's. He also happens to be a pretty talented musician. He plays guitar and piano, sings way better than he thinks he does, and writes beautiful, although slit-your-wrists-depressing lyrics. For those of you taking notes at home, Jim is the guy who took offense when I called him a tortured artist at my birthday party. Thing is though, he really IS a tortured artist.
Jim has a penchant for dating evil, heartless women who treat him like dirt and then rip his heart out. Apparently he enjoys this, because every time he gets hit with the bitch stick he comes back for more. This is where the tortured artist comes in: every time a new girl breaks up with him, he goes on a song writing binge. The bartender will be catching me up on the latest bar-gossip, and when Jim's love life comes up, he'll say "I think Jim's going to write another album," without a hint of irony.
The latest rock opera inspiration was a petite, dark-haired little waif of a thing who looked for all the world as if she had been surgically attached to Jim at the crotch. The relationship was on a fairly regular pattern of them being together for about 3 days, breaking up for 12-24 hours and then getting back together again. I am told this went on for months. Jim spent this tumultuous period, as usual, pouring his heart and soul into letters and song lyrics. He had apparently built up quite a bit of material.
Well, it seems in the last couple of days that the final bell tolled on this disfunctional episode and the girl broke up with him. Jim was in the bar last night with all the lyrics to his new masterpiece, and of course, the newly-minted ex shows up. For reasons that were not immediately made clear to me, Jim gives her all of this stuff to read. BAD. IDEA.
She scoops up the original, and only, copies, walks into the back room, and TEARS THEM UP INTO TINY LITTLE PIECES. Being a writer myself, I was absolutely sick to my stomach when I heard this. I tried to picture losing 6 months of my own stuff and nearly burst into tears just imagining it. The bartender, also a song writer, felt the same. "Needless to say, Jim was not pleased," he said. "I would have spit on her."
"At a minimum!" I replied. "Someone should stab her in the eye."
Oh what an evil, evil, evil little biotch. But I bet the album he writes about her ripping up the album he wrote about her will rock.
Jim has a penchant for dating evil, heartless women who treat him like dirt and then rip his heart out. Apparently he enjoys this, because every time he gets hit with the bitch stick he comes back for more. This is where the tortured artist comes in: every time a new girl breaks up with him, he goes on a song writing binge. The bartender will be catching me up on the latest bar-gossip, and when Jim's love life comes up, he'll say "I think Jim's going to write another album," without a hint of irony.
The latest rock opera inspiration was a petite, dark-haired little waif of a thing who looked for all the world as if she had been surgically attached to Jim at the crotch. The relationship was on a fairly regular pattern of them being together for about 3 days, breaking up for 12-24 hours and then getting back together again. I am told this went on for months. Jim spent this tumultuous period, as usual, pouring his heart and soul into letters and song lyrics. He had apparently built up quite a bit of material.
Well, it seems in the last couple of days that the final bell tolled on this disfunctional episode and the girl broke up with him. Jim was in the bar last night with all the lyrics to his new masterpiece, and of course, the newly-minted ex shows up. For reasons that were not immediately made clear to me, Jim gives her all of this stuff to read. BAD. IDEA.
She scoops up the original, and only, copies, walks into the back room, and TEARS THEM UP INTO TINY LITTLE PIECES. Being a writer myself, I was absolutely sick to my stomach when I heard this. I tried to picture losing 6 months of my own stuff and nearly burst into tears just imagining it. The bartender, also a song writer, felt the same. "Needless to say, Jim was not pleased," he said. "I would have spit on her."
"At a minimum!" I replied. "Someone should stab her in the eye."
Oh what an evil, evil, evil little biotch. But I bet the album he writes about her ripping up the album he wrote about her will rock.
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