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 Think I've Joined a Cult

I'm pretty sure I've accidentally joined a cult. I didn't mean to join a cult; I only meant to buy a car. But the MINI Cooper people? They're a cult. And everyone who has one has to join the cult.

It started with the MINI owners lounge. You have to register to get in there. Okay, by itself this is no big deal. But this was only the beginning.

Then the e-mails started. Once the MINI people get a hold of your e-mail address, you start getting quirky little messages about once a week. They aren't even really about anything, they're just nutty. This started about 6 weeks before my car was even delivered to me. I'm still getting them. I'm starting to think I will continue to get them for ever and ever in perpetuity.

About two weeks after I got my car, an envelope arrived in the mail from MINI. It contained a little note, "Carve out a space for your baby!" and a stencil that reads "MINI Parking Only". You are apparently supposed to stencil this on the wall of the garage where you park your car. I don't have a garage now; I've moved to Chicago. Perhaps I should stencil the street in front of my house? I just don't know. Perhaps I'll learn what to do with it in one of the e-mails.

Since I got the car a month and a half ago, MINI customer service has called me three times to find out if I'm happy with my purchase. They remind me of the Verizon guy: "Can you drive it now? Good! Can you drive it now? Good!"

Last week, I came home from work and found a box by my door. I was hoping it was the braille t-shirt I had ordered. (This is how I know I'm an attention whore. A braille t-shirt, a vibrator on my keychain...just wait until I get myself a Playboy bunny belly ring!) As I approached, however, I immediately noticed the seemingly omnipresent winged logo with "MINI" stamped in the center ring. Inside was a mini-MINI cornacopia:

• Two little notes from MINI, one is yet another greeting from MINI, one is a reminder that MINI financing is right there should I need any help.
• A packet of MINI business cards in a little case, with instructions to please hand them out to people who seem like they "should" have a MINI (read: weirdos). Each card has a picture of a MINI on the front and some pithy saying on the back ("Sip, don't Guzzle." "Let's leave the off road vehicles off the road." and of course the always popular "Let's Motor.") along with the MINI USA web address.
• The "Unauthorized Owners Manual". This is completely different from the owners manual I received when I picked up my car (at which time, if you'll recall, I also received a second toy MINI and two boxes of "MINI Mints"). This manual has instructions for picking up chicks, tips for places you can stick your toll tickets in the dash, suggestions for sandwiches which you can either heat or cool in your special heating and cooling glove box, "secret" features of the car (I'm not sure what would happen to me if I divulged them here, but I'm quite sure I don't want to find out), and other sometimes helpful, sometimes completely bizarre information.
• A sheet of stickers for relabeling my toggle switches. It is suggested that I memorize what each switch is for and them put new labels over top. A few examples are Self-Destruct, Up Periscope, Ejector Seat, and Tacks. I am so completely not kidding you.
• "MINI Motoring Message Kit." This is a little jewel case which contains a bunch of signs you can hold up to the window as you drive past people, and some blank cards in the event you'd like to write your own. The only one I can remember offhand reads "Hey, sexy."
• A ballpoint pen with a little picture inside: Hollywood on the left, and New York on the right. A little red MINI is also inside and appears to "drive" from LA to NY as you tilt the pen. The pen comes in handy when I want to write in my
• Motoring Journal. The inside cover suggests that I should be keeping a diary of my MINI experiences. Like the brainwashed cult-follower I am, I have already made three entries.
• Last but not least we have two cards for playing "Motoring Bingo". Motoring Bingo cards have different pictures on them: train tracks, state line, stop sign, etc. You look out your window for these things and slide the little window over when you find one.

I have also been admonished more than once that when I see another MINI, I should go out of my way to acknowledge the other driver, i.e. cult bretheren. I saw this in action today when a man in a green MINI with racing stripes practically fell out of his window waving to us.
So you see, I am now into something way over my head, and I'm pretty sure there's no way out. But, um, I think I like it that way. At least that's what the MINI people tell me.

I Am Costanza

Tuesday morning. Two flash reports are needed for a client meeting. The Gander is leaving at noon. I have no statements. The Gander is desperate. Amberance to the rescue! I make a few phone calls and get enough data to do a very reasonable approximation of the client's performance so far this year. I fly through it and quickly rig something up. I send it to the Gander at 11:30. He kisses my feet. Okay, really he just said "thank you", but I like to imagine this is more meaningful to him than it actually is. I begin to come down from the adrenaline rush you get from racing to beat a looming surprise deadline. And then...

The headache crashed into me with such force that I could have sworn someone had bashed my head in with a baseball bat.

I don't know what's with the headaches all of a sudden. I'm not one of those people with a perpetual headache. At least I wasn't before. My two best guesses are that my body is either having a violent reaction to the copious amounts of caffeine I've been consuming recently, or that it's a physical manifestation of the stress that is caused when one decides to uproot one's entire life and everything they know and start over from scratch. Catholic Dennis suggests it's carbon monoxide poisoning. I think this is silly (but asked him to pray for me just in case). However, I digress.

My head. Hurt. Like a mother fucker. I was writhing in agony. The pain was such that I was actually nauseous from it. I would have cried, but I was afraid it would hurt more if I did. I moaned piteously instead. Replacement was worried about me - she rushed off to the kitchen to get me some generic aspirin alternative and a glass of water. I ate the faux-aspirin. I might as well have eaten a couple of Tic Tacs for all the good it did me. It was lunchtime. "Go home," said Replacement. But I couldn't, I had a lot of crap to teach her that day. There was only one thing to do.

It was bliss, I tell you, absolute bliss. Every white collar stiff's fantasy come true. I pushed my chair up against the wall. I then took my guest chair and placed it right next to my own. Then I shut my door, turned off the lights, threw a sweater over top of me and TOOK A NAP AT WORK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY. A contented smile formed on my lips as I drifted into sweet, sweet sleep. In my office. During working hours. It was so George Costanza of me. A one-legged bum on the street outside my window played soft lullabyes to me on his out of tune saxophone as unconsciousness stole over me. I slept for an hour. Possibly the best nap of my life.

Of course, as soon as I sat up the raging headache overtook me once again and I was in agony until Sandi brought me some of the hard stuff she keeps in her desk (generic Aleeve). But I ran around the whole rest of the day telling everyone who crossed my path, "Guess what? I took a nap....at work!" Oh, the envy in their eyes. Phenomenal.

Happy CLC Day!

Valentine, Schmalentine.

I am SO not into this Valentine's Day crap this year. Unless you're talking about Chicago-style, in which case I'm all in. Not that I've shot all, or even any of my rivals today, I'm just all about anything Chicago related. Also Capone and my last name come from the same root word: "Caput" in the Latin, or "Capo" in Italian, meaning "large or unusual head". So don't fuck with me or my giant melon will have you taken out.

It's been suggested to me that the reason I'm down on the hearts and flowers thing right now is that I don't have a Valentine this year. To this I say, "phooey". I'm not really into this even when I do. I'm incapable of taking care of flowers, cut or otherwise, I'm not a chocolate fiend, I refuse to eat anything that tastes like chalk, I rarely wear jewelry and I hate the color pink. I don't want anyone else in the bathtub with me, painting my toenails (or otherwise touching my feet) or buying my underwear. Please don't write me poetry if you have trouble stringing together a complete sentence on a normal day, and never EVER try to cook me something if you consider a jar of Ragu and a bag of meatballs you found in the frozen section of your local Jewel to be "homemade".

A far more enjoyable holiday for me is chronicled over at Cryptic's blog. I remember hearing about this last year and thinking it was the greatest idea ever. Apparently, some guy got sick of having to go out and buy his girlfriend stupid crap for Valentine's Day, and in retaliation he invented what he felt was a reciprocal holiday. Except that for gals like me, it's not. Because I think Valentine's Day is total ass.

I'd like to take this opportunity to suggest a potential alternative celebration of love for February 14th - Crab Legs and Cunnilingus Day. I just think this would be much better. Because if you're anything like me (and if you're reading this, I suspect you probably are), you know that candy and flowers will never say "I love you" with the same fervor as expensive food and oral sex. Additionally, it makes for a much better parallel with SBJ Day. Who's in?

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.

Advice

If you wake up with a pounding headache, and you take two Excedrin to make it go away, you probably shouldn't drink two giant cups of coffee as soon as you get to work.

Who the eff put my office on spin cycle?

The Gander

I'm worried about the Gander. He's destroying himself. Mostly over stuff not worth destroying oneself over.

We have our differences at work, but by and large, we are pretty good friends (friends, perverts). Having largely repaired what was recently a very damaged friendship (who says you can't solve your problems by drinking?), I'm once again privy to information about non-work related sources of stress, and his various physical manifestations of both work and non-work related stress. I have always been privy to work related sources of stress, as is anyone who works here.

To be fair, the Gander has an absolutely ridiculous and unreasonable work load. He eats, sleeps and breathes this place and still doesn't have enough hours in the day. He has several demanding and/or energy draining clients, all of whom believe they are entitled to a monopoly on his time. He's also extremely good at creating his own stress. He's not real adept at prioritizing; every project needs to be completed yesterday and every issue is a full blown crisis. Textbook type A. He can be very Chicken Little sometimes - to listen to him you'd believe that every single client we have is right on the verge of firing us tomorrow.

Every day is a battle for him, and it takes it's toll in the form of sinus infections, chest pains, stomach ailments, et cetera. He can never get out from under one illness before another one becomes symptomatic.

His greatest stress reliever, or so it seems to this writer, is popping off at me from time to time. I have no idea why this is. He can sometimes fly off the handle at other people too, but I seem to be a favored target. Several theories exist: 1) currently being his closest friend in the office, he blows up at me because I'm the first person he thinks of 2) he thinks I'm really smart, and therefore holds me to a higher standard than everyone else and is disappointed when I don't live up to it 3) he knows from prior arguments that I can take it 4) he's secretly attracted to me and is doing a grown up version of pulling my pigtails (I like to think it's 2).

It's really ok. I get really angry when it happens, but then I blog my anger away, realize that he's not attacking me deliberately, he's just acting on his first instinct, remember all the nice things he's done for me and get over it. So even though it gets my dander up from time to time, in general it's a workable arrangement.

I'm worried about what's going to happen to him when I leave. When his last favorite co-worker left, Big C, he was utterly depressed for weeks. When I leave, he not only loses his new office favorite, but also his resident sparring partner. He's either going to take to blowing up at someone else much less likely to be able to handle it than I, or keep a lid on it until the whole thing boils over and his pink little head pops off. Neither of these is a good option. I wish he would go work somewhere else less stressful, but he doesn't feel like he can.

Oh, the drama. What will I do when my life stops resembling a soap opera?

Today's Rant: Fake Catholics

I generally stay away from religion in this blog both because it is a polarizing issue for many people and I think mixing my sexual escapades with religion is just plain weird. And kind of creepy. But I have to bring this up today, because it's been bothering me all day, and it's my blog so I can do whatever I want.

Today I went to mass. I am not Catholic, but I do occasionally go to mass, mainly because the Cathedral has mass every day, whereas my church just has church on Sundays. So on days when I feel like I need to do some more formalized God talkin', I go to mass. I went to mass today because it is Ash Wednesday. Ash Wednesday, apart from being the day after Fat Tuesday, also happens to be the kick off day for lent. I went to mass because I knew I'd be working late and I would miss the service at my church.

It happens every year. Ash Wednesday rolls around, and suddenly lunchtime mass, which usually has about two dozen people or so, is packed, packed with "devout" Catholics. I don't get this because my friend Catholic Dennis, who is really really really Catholic, assures me that Ash Wednesday is not, in fact, a Holy Day of Obligation, meaning attendance is not required. And yet they all show up. Fine. I'm not going to begrudge people going to church. But if it means so much to them, why are they still streaming in the door fully 20 minutes after mass has started? Why? It's disruptive. Do these same people show up to business meetings 20 minutes late? And THEN, they can't even wait until the service is over either! They get dirt on their heads, they get their wafer and they run out the door.

Catholic Dennis postulates that people show up on days when they get something for free. I think he may be on to something. Ash Wednesday? Congratulations! Here's your dirt. St. Blaise day? Glad you could make it, here let me stick this candle against your neck, you'll feel better. Huge Blow Out Redemption Sale! Crazy low prices! Hurry in, these offers can't last forever! Seriously. I think they show up so they can get ashes on their head, and in so doing, look pious to all their friends and co-workers. This point was further driven home by Catholic Dennis, in a little story he told me from today. After mass was completely over, he was standing around talking to the priest and the other servers (Den not only goes to mass every day but also serves several times a week. He's way wicked Catholic.) when three guys walked up and said "Hey, um, we kind of ran over at lunch chit-chatting about stuff and we missed mass. Can we still get some ashes?" Gggghhh!

The ginormous irony here is that if they had shown up for mass (and were paying attention), the Gospel reading for today and for every Ash Wednesday talks about how you're not supposed to go around wearing your religion on your sleeve to impress people. Hilariously, they all show up today to do exactly that.

Bottom line: If you don't want to go, don't go. Wearing ashes on your head makes you look silly, and you are silly if that's the only reason you went.

K, now that that's out, I need a penance for lent. I had a friend once who gave up porn for lent. So that one's out. Others?

Is This My Blog, or Did My Comments Throw Up?

While I personally have found the below exchange highly amusing (I also get a sick thrill from seeing 38 comments), other friends of mine are not nearly so amused. As I mentioned to several friends today, I have no problem with people making personal attacks directed at me, nor do I have a problem having people writing erotic (though bad) poetry featuring me. I have chosen to create and maintain an online journal and in so doing, have opened myself to being the subject of such banter, both witty and inane. I accept that.

What I cannot accept are attacks and inappropriate comments directed at personal friends of mine, who do not maintain their own blogs and have no real say in what I choose to say and not say about them. THIS MEANS that if I delete a poem and explicitly tell you that I removed it because my friends did not appreciate it, it is not an invitation to post a second, equally inappropriate poem. If you want to tell me all your nasty thoughts you are more than welcome...create your own blogger account and I'll contact you privately so you can e-mail them to me. As for my loser friends going out and being losers, again I say, it was not by their own choice that details of their personal lives appeared in a public forum. So I'm missing the part where they are pathetic for attempting to live out their personal life in private. It's not their fault they have a pathetic friend who enjoys publicly airing her dirty laundry. I myself have never denied being a pathetic, desperate attention whore - please read my profile, where I declare my loserishness loud and clear. But thank you, Captain Obvious, for clarifying that.

I've had problems with inappropriate comments before. I made fun of those people and they went away. I fear though, that that will not be the case this time.

Also, I'd like to mention that the comment directed at Eric telling him not to argue because he can't win was hilarious. Eric argues for a living, that's what lawyers do. Even if he were wrong (which I don't believe he is) he's still going to beat the pants off you because he's a better arguer than than everyone else. He and my other friends and I use "big words" because we are nerds who like to read. I am not trying to look like I's knows the mostest, that's how I actually talk. Those are the words that roll off the tongue. You can be a word snob too - invest in a thesaurus. Also take Latin in school, it's good for learning etymology (that means where words come from).

So, regulars, personal friends, perverts, anonymous lurkers, and that ugly guy hiding over in the corner (we all know you're there, we can smell you - go take a shower), it is with deep, deep regret that I have decided to close the blog to anonymous posters, indefinitely. This means that if you have something to say, you have to sign up for a blogger account. Don't worry, you don't have to be a loser like me and set up an actual blog. To everyone else, I'm sorry, but I have to cut you off.

I now return you to your regularly scheduled perversion.

An Eventful Saturday

***ATTENTION! This post is longer than Fat Albert's grocery list, and contains explicit material. It is not intended for family members, or, for that matter, anyone who has known me since I was three. Don't say I didn't warn you.***

Oh. My. God. What a day Saturday. I'm still trying to process it. I got over to K/B residence about 3:15 and found Bia already present. Let the lap dancing lessons begin! There were two videos - one obviously oriented to males, which was more of a soft-core porno than anything I would consider to be a lesson, and another one with actual "here's how you do this" instructions, with a bunch of women standing in rows gyrating like some twisted horny Tae-Bo class. The woman teaching the class instructed me to "feel" both the music and various parts of my body. She explained that we were learning to touch ourselves in a non-sexual way. Huh. 'Cause I was thinking that lap dances were mostly about touching myself IN a sexual way. Shows you how much I had to learn. "Place your hands on your thighs and just...just feel your skin...and move your hands around to the side...and then up and just feel your tummy, and your hips and recognize how nice that feels. You're touching yourself in a way you normally would not." Actually, I touch myself like this every day - I call it showering. After we rubbed all the skin off our bodies, we started learning actual "moves" which turned out to be pretty interesting. Then at the end they "put it all together" with a little skit of a girl giving a lap dance to her boyfriend, which took for-EV-er. First of all she had her coat on when she started. Underneath that she had no less than three layers of clothing, followed by her bra and panties. Every strip club I've ever been in, bra and panties is where you START. If I was that guy I would have passed out, it took her about 40 minutes to get rid of all her clothes. The video was topped off with some simulated sex. I say simulated because I'm pretty sure they were just pretending to have sex. I was also not quite sure what this had to do with learning to give a lap dance. I'm pretty sure I already know how to have sex. Maybe it was there to show what the result should be if I did it right? Give a good lap dance, get pretend sex. Got it.

Speaking of pretend sex, the Pure Romance consultant had arrived. Her name is Tina and she had her sister along to help her out with stuff. Lisa, Bia and I milled around making conversation, which was punctuated with interesting snippets coming from Tina while she and her sister set up: "Can you hand me the clit stimulators?" "I need more batteries for these vibrators." "That dildo keeps falling off the TV." (It was attached via suction cup, and apparently wasn't sticking because Tim cleaned the screen too well.)

Everyone else arrived (the Cherub, who is the cutest thing ever, took off her shoes and announced, "I have two different socks on, sorry!") and the show got started. Tina is hilarious. She demoed a product called "fluttering fantasy" which is a strap on vibrator that you can put on under your clothes and wear around. She recommended that we not wear it to church. Good point. Another product called "super stretch vagina lips" (for your man, apparently when you get bored of him) was pitched to us with the bonus feature of "no muss, no fuss" clean up because, Tina says, "This bitch swallows!" We were also advised not to use the "like a virgin" muscle tightener with a tampon in, as we would have difficulty getting it out again. To further drive home that point, we were treated to a lovely sound effect demonstration, very much like popping a cork on a champagne bottle. It did not sound comfortable.

I ended up buying way more stuff than I had anticipated, as follows:

• x-scream edible hightener, cool mint flavor (which was test run to great success at 2:30 in the morning)
• silver bullet vibrator (also part of 2:30 am test run, "Holy SHIT!" I said out loud, to no one in particular)
• just like me water-based lubricant that can be used in the tub, with my new
• waterproof glitterific vibrator (I'm not sure what's with the decorative coloring of these things. If I'm using it, I can't really see that, right?)
• ice ice baby vibrator (on the schedule for testing later today)
• like a virgin (cork-popping tampon sound effects not included)
• vanilla bondage kit, a cream colored blindfold and two cream colored silky ties, adorably packaged in a pint-size ice cream carton
• micro vibro keychain, a bullet vibrator you keep on your keychain (I thought it would be a good conversation starter in bars)
• and last but not least, booty ease, which I'm pretty sure my perverted readers will find self-explanatory.

The actual buying of things is done in a separate room, so the women who just saw me fondling a dozen or so ginormous sex toys won't know what I bought, the whole point of which was negated when I started pulling everything out of the bag as soon as it was handed to me. I came out of the private buying booth dizzy from having handed over so many clams. I said to the Cherub, "[Cherub], I don't have any money now!" to which she replied, "At least it's going to a good cause!" Did I mention how cute she is?
After this we all sat around watching porn and eating sandwiches. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, a room full of women watching porn bears no resemblance whatsoever to a room full of guys watching porn, or to watching porn all by your little self. A running commentary was kept up for the entire performance:
"There's better ways to do this."
"She should lay back more, it'd be easier."
"Why does that guy still have his socks on?"
"Are those tan lines? Oh my God, that looks stupid!"
My favorite moment ever was at the end of a segment where some guy was porking his girlfriend up against the side of the limo they had recently been riding in. Having completed the task at hand, the guy kindly helps his girlfriend get her panties back on before re-dressing himself. It is the only time I have ever been watching porn where the entire audience exclaimed "Awwwww! That's so sweet!" Words I hope to never hear while viewing porn again.
Next we headed out to see a male revue. I had pitched a huge bitch about not wanting to go to a male review. I don't like chisely looking guys and I don't like prominent veins and I don't like shaved chests. It just seemed really gross to me. BUT Sandi pointed out that when the lot of us went out to Christie's to see female strippers, she toughed it out even though she was completely disgusted, so I should have to go with them and tough it out. I had to admit it was only fair, so I went.
Our waiter came to find out what we wanted to drink. He was dressed in biking shorts with his thong sticking out the top and no shirt. It's not a good look for anyone. His face looked just exactly the way the Neanderthals look on the History Channel. We quickly found out why.
"Do you use Prell?" he asked the Cherub.
"No," she said.
"Pantene Pro-V?"
"Yes."
"I knew it." We all found this to be an odd conversation. Also, he didn't know it, he guessed Prell the first time! Dufus. The Cherub ordered a Smirnoff Ice and Bia ordered a gin and tonic. Neanderthal went away to retrieve drinks from the bartender, who happens to be the Cherub's ex's brother. "He's kind of a jerk," she giggled cutely.
Shortly after Neanderthal went off hunting and gathering alcohol, we were approached by Amateur Comedian. Amateur Comedian, also shirtless, sported cut-off jean shorts and a fanny pack. Attractive. Amateur Comedian was hawking a tray full of shots. "Who needs a shot?" Everyone shook their head, except for the Cherub, who pointed to something opaque and white and innocently asked "What's that?"
"That's the kind of girl I like, she went straight for the blow job!!" haha, I never saw that one coming. "What are you girls here for anyway? Birthday? Getting married?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing? Really? There's no special occasion at all?"
"No. It's just girls night out."
"Wow that's great. Just checking out the guys huh?"
"I guess."
"Yeah, cool. I like to check out the girls myself. I'm a lesbian!" No, actually you're not. Because you are a boy, so by definition, not a lesbian. But I see what you did there. Haha. Good one.
"Hey, you know when a guy and a girl get married, they get a marriage license? What do you think lesbians get when they get married, a liquor license? Ha ha ha!"
Crickets.
He paused, waiting the laugh which was not to come. "Get it? Liquor license?"
"Yeah, we get it."
Uncomfortable pause.
"Wow, instead of Girls Gone Wild, this table is more like Girls Gone Mild!" Yes, Amateur Comedian, you are very clever.
Not getting a laugh or any takers on the shots, Amateur Comedian moved on to another table, just in time for Neanderthal to come back with the drinks. Did I mention he was dumb? Check this out:
"$9.25. For both. The Smirnoff is $4.50 and the gin and tonic is $4.75. Oh wait a minute! That should be $10.25, sorry." Nope, should have gone with your first instinct on that one, buddy.
The emcee comes out to start the show. He explains the rules: 1) down in front so the people in the back can see 2) no touching of the strippers and 3) everyone is single. With the exception of number 3, the rules are blatantly disregarded by all. We also found out that there is no seat that is safe from these lovely lap dancing gentleman. If you try to hide in the corner, they will climb over the bench to get to you. If you try to hide behind the table, they just move it out of their way. There was one stripper who seemed completely enamored with our table, especially Bia. He copped a huge feel and loudly declared, "Shit, those are real!" before burying his face in her chest (to be fair, I had stuck a dollar in there, but still). Then, I think just to be diplomatic, he went around the table and felt everyone up. I thought that was very nice of him.
My favorite moment was the same guy, but much, much later on. I was talking to the Cherub when suddenly Bia punched me in the gut. "Ow! What the fuck was that for?" I complained.
"Look!" She shouted. "It's OUT!" Apparently the women at the table behind us had gotten a little surprise gift. And our stripper caught Bia watching. He came sauntering over and took a seat...on my knee. Grinning at Bia, he whips his dick out of his thong underwear. Actually, it was more like he unfurled it. Um, hi. Your anaconda is on my knee. And it's heavy. Please move it. The Cherub leaned over the table for a better view and spoke my favorite piece of cuteness she has ever dropped on me.
"Is that real?"
"Yeah it's real!" he said, pretending to be offended. Then, helpfully, "You wanna touch it?"
The Cherub grinned. "It's nice."
IT'S NICE?????? Who says that? I would have fallen out of my seat from laughing, were it not for the naked man that had perched himself on my thigh.
All in all, a good time was had by all, and we went home to prepare for Superbowl strip-poker the following day, which had it's own whole set of issues. But one day at a time, shall we?

Dream a Little Dream of Me...Dropping My Cell Phone

Twice in the last three days, I've dreamt that I dropped my cell phone into a body of water. In the first dream I was back at my dad's old house and I was taking a shower. My cell phone, which I had placed on the edge of the bathtub (in case someone called? What the hell is up with that?) began to ring, so I answered it, just like anyone else who was taking a shower wouldn't. It was Heather , calling to catch up (as we occasionally do). We were chatting for a few minutes, as I'm continuing to clean myself, when suddenly my cell phone breaks in half. The bottom falls into the water and I stare dumbly at it with the top half still in my hand and a head full of shampoo.

Two nights later, I dream I have this large, shallow tub of water that, obviously, I keep in my living room. And somehow I manage to drop both my cell phone and my cordless home phone (which in real life I do not have) into the tub. I fish them both out and then spend much time dismantling both in an effort to drain all of the water from both. Incidentally I also dreamed about having sex with the bartender that night (I'm pretty sure that dream was unrelated).

People, what does this mean? Being the practical gal that I am, I enjoy the idea that it means nothing more than that my cell phone sucks and that I should chuck it into a lake (or tub in the living room) and get myself a new one. Mary kindly did some Googling for me and came up with a dream dictionary containing the following insights:

Drop
To dream that you are dropping things, indicates that you are letting go some project, relationship, person, or idea. Also analyze the significance of what is being dropped. Alternatively, it may represent your carelessness. Perhaps you are expressing some dismay or regret in how you let something slip through fingers.

Cell Phone
To see or use a cell phone in your dream, indicates that you are being receptive to new information. It also represents your mobility.

To dream that you lost your cell phone, represents a lack of communication. You have lost touch with some aspect of your feelings or your Self.

Water
To see water in your dream, symbolizes your unconscious and your emotional state of mind. Water is the living essence of the psyche and the flow of life energy. It is also symbolic of spirituality, knowledge, healing and refreshment. To dream that water is boiling, suggests that you are expressing some emotional turmoil. It also may mean that feelings from your unconscious are surfacing and ready to be acknowledged.

To see calm, clear water in your dream, signifies that you are in tune with your spirituality. It denotes serenity, peace of mind, and rejuvenation.

To hear running water in your dream, denotes meditation, reflection and pondering of your thoughts and emotions.

I pondered these insights. As I'm moving to Chicago mere weeks from now, I'm letting go of pretty much everything, save for Kristen and my dining room table. This also applies to the cell phone thing and my "mobility". The water, though, I just can't seem to tie in. It's kind of irritating me. If I had had two dreams about the bartender and only one about drowning my cell phone I wouldn't be thinking about this; I'd be going about my daily life (smiling) because the meaning of those dreams is pretty straightforward. But this...this is just friggin' weird is what this is. Anybody know what's going on here? If so, please 'splain it to me.

Update

Sorry about the sparse posting; I'm having to spend my waking hours doing actual work. In fact, I'm at work right now. Between training my replacement, keeping up with client reports, and fielding a barrage of questions from just about every person in this office I just don't have time to pour out my soul into the soothing ether that is the internet. At any rate, you're not missing anything because all I'm doing is working, and therefore I don't really have anything interesting to write about. For those who wish to keep track, here's the latest:

• I haven't sold my house yet.
• I am moving in two weeks. Or three weeks, depending on whether I get my own apartment or temporarily move in with my brother.
• I am operating above normal capacity at work. This is largely do to the obscene quantities of SweetTarts/Runts/tea/coffee/pop/hot chocolate/dum-dums I consume pretty much continuously throughout the day.
• I have been successful so far in NOT getting addicted to 24 like I was last year. This is probably due to the fact that I am at work all evening long.
• Mary's here too.
• I really need to start packing.

And, so as to build anticipation for when I return to my regularly scheduled blogging, here is a list of upcoming events I expect to have worthwhile stories about in the near future:

• Lap dancing lessons this Saturday, followed by the purchase of several coin-operated boys, and maybe the odd blindfold and/or furry handcuffs.
• SUPERBOWL SUNDAY! Pre-game strip poker, the main event, and hopefully winning some money at squares.
• Packing for the move, as I'm bound to come across some bizarre shit I forgot I owned.
• Moving to Chicago, and my resulting far more colorful life.

There you have it. I'm off like Ron Jeremy's pants.

P.S. Is anyone else amused by the fact that the Blogger spell-checker doesn't recognize the word "blog"?

Why Mary is My Best Friend

While we were enjoying a companionable stroll down Superior Avenue this evening, Mary says to me, "Oh hey! I just remembered this girl you would totally want to do!" That Mary, always thinking of me.

Friday Lunch

I sat in the lunchroom on Friday surrounded by some of my favorite co-workers: Bia, Timmy, The Cherub, and my replacement. I was enjoying my stuffed shells from Vincenza's for one of the last times. The Cherub and Bia were reading Cleveland Magazine together, when something in the magazine caught their eye.

"Hey, Amber, look at this picture! You should get this," said The Cherub, pointing to a picture in the magazine. It was a photo of a girl out partying, wearing a a black t-shirt, ripped at the neck, which read "I'm blogging this."

I grinned and, without speaking, pulled my sweater up to my chin, revealing...the exact same t-shirt.

When the laughter died down from that we played sex-themed hangman, with rounds including "pussy", "blow job", "deep throating", "swallowing" and "bukaki" (the last submission being Tim's).

I'm so going to miss these people.

I wish This Were a Joke

I fear that it is not. My only question: Would he institute the west coast offense?

Party (In My Pants)

The wife of a friend of mine is having a pure romance party next weekend. I am pumped (figuratively. At least for now). I am embarrassed to admit that my grown up girl toy box is practically empty. One lonely personal appliance populates the bottom drawer of my nightstand. Six packs of AA batteries populate the top drawer (some of them are for the TV remote, you sickos). I've had it just about for-EV-er, or so it seems, and being a girl with a short attention span I am REALLY bored with it. I am SO EXCITED at the chance to rectify this gross injustice by purchasing for myself an arsenal in one fell swoop. On the must have list, as reported to Timmy at lunch late last week:

• Something that goes
• Something that doesn't go
• Something that is waterproof
• Flavored lube

Timmy wanted to know: why the flavored lube? Eh, something different. I think it would be cool just to be able to say I have some. It's a good pick up line: "Hi! My name's Amber. I own flavored lube. What's your name?" See? You'd talk to me, wouldn't you?
I am also very much looking forward to another of the planned party activities: lap dancing lessons. Unfortunately for me, not from a live girl. I guess you can't win all the time. We'll be watching some videos. But I plan to be a very attentive student and take copious notes.
Also, my friend will be making sandwiches for us girls before he leaves. He claims he's going to go watch some WWII movie, but I suspect he's really going to go get a ladder from the garage and spy on us through the window.
I'm busting - I can hardly wait.

Crisis of Faith: Over

In the past few weeks I've been having a little bit of "buyer's remorse" if you will. My move to Chicago is imminent, and some issues have cropped up. Issues such as:

• I haven't sold my house yet. I don't relish the thought of paying a mortgage and paying rent at the same time.
• The blow up argument I had with the bartender last week had me temporarily wanting to spurn the entire city.
• The actual mechanics of moving. I can't drive Alistair and a moving truck at the same time, and I'm going to have to rely on someone to drive one or the other of them for me. It'd be so much easier to just, you know, NOT move.

These particular issues are pretty easy to get over. It sucks to pay rent and a mortgage at the same time, but I have enough to afford it and I might still get the house sold in the next month anyway. I'm pretty sure the bartender and I have resolved our differences, but even if we haven't, there are actually other places to drink in Chicago besides Tai's. And even if I stayed in Cleveland, I'd still be selling my house because it's too big for me, so as long as I'm moving anyway, I might as well move someplace that's actually cool.
The biggest thing that's been nagging at me is my job. Things have been really great around here the past few weeks. The Gander has been ultra sweet to me lately. There have been no major crises to stress me out. I have mad job security out the ass here - even though we've already hired my replacement and I've been training her for the last three weeks, the CEO is still telling me regularly that if I change my mind and want to stay I am more than welcome. I genuinely like what I do for a living, it challenges me and never gets boring. The people I work with are fantastic, we are a really close knit group and all hang out together regularly. So I was starting to wonder why, even though I LOVE Chicago and dream about residing there, I was actually LEAVING this job on purpose. Because there will never be another job in my life where I am secure, challenged and well liked to the same degree as I am here. Was I making a mistake? Should I forego living in my dream city to stay at what is pretty darn close to my dream job? I was starting to wake up at night with these thoughts scratching my brain.
Until...
I had created a report for a client last week that had a number on it that didn't really make sense. It was bothering me, so before I sent it to the client, I sent a copy to the Gander and asked him to review it. Now, the number didn't look right to me. The only thing that could have changed the number I calculated was a cash flow out of an account. I didn't have ANY paperwork showing me a cash flow. In the absence of that data, I used the screwy-looking number and asked the Gander to look into it. From a liability standpoint, I couldn't just "make up" a fake cash flow out of thin air just because I "thought" there should be one to make the number make sense, because if someone comes back and questions it later, I can't justify making something up because I felt like it. I have to use the number I calculated. That way, even if it turns out wrong later, I have a trail of exactly what I did to arrive at that number and that I followed procedure. I specifically said to the Gander "This number doesn't look right. Ask [the client] if there was a cash flow we weren't told about. If there wasn't, then this must actually be the number. The Gander, of course, a) didn't ever check the report and b) sent it to the client as-is without ever asking about a missing cash flow.
Surprise! The client forgot to tell us about a nearly $1 million cash flow. Therefore my return is wrong, the report is wrong, and the client is upset. At 4:59, the Gander storms into my office and reads me the riot act. How could I let this number go out when I knew it didn't look right? Am I a monkey that never thinks? Do I know how stupid I made him look in front of the client? Do I realize that this is a PUBLIC institution, and our mistake is now PUBLICLY on the books? Through gritted teeth I reminded him that I can't make stuff up, that I asked him to review it and he didn't, and that when we issue a revised report it will also become a matter of public record. He could not be consoled. It was my fault. He doesn't have time to check over all my work and make sure that I'm doing it right. We look like idiots. He was literally screaming, red-faced, as upset as if I had accidentally given nuclear launch codes to North Korea. This went on for 20 minutes. There was NO WAY I was going to concede the point - I followed protocol to the letter; he's the one who dropped the ball. When he realized he wasn't going to dissolve me into tears he finally stormed off. I had a lot to do and had planned to stay late, but I was so furious I packed up and left to go have beers with some friends at 5:30.
Nevertheless, I walked out of the building with a huge smile on my face. Problem solved; I remember now. Thanks Gander, you've been a big help.

Hostage Situation

I was a prisoner in my own home this weekend. Friday I left work early, went home, drank a fifth of Nyquil (ok, it was the recommended dose - I just like to pretend I'm badass) and fell asleep on my couch watching Star Trek: Enterprise. On Saturday, I woke up feeling like a train hit me. Another shot of Nyquil and a treat (maybe 3 treats) for Kristen then immediately back to bed. At 2 pm, more because of an irrational fear of getting bed sores than anything else, I finally rousted myself from my bedchamber and looked outside. Apparently while I had been channeling Rip Van Winkle, God had decided it would be funny to first drop another foot of snow on Ohio, and then swirl it all around, culminating in a giant 3 foot snow drift covering half my driveway. Seriously, snow up to Alistair's door handles. In addition to my aching mucus-riddled head, I suddenly realized I was experiencing another sensation: Hunger. This was likely due to my having consumed nothing but Nyquil and water for the better part of two days.

I checked the fridge: onions, one Corona (been in there for 5 months - also no lime), expired apple cider, assorted condiments. Hmm. It seems I haven't gone grocery shopping in a while. I tried the cabinet: a can of stewed tomatoes, cheesecake flavored pudding mix, half a jar of Jif, olive oil, teabags, two packets of Changin'-Cherry Kool-Aid mix (the package reads "Watch the Green mix change into a Blue liquid. Surprise! It tastes like juicy Red cherry!" I think to myself :OH YEEAAHH! and crash through a brick wall, figuratively of course). OK. First of all, I can't believe I don't have any friggin pasta in my house. I ALWAYS have pasta; I'm Italian for fuck's sake. I can always count on pasta in an emergency. Not so much today. There is no way I am going to be able to shovel myself out of the driveway and get to the grocery store in my current condition. I'm woozy just from standing up for 10 minutes. I sigh, make a cup of tea, grab the Jif and a spoon and settle in on the couch.

I proceed to spend the next umpteen hours watching "I Love the 90's: Part Deux" on VH1. If you haven't seen it yet, check it out. It's worth it just for "Ben Stein's Pimpin'-est Tracks". Also for Hal Sparks' speculation that "More Than Words" by Extreme is not so much a love song as it is a euphemism for "Shut up and give me a blow job". Hal Sparks - what a card. I laughed out loud, and then said "Ow." When I finally couldn't take any more of that I put the Jif away and went to bed.

On Sunday I woke up feeling exactly the same, except now my lungs also hurt. I glanced out the window hoping that the snow had been miraculously swept away, but it hadn't. I really wanted to do two things: go to the doctor and buy groceries so I'd have something to eat. To do that I needed to get my car out of the driveway. To do that, I'd have to shovel. I put 27 pairs of pants on, my heaviest coat, my mittens (I wear mittens like a little kid - they're warm and I think it's funny when people say "What the hell are you wearing? Mittens?"), a hat, and my yard-work shoes and headed out to the driveway. I managed to shovel about a quarter of it before my disease-weakened frame gave out. I was not going anywhere. Defeated I trudged back into the house. Nyquil followed, and then football. Halfway through the NFC game I suddenly recalled that it was possible to actually have pizza delivered to the house. It just hadn't occurred to me before. So I called Pizza Hut and they brought me the first solid food I'd had in days. Smurfiest pizza I'd ever tasted.

I guess it wasn't so terrible. Kristen was pleased that I stayed home with her for two entire days, my inability to leave gave me a chance to watch both football games in their entirety, and I'd had the forethought to buy the Cherry Nyquil instead of that ass-flavored stuff, so I wasn't gagging on that all weekend. But in the future I will definitely make sure I have staple foods in the house at all times. And a backup plan for having some poor sap come over and shovel for me. Because you never know.

Ill Communication

I am coming down with something. It feels like there is another, slightly smaller head inside of my outer head, and it's growing and trying to push it's way out. Sort of like Army of Darkness, except coming out of my head instead of my shoulder ("See, you're *good* Amber, and I'm BAD Amber!!!!") Also most of the cavities in my head are filled with goo. My head weighs 80 pounds right now. It is so gross being sick. We're starting our busy season at work, the time where I pack a bag, work all night and take a sponge bath in the bathroom at 6 am every morning. It is not a good time to be getting sick. I am going home, drinking some Nyquil, and getting catatonic with my bad self.

I'm out like NHL hockey.

Lessons Learned

I had an eventful birthday party. I learned many new things. I will now impart to you my new knowledge, so that you too can learn from my experiences:

1. Just because you went home with the bartender on Friday night does not mean that he won't try to pick up girls right in front of you on Saturday night. He may also tell stories about other girls he's taken home in the past right in front of you as well. He also will have no idea why this might bother you.

2. If a really weird guy invites you back to his place on Friday night for some champagne and weed, without ever bothering to introduce himself, and you tell said headcase that you are busy right then, but instead he should come to your birthday party on Saturday night, he will show up at the party. And have some kind of weird expectation that you will remember having invited him. And he will leer at you.

3. Shots make you drunk. Moreso when you are not accustomed to doing shots.

4. If you are having a conversation with a group of guys, and you make an offhand comment to the effect of "See, the key to giving a good blow job is that you have to actually like doing it. That's why I'm so good.", the gentlemen you are speaking with will suddenly become very very interested in you.

5. If that same group of gentlemen happen to be close personal friends of the aforementioned callous bartender, and you complain to them about the recent behavior of the callous bartender, they will be extremely understanding and sympathetic. Additionally, if one of those gentlemen happens to break up with his girlfriend the very same night, he will be extra understanding and sympathetic.

6. If the bartender sees you flirting with/being mildly groped by close personal friends of his, he will not be amused. He will express displeasure with all of the parties involved by alternately ignoring them and giving them dirty looks. He will find it entirely irrelevant that he was picking up chicks right in front of you and that you found this upsetting. It is possible he will send everyone angry text messages the next day.

7. If you piss off your bartender, you will have to get drinks from one of the other bartenders, because your bartender will be "too busy". This is not really a problem, so long as one of the other bartenders is a 60-something sweet little Asian man who recognizes you and knows it's your birthday.

8. If your brother makes out with his buddy's ex-girlfriend, and has dinner with her before the party, he may uninvite his buddy from your party. If his buddy shows up at your party anyway, and brings his new girlfriend, when he comes up to hug you and you say "Hey I thought you weren't coming!", he may flash you a big grin and reply, "Yeah, I heard your brother made out with my ex and he was afraid I'd be mad, but I honestly don't care. So I'm here." If you are drunk and being groped by personal friends of your bartender at the time he says this, you will forget to tell you brother about the exchange. Don't worry about this - your brother can always read about it later on your blog.

9. If you are a big Ohio State fan, and one of the bouncers is a big Michigan fan, you can still be friends so long as you are charming and cute. He will probably agree that Lloyd Carr is an idiot anyway.

10. If one of your bartender's close personal friends is a talented musician with a recording contract, and he complains about how bad he sings/plays guitar/plays piano, and further complains that all of his relationships with girls are volatile and end in disaster, he will not be amused when you disparagingly tell him he is "SUCH a tortured artist", even if it's true.

And now you know everything I know. Stay tuned to the Bizzybiz Blog for more helpful observations on drinking and awkward social situations as they occur. Or leave a self addressed stamped comment for amberance at the lessons learned post, and I will try to answer your questions to the best of my ability.