Three wishes.

The other day, I put this up as my status on facebook:

Fabulously Awkward needs a genie. First wish: Packed. Second wish: Moved. Third wish: Unlimited wine and cheese.

However, now that I am (almost) fully packed and my movers have confirmed, my wishes have changed. First wish: Hammock on a nice beach. Second wish: Bucket full of ice and Corona Lights. Third wish: Cabana boy to stick the appropriate lime wedge into my beer and serve it to me when I am thirsty. (What?! If I have a genie, I am wishing for something truly redonk. True story.)

I don't always wish for the same things when I get my "I need a genie" thought in my head. Why is that? I lead a pretty grand life. So I like to only wish for the most insane things that I most likely won't get. Although, I do have a birthday coming up. (Hint, hint, P.I.C. Perhaps you can don your best Cabana boy digs and serve me cervesas on a beach whilst I lay in a hammock? Best birthday ever, I'd say.)

Some days my wishes are mean-spirited (Third wish: That girl who STEPPED ON MY TOE on the bus falls down when she gets off the bus.) Some days they are genuine (First wish: Just fix the oil spill. Please. Make it go away.) Most days, they are ridiculous. Frankly, I tend to be a rather ridiculous person, so it is only fitting that my wishes are ridiculous.

What are YOUR three wishes for today? Serious comments only. JUST KIDDING. The more ridiculous, the better. In fact, I will give a GREAT PRIZE for the best wishes. (Just kidding. Again.)

(Here's the lamp. Rub it. Make three wishes and then tell me.)

Merging dishes.

Moving in with someone means you have to take each household item you own individually, evaluate it, and determine whose is better. More importantly, you determine who has a greater attachment to that item. Since I am fortunate that P.I.C. is a very laid back person, I win most of these evaluations by default. Well, I do have the newer furniture. And I do love my dishes. And my bed is definitely more comfortable. (Sadly, I lost the television debate. :::SOB:::) We have had minimal disagreements about the merging of our items. For that, I am very grateful

We have a friend, a former coworker of mine and a current coworker of P.I.C., who has also just moved in with her boyfriend. I will call her Ding, for reasons that I will explain in another entry on another date. Ding is a rather particular person. She is organized and meticulous about her belongings. This characteristic is visible in her office based on her "piles" of files on the floor. While I never got to go to her last apartment, I imagine that her apartment was spotless and very neatly organized at all times. P.I.C. and I had lunch with her and were discussing all of the aspects of the "moving in together" process. However, her version was quite different from ours.

Ding: "Man, Mr. Ding and I are having a difficult time putting stuff away. He keeps on asking me when we are going to merge our dishes."
P.I.C.: "Wait, what? Merge your dishes? What do you mean?"
Ding: "Well, I put all of my dishes on one side of the cabinet and his on the other. He wants to ... mix them." (She sounded somewhat horrified by this prospect.)
P.I.C.: "You mean to tell me that you have two sets of dishes in your new home?"
Ding: "Yes. I mean, I am not going to use HIS dishes. No way."

Silence ensued until P.I.C. and I realized we were each laughing so hard that it was silent. Yep. She really is that particular. The visual of a cupboard with two perfectly organized sets of dishware sent me over the edge. Of course, we then immediately began poking fun at her, envisioning them cooking on separate dishes and making separate meals at the same time.

(On that note, if anyone took MY neurotic tendencies and made them into a blog, I'd probably cut him. Just an FYI.)

Sayonara to my Samsung

Well, to my television that is. It isn't a Samsung. Wait, does Samsung makes televisions? No matter, mine isn't one of those. It was a White Westinghouse. Well, it still IS a White Westinghouse, but the television is no longer mine.

In more important news, yesterday morning, after loading up P.I.C.'s car, I say goodbye to my faithful TV.

My super-sweet electronic set up. Sure will miss the non-surround sound.

My father gave it to me the Christmas of 1998. A lovely, appropriately-sized 19" television. It was perfect for my dorm room. I would hook it up to my VCR and play tapes, and record my favorite shows. Perfect! That TV moved from one college dorm to another. Then back home to my parents' home. Eventually, that TV became my most trusty Chicago roommate. To Rogers Park, then onto Lakeview, then Lincoln Square, and finally to the Ukrainian Village, the TV was my accompaniment. And yes, I still watched my "tapes." Even last week. Hey, that pilates wasn't going to do itself. I needed my tutor, Ana Caban to talk me through it.

Obvious to even the most oblivious of my readers, I am moving. Moving entails going through things and really decided what makes the "cut" for the move. Moving in with someone else also entails evaluating each of your separate items and choosing the better. Clearly, the 46" flat screen that is barely six months old was going to make the cut. Sadly, my WW wasn't. And so we loaded it up, along with the VCR, DVD player and digital antenna (a trio of items of which I am still shocked didn't fetch me top dollar on craigslist.org) and many bags of clothing and drove off to the Salvation Army. We unloaded each bag onto the truck at the resale shop, none of which really made me sad. But when we got back into the car to leave and I saw my little TV perched on the edge of the truck, I felt rather sad.

I waved goodbye to my TV, telling P.I.C., "You know, I'm really kind of sad to see that TV go. It was old, but it worked, and it made a lot of moves with me."

He responded, "That TV is obsolete. Who cares."

My response? "You're obsolete."

Yes, kids, I may be moving on up (or in), but I still stay close to my immature roots.

Say ahhhh.

I have never been one to be afraid of the dentist. My mom was always very diligent at taking us to the dentist every six months when we were younger. For as long as I can remember, I had my teeth cleaned by the very same hygienist, K. and then examined by the dentist, Dr. J. After the whole ordeal, they allowed me to select a "prize" from the bucket. You know, for not crying. It usually was a jumbo pencil or a tinny ring of some variety. No matter, that prize made my day. Perhaps my lack of fear was due to the fact that I never had a cavity. In fact, to this very day, I have no cavities in my mouth. Tartar? Yes. Plaque? Sure. In fact, the scrapings I have received in my day made me wonder if brushing my teeth had any effect whatsoever.

K was a rather thorough hygienist. Bleeding gums were a common occurrence. I got used to the fact that in order to get my prize, I would have to bear down and let this woman scrape my teeth with a brute force that I was sure rivaled that of the Hulk. Ow. After the fluoride treatment, I wold grab my prize and be on my way. "Look Ma! No cavities again!" High five to Mom for the good genes and the hard enamel on my teeth.

Of course, due to being a rather vigorous thumb-sucker in my youth, I had developed a wicked overbite. In fact, the kids once thought it funny to call me "Bugs Bunny" back in the day. Meanies. Therefore, I had the orthodontic experience (I have blocked the wearing of the head gear...yikes) to remove the overbite and straighten out my teeth. Later, they chose to remove my wisdom teeth, giving my first experience with anesthesia. Not a good one, I promise. However, despite the poking, stretching and cutting that took place in my mouth, I always went back to and liked the same hygienist and dentist.

I saw K and Dr. J until I was twenty-five years old. At that point, I got my first job and was expected to provide my own insurance. Oh. I didn't get health insurance at my first job. And the prospect of finding a dentist in Chicago was very daunting. I'd never had cavities, so I figured I was good. I'd get around to it later. Yeah. THREE YEARS later. I finally had a job with dental insurance. I got a recommendation from a coworker (oh, thanks, P.I.C.) and bravely crossed the doors of my new dentist, Dr. S. If you ever have returned to a dentist after a long hiatus, you know how terrifying that very first appointment back is. Mostly because you are about to get a major tongue-lashing as to the importance of regular visits. There is also the fear of cavities and potential follow up visits including fillings and whatnot. Never having had a cavity or a filling, I was terrified that I would have to endure my first filling. (Hey, I avoided finding this out for three years. My fear was palpable to me at least.)

That first visit back wasn't so bad. Dr. S did my cleaning himself as his hygienist was off on Fridays. He did scold me gently, but it was something that I'd deserved. His assistant took x-rays and a verdict was in: No cavities! Still. He chided me again, "Now you have very nice teeth, so make sure you make another appointment today for your next cleaning and exam." Sure enough, I booked my six month cleaning and was on my way. Turns out, Dr. S wasn't so bad. On my next visit, I got to meet his hygienist. She was the nicest woman to ever clean my teeth. No blood and no pain. It was a miracle.

I have been regularly now since that first visit and have yet to have a cavity. Granted, I had to experience a different hygienist yesterday whom I am relatively certain was angry at my mouth. A water pik AND the scraping. AND multiple flossings? My mouth still hurts. Ow. It was like being in K's chair all over again. I remembered what it was like to bear down for the cleaning. Yet I survived. No tears!

Of course, the prizes nowadays include travel toothpastes, a toothbrush and some dental floss. That doesn't mean I don't open the bag and check to make sure that the hygienist was conscientious of the fact that I am a GIRL and put an appropriate-colored toothbrush in there. Purple? Oh yeah. That works. She might have assaulted my mouth, but at least I was appropriately compensated for my endurance.

My cat might have pica.

I know what you're thinking..."pica" is another abbreviation that Fabulously Awkward loves to use to confuse her readers. Maybe it stands for "Partner in Crime's Assistant?" Nope. I mean pica, the disorder where you eat non-food items like paper or dirt.

Google Health says this:
Children and adults with pica may eat:
-Animal feces
-Clay
-Dirt
-Hairballs
-Ice
-Paint
-Sand

Not that Oxford eats dirt or animal feces Well, not that I have witnessed. I have, however, witnessed him eat a hairball. Sick. And he has this thing where he licks plastic bags. H&M bags are his absolute favorite. He likes to lick bubble wrap too, as I just learned last night. And the handle on the kitty litter box? That's HIS little chew toy. He can't stay away from it. He likes plastic objects. Oh, and bleach spray. Anytime I am cleaning and use the bleach spray, he RUNS to the area where I am cleaning and rolls around, as though I had just spread a fresh batch of catnip for him to ingest. Generally, when he does this, I am quite lazy (well, that's almost always) so I just clap very loudly and he will run away. But the temptation is so great that if I do not move the bag out of his reach, he will slink back over and resume his tender licking of that bag. I generally have to get up and remove the bag from his reach.

Licking a bag doesn't seem too bad, right? He's not actually chewing on foreign objects and swallowing them. There might be chemicals on the bags, yes, so that is why I take the bags away. But the noise is SO ANNOYING. You might not think it's such a big deal. So allow me to set the scenario for a bag-licking cat episode. You are snug in your comfy bed after a long day, ready for some much needed sleep. You begin to drift off toward your dreams when you hear a repetitive noise of a scratchy cat's tongue licking a plastic bag. You attempt to shake it off and fall asleep, but the licking seems to get more intense, as if the cat has brought the bag into your bedroom to taunt you. You can do nothing else but get out of your snuggle zone, locate the bag and cat, and remove the bag. Annoying, right?

After doing some careful research (thanks google!), I feel relatively certain that Oxford has pica. What do I do now?

Sick of the Old Boys' Club today.

I'm going to begin this post by taking a deep, hopefully serenity-inducing, breath.

:::GASP:::

Are you still there? Me too. And I am still irate. Perhaps part of my anger is irrational, but the root that caused the irritation is certainly real enough.

First off, let's get a couple of facts clear.
1. I am a lawyer.
2. I am female.
3. I am still considered young (not even thirty) despite the fact that I have been practicing law for nearly five years.
4. I have blond hair.

My anger is based on an encounter with a judge and another attorney. It is irrational because I am supposed to have a thicker skin than this. I have been yelled at and chastised many times before by both judges and opposing counsel. Why should this incident make me so upset?

This morning, I ventured to another county to attend a hearing. At said hearing, I believed that the judge and opposing counsel "ganged up on me" because of the aforementioned four facts. While I believe that I made some good arguments that toed the line with common sense and common courtesy (not to mention the LAW), I did not prevail at that hearing. The result was not catastrophic. However, my emotions were wrecked as I walked out of the courthouse.

I was so angry, I wanted to cry. (Confession, there were tears on the drive home.) I wanted to scream (Yep, I screamed too.) While I had spent the better part of yesterday drafting, rewriting, researching and copying something to simply TENDER (that's fancy language for "give") it to my opposing counsel, the judge and opposing counsel found that to be inappropriate. Nope. It was more appropriate for me to go back to my office over ninety miles away, prepare a notice for the following week, then MAIL it to opposing counsel. Therefore, I would be forced to drive one hundred eighty miles round trip to accomplish something that I fully intended to accomplish on this very day. (WHAT ABOUT JUDICIAL ECONOMY!!!!????)

The substance of the motion is not relevant to this anger I feel still bubbling at my very core. Rather, it is the treatment bestowed upon me by the judge and my opposing counsel. While I may be young, female and blond, I am still a lawyer and have been around long enough to know how to do things in an effective manner. Furthermore, I just might know a tick about the law. Maybe. So perhaps rather than cutting me off mid-sentence to tell me that it was "inappropriate" for me to hand my motion to opposing counsel at that very moment, then smugly telling me that "I'm sure that you are very confident that you will win this motion, counselor," then making me walk to the TROLLS to file my motion, you should consider those facts.

The root of my anger is being a woman in what still tends to be an "Old Boys' Club." It still makes me incredibly sad that I do not get equal treatment in the courtroom as an older man attorney. I work very hard at my job, so when someone questions my intelligence and my integrity, it upsets me. The fact that I am a woman, or have only been practicing law for five years, should be irrelevant. I believe that courtesy should be extended to me as well. Introducing yourself to me and discussing the matter with me and showing me the order are all common ways that lawyers interact in court. Don't just shove the order at the judge and ask him to enter it when you haven't even shown it to me.

Or else I will go onto a blog and discuss your nose hair issues, other lawyer. Oops. (YEAH. YOUR WIFE NEEDS TO KEEP THAT IN CHECK.)

I promise you, Irritating CTA Rider.

Remember the other day when I was all sentimental and lovely-speaking. I promised that my crabbiness would return the moment I boarded another CTA bus. Ding ding ding!!! Well, really, my irritation stems from attempting to get off the el yesterday morning.

I am fortunate in that I only have to ride the el two stops to get to work. Since that is the case, I have no problem standing. It's less than five minutes, I can make it. No big deal. Of course, there are those people that don't move into the car, thereby preventing others from boarding. That's irritating. But yesterday morning, there was none of that. Furthermore, the stop at which I get off the el is quite a popular one. It is near the courthouse, government buildings, and the basic stop for most folks working in the north part of the loop.

In honor of my newest CTA irritation, I have created a pledge. To you, The Newest Type of Irritating CTA Rider:

If I, as a standee on the el, have moved into the center of the train car and am standing nearby where you are seated and we have just left the last stop, please do not insist that I remove my hand from whatever part of the train I am grasping to remain upright so that you can get closer to the door. I promise to you that I will not trap you in your seat, thereby not allowing you to exit the train. Furthermore, I promise that most of these people crammed into this train car are departing at the next stop. If you just sit tight a moment longer, I promise, we all can get off the train together and make it to work.

(Alright, so there are times when someone is attempting to move me out of the way to push toward the doors when the train hasn't even stopped, let alone opened its doors where I choose to pretend I am oblivious to her plight. I might hold onto that bar until the doors actually open. I really am that passive aggressive. And people with poor manners on the CTA really do irritate me that much.)

I hate you.

The real meaning behind the term P.I.C.

Sunday afternoon, I received a phone call from my mom's youngest sister. We'll call her Auntie Em. Turns out that she and her BFF (that means best friend foreva), April (ha!) were reading my blog (thanks, gals!) and were wondering what P.I.C. means.

April surmised that P.I.C. meant "person-in-charge." Auntie Em cleared the record with that suggestion. She says, "Well, I know that P.I.C. refers to her boyfriend, and he most certainly is not the 'person-in-charge.'" (She knows me so well.) Turns out, not even my mom knew what P.I.C. meant.

Therefore, the grand explanation will ensue. (You're welcome!) Initially, I first heard the term while watching the classic movie, Role Models. (P.S. "classic" was in my sarcastic font, mmmk?) This conversation took place:

         Ronnie Shields: You're my PIC, Wheeler.
         Wheeler: What's a PIC?
         Ronnie Shields: Partner in crime. You're my PIC. Just don't cock-block me tonight.

It was a funny moment in the movie, I swear.

Well. Back in the day, when P.I.C. and I worked together, we shared an assistant. She knew that I generally knew the whereabouts of the boyfriend, so when she was looking for him, she would come to my office and ask, "Where your partner-in-crime at?" Combine that with my little thievery of the P.I.C. term from Role Models (gracias to Ronnie!), and you have a nickname that works for me.

Apparently, no one else fully got it. So. P.I.C. stands for partner-in-crime. And that individual is my boyfriend. For the record, he is definitely not the person-in-charge. I promise.

Saying goodbye.

I am not a hoarder. I swear. Yet I equate things with emotional value. It's the reason that I have a sweatshirt from the International Open Dance Championship 1997. Every time I see that sweatshirt, it makes me think of my squad's trip down to Nashville: staying at the Opryland Hotel, getting into a fight over the boombox and subsequently sneaking into our friend's room to steal it by telling the maid we were locked out, performing in the National Championship and WINNING the National Championship that year for their Poms division. One little scraggly, ill-fitting sweatshirt makes me think of all of those memories.

Sadly, that sweatshirt bit the dust today along with bags and bags of other items that evoked similar emotions. Moving in with the P.I.C. means that I must down-size. I must say goodbye to my things that really serve no purpose other than making me overly emotional. While I might see that shirt as a passageway down memory lane, P.I.C. will see it for what it really is: A really old and kinda crappy sweatshirt that I never wear.

Moreover, I am not only saying goodbye to my apartment and certain items, I am saying goodbye to my bachelorette lifestyle. I actually have to clear my party-planning by my new roommate. (That goes a little something like this: "Um, can you leave for the night? I want to have my friend's bachelorette party here." And him saying, "Um. OK.") I have to realize that I will need to compromise about certain things. Ugh. I hate compromising. Almost as much as I hate throwing away emotionally-charged sweatshirts. He's probably going to make me close the bathroom door now too. Boo.

But here I am, approximately ten days from a life of cohabitation. Throwing away the good stuff. Well, good to me. Saying goodbye. Shutting the bathroom door and all that jazz.

Also, N.B. Be it known that I am not one to give up my sass for a rather cheesy post. Sorry, I don't usually take myself seriously. That damn ugly sweatshirt brought it out. I promise to you that my snarky self will return shortly. I mean, perhaps this sentimentality is because I haven't had to deal with CTA and work issues for the past two days. Tomorrow morning is another day full of CTA and General Public encounters. But for now, I'm feeling rather gushy.

Oh, and I'm also procrastinating from packing. I really will be in trouble if P.I.C. did install that nanny cam he threatened.

Moving stinks (yeah, yeah).

Moving is a part of life. I feel pretty safe in making the assumption that EVERYONE hates it. The packing. The actual physical moving of your stuff. The unpacking. The getting settled into the new place and finding new homes for all of your belongings. It sucks.

Like any professional person who went to college and has lived in a big city for some time, I have had my share of moves. Truth be told, I hate moving mostly because I hate change. I recall when my parents told me that we were moving from one house in the neighborhood to another. I cried for weeks. That dream house into which my family had moved nearly ten years earlier would be another family's dream home. Of course, our new house was better, no doubts about it. And come on. I didn't have any say in the matter. It's not like I was mortgaging the family homes at the age of fifteen. Sand Park Pool didn't pay me that much.

Then there was the succession of college moves. From the first big one where your parents dropped you off with your brand new tiny fridge and shower caddy and bid you a tearful goodbye to the time you moved out of the dorms sans parental help. I had the usual moves. After college, I moved in with my boyfriend at the time and another guy. I was preparing for law school and the rest was dirt cheap. One year later, I was out on my own. I moved into a studio with the smallest kitchen you have ever seen. I sold my car, bought a kitten and settled in. For four and a half years. It was the longest I had lived anywhere since we moved out of the dream house in 1996.

The move out of the studio was the worst move ever. It involved minimal packing, a canceled moving truck, and manual labor from two guys and my brother, paid for with a sushi dinner. It took three days, I got horribly lost in Humboldt Park after midnight when I was trying to return the moving truck (which means nothing to you unless you know Chicago...if you do, my street cred is a little bit higher now, yes?), and shed so many tears. My brother didn't speak to me for the better part of a year after that. It was brutal.

Two years later, I chose to hire movers, and I had P.I.C. there to supervise the packing process. He had to literally stand in my living room and make me pack. Despite my whining and temper tantrums, he got me to pack everything up timely. Turns out I respond well to bribery. The morning of the move, the movers showed up ON TIME, and three and a half hours later, I was in my new home.

And here I am today. "Packing" for yet another move. (I put packing in quotations because I spent most of the day on my couch resting. Not packing. And, quite clearly, I am blogging. I suck at packing.) This move will be a big one. I'm moving in with the P.I.C. It's a move that has been anticipated for awhile, yet all of a sudden, it's happening. Like now.

I am panicky, of course. Obviously, moving sucks. I think that's been established. And the packing. (And the long-established fact that I suck at it.) And the big life change that this move symbolizes. Oh boy. But mostly, this apartment in which I have lived for the past fourteen months was really my favorite place I have ever lived. It is the perfect size for me and Oxford. Sadly, P.I.C. doesn't quite fit. Well, our collective wardrobes wouldn't fit. Let's be honest, we are both love clothes and shopping. In looking at one apartment with little closet space and talking about how we would have to purge much, P.I.C. says to me, "Come on, like you could really get rid of a shirt each time you bought a new one." I retorted (because only a retort is appropriate given his display of sass), "Yeah, look who's talking, clothes whore." His response? "Touche." (Put that one on the board, folks!)

Gotta go. Either my Thai food has arrived, or P.I.C. is here to check on packing progress. I may be in trouble. Shooooot.

Friday, I hate you. Part Deux.

Yeah. I said Part Deux. Saying "deux" rather than "two" implies that I am fancy because I know French words.

Last week, I was having quite the crank-tastic day, if you recall. This Friday, I was determined to make it great. In fact, I really wanted to make today terrific. Like this kid. You know what? I say eff the gentle animals too. I want to see some otters.

In any event, this morning, I woke up semi-early and decided to go for a run. I figured, I'll run a bit, then get coffee on my way home. I had a nice run, had secured a bit fat cuppa joe, and returned home, ready to shower up and get ready for the day. Things were going pretty great.

Then the commute came along.

Reason Number One why I hate THIS Friday:
Then I get to the bus stop. No bus. Fifteen minutes with no bus. I was getting angry. The bus finally arrives, kind of crowded, but not overly so. Anyone who rides CTA buses knows that if you wait a long time, there are certain to be at least two buses show up after the wait. The bus wasn't too crowded, but there was a woman who insisted on standing so close to me she could touch me. My personal space was invaded AND I was late to work. Terrific. Naturally, the bus driver got to where I was to get off the bus and get onto the el, and he would not let us off. That other bus was already at the stop. I finally get off the bus, hearing the train and thinking perhaps I could catch a break. No such luck. "Doors closing." And I was NOT on board.

Then I got to work.

Reason Number Two why I hate this Friday:
I go to court, having been served with a notice for an emergency motion. Of course, my opposing counsel does not show up. This isn't usually an issue, but I'd really rushed to get into the office, was running late, and panicking thinking I would miss the motion. Of course not. Because he wasn't there to present it. Additionally, I needed him to present his motion because it directly involved a hearing this afternoon. This hearing was not to proceed based upon his motion. I was not prepared, thinking the hearing was going to be canceled. (Turns out, they dismissed the case after I had left, so no harm, aside from making my blood boil for quite a bit of the morning.)

Then it came time for lunch.

Reason Number Three why I hate this Friday:
(NOTE: This reason is rather ridiculous. But I'm feeling slightly ridiculous, so deal.)
They have moved the filming of Transformers 3 nearby where my office is located. Of course, we passed the set on our way to lunch. Not only did I NOT see any movie stars, I did not see any transformers. So, I presume they are all computer-created. Not cool. If you are going to get in my way, block my path to lunch, the one thing that could salvage this day, SHOW ME A CAR THAT TURNS INTO A ROBOT IN REAL LIFE. Is that so much to ask?

I swear that I am not always crabby on Fridays. Just lately. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to return to the damn gentle animals. Grumble.

A follow-up to yesterday's Larry story.

Ms. Sass is a loyal follower of my blog. For that, I am grateful. Ms. Sass also knows Larry quite well, having worked with us for a spell. She had a very strong response to my posting yesterday about Larry. This was our conversation over gchat.

Ms. Sass:  btw, tomorrow tell larry you were wrong.

me: WHAT

Ms. Sass: P.I.C. DOES have a man purse

me: He DOES?
(At this point, I am running an inventory of P.I.C.'s bags, wondering if any of them border on a man-purse. I determine that he doesn't, but I am now interested as to where Ms. Sass is going with this idea.)

Ms. Sass: yes
then larry will buy one
hilarity will ensue
i will be entertained from afar

Seeing Larry walk in styling a man-purse might entertain us all, don't you think?

Another episode with Larry!

Hey y'all. Remember Larry? I am enthused to report I have another encounter that made me quite hysterical.

You see, Larry is in his 40s. I imagine back in the day, he had relatively cool moments. However, now he is a husband and a father to two children. I can see him struggling with the fact that he has become a full-fledged "Dad" who wears super-white tennis shoes and tricks his kids into building shelves on a Friday night by telling them it's a new game for "Family Game Night." (Oh wait. Was that just MY dad who pulled the child labor trick?)

Like the majority of guys his age, he is not quite hip to the technology. He had asked a coworker recently to show him "How to Facebook." He has a ton of CDs in his car and does not quite get the whole upgrading to an ipod or the like craze despite being a huge music fan. He's just a little slow when it comes to the computer dealings.

Larry sent out an email the other day to our group requesting information on smart phones. He has decided to upgrade and is ready to be able to get smart with his phone. Us young kids emailed him back with our suggestions promptly. One of my suggestions was the new phone that P.I.C. recently purchased and loved. (Seriously, he wants to have little hybrid, bifocaled Samsung babies with that phone.)

Larry later came down to my office to discuss something work related. However, he had a phone-related question to get out of the way first.

L: "Hi, F.A. I wanted to talk to you about the Smith case. But first, I had a phone question for you."
F.A.: "Shoot."
L: "So, yeah. I went to the store and played with the phones last night. I really liked that one you told me your boyfriend had. But I had a question. It's kinda bulky, moreso than I am used to."
F.A.: "Yeah, you get used to having a bigger phone."
L: "Well, my question is this. So, I assume your boyfriend doesn't carry a man-purse. Where does he keep this phone? Does it fit in his pocket or does he have a belt holster for it?"

I immediately began laughing about the man-purse comment.

What I said: "NO, Larry. My boyfriend does not carry a man-purse."

What I should have said: "Actually, Larry. My boyfriend carries a man-purse. That's what all the cool guys carry these days. I suggest you hit up your local Wilson Leather store and pick one up."

(Sadly, in my process of packing up my life, I have given away my coffeemaker to my mom. That means I do not get coffee until I get to work. Clearly, it has affected my wit and sarcastic abilities in the workplace.)

Oh, Larry. I imagine that there will be a tutorial that accompanies his new smart phone purchase, and more hilarity will ensue.

Sh*t my little sister says???

You know that guy on twitter? The one that has all of those random things his dad says? It is quite hilarious. If you do not follow him on twitter, you really should. An interesting episode last night prompted me to ask myself this question: Should I start one called "Shit my little sis says?"

Last night, I had won free Cubs tickets and chosen to take said Little Sis to the game. I knew she wouldn't stay the entire game, having taken her over two years ago and leaving quite early. However, last night, we lasted exactly a half of an inning. Seriously. I picked her up, we had gone to Bacci for pizza and were set for a few innings of fun. We were walking to the stadium when she promptly informed me, "You know, F.A., I really only like the White Sox because they are good." Fair enough, the White Sox are better than the Cubs at the moment. I can understand that logic. She then began to explain to me that she just didn't like a losing team. (Join the club, L.S. None of us do.) No matter to her, she was going to watch this game with me because she thinks I am awesome. True story.

We climb all the way to the top where our seats are located (free, so no complaints here) and sit. She takes my camera, starts taking photographs of the stadium, the birds, etc. A few minutes before the game even starts, she tells me she is having a stomach pain right along the side of her stomach. I ask her if she'd like to go home and she declines. Five minutes later, she tells me that she thinks she would like to go home. The game had not even started yet. I ask her if she would like to see if she can last one inning and then go home. Her mom wasn't expecting her for an hour, and I hadn't seen her for awhile. I had hoped it was just a passing stomach pain. She then says this to me, "Well, I really don't want to spoil your fun, but I think I should go home." We made it through the first half of the first inning. We walk out to the el at which point she tells me the following.

L.S. "Well. I did eat some Fiber One bars earlier today."
F.A. "How many bars did you eat? And more importantly, in how much time?"
L.S. "I ate two. No. Three. Wait, two and a half. I ate two, then I finished the rest of my mom's. So more like two and a half."
F.A. "When did you eat these?"
L.S. "Oh, in fifteen minutes."

Silence.

Folks, I believe we have located the problem. Sigh. As I mentioned before, this got me thinking about some of the other crazy stuff she has said to me over the course of our match (what the organization calls the relationship).

L.S. "I remember back in the day..." (She said this when she was ten years-old.)

L.S. "My cousin was actin' the fool..."

L.S. "I told my friends that you look like Avril Lavigne."
F.A. "I really don't think that I do. No one else has ever said that."
L.S. "Um, yes, you totally do. I just told them that you don't dress like her and that you have glasses. You don't dress like her. But I probably would."

L.S. "The boys just won't leave me alone because I am so attractive." (She is a very lovely girl, but imagine this said by a ten year-old. Adds a new level of hilarity.)

These are a small sampling of the crazy things that she will utter to me with a straight face. I don't know if a twitter page will garner quite the following, mostly because I try to avoid saying "shit" in front of her. "Stuff my Little Sis Says" just doesn't have quite the same ring.

Trend alert: Denim panties are IN! (Just not for me.)

My very serious question to you all is this: Who decided that denim panties would be an acceptable summer look? Seriously. At this point, I'm not sure if this rant of sorts is in response to my own break-down over a pair of jean shorts. Yes, I tried on jorts. I'm embarrassed for myself too. What can I say, I was feeling a little 90s grunge flavor one day and jean cut-offs seemed appropriate. Turns out, that look does not work for me. It induced a breakdown of monstrous proportions in which I decided I would try the anorexia diet. I believe I ate french fries two days later. Clearly, I failed THAT diet as well.*

I have noticed girl after girl wearing these minuscule denim shorts all summer long. First it was one of our softball players. She shows up wearing these jean shorts that are so unbelievably tight and short. She then proceeds to announce, "Coach, can I run to the port-a-potty? I have an incredible wedgie." We did allow it, but scoffed at her fashion choice. Seriously, how can you run and throw a ball in shorts that force your underwear to run up your butt, they are so tight?

I also noticed them at Lollapalooza. It was at this point that I began to term them "denim panties."** The reason for the term is self-explanatory: they tend to be so short and tight, they resemble underwear, NOT appropriate summertime shorts. Sometimes the girls were tiny in these denim panties. Sometimes the girls were not-so-tiny. And sometimes the girls' denim panties were so tight and so short, I was certain that they were the real reason for the prevalence of the medical tent at the festival.

EDIT: By popular demand, here is a photograph from Lollapalooza. You can see several girls sporting the "denim panty" look. Yeah. Especially that girl in the pink. Ouch. I bet she has an incredible wedgie.

No matter the size, I determined that denim panties are just not an appropriate fashion choice for any event.

* Any anorexics or recovering anorexics please don't take offense. I know that eating disorders are a serious issue. However, anyone taking my blog even remotely seriously needs to calm down. I am a real jokester. Duh.

** I admit that someone else could have come up with this term. However, I am owning it, here and now, and hereby declaring it a pretty serious epidemic for Summer 2010.

Friday, I hate you.

Are you getting tired of all the TGIF going around? That common sigh you share with the worker in the elevator that indicates, yes, you are both so happy that it is Friday?

Then THIS, my friend, is the blog entry for you.

I'm saying all of this in jest, of course. I'm just as glad it's Friday as the next office worker. (I would say 9-to-5er, but come on. Most of us can't stick to that schedule.) However, as I walked the two blocks to the bus, I walked past the Ukrainian lady and had the overwhelming sensation to punch her in the head (I'm really not a violent person, I swear), I began to think of things that irritated me. For ease of reading, I have made a list of my top three annoying things this Friday.

1. The rude elevator dude. Roughly once a week, I encounter this guy who works in my building. We often find ourselves waiting for the elevator at the same time in the morning. This guy will shove his way in front of me to get on the elevator in front of me. It drives me insane. I have come to appreciate a little chivalry. Personally, I find it charming when man steps aside and lets me get on the elevator ahead of him. That's just me. Conversely, I find the men that find it necessary to nearly shove me out of the way to get on board first to have poor manners. So to you, rude elevator dude: Your momma did not raise you right. Sorry.

2. Those giant nanny strollers. I just saw them for the first time last Friday. They look like non-motorized golf carts. They take up the ENTIRE sidewalk. I saw a gaggle of them this morning. It is like you took the already annoying double-wide stroller and added a back seat. While that back seat does not take up more room on the sidewalk, rolling that thing up behind someone is frightening. It's huge. Find another way, nannies. Please. (I reserve the right to amend the venom I spew for double-wide strollers when I become a mom. But for now...annnoyyyying.)

3. My hair. I am having the "day after haircut and I hate it" hair day. Don't get me wrong, I love my stylist. I will continue to see her faithfully. Yet every time I have ever gotten my haircut, I inexplicably hate it the next day. Today, I have decided that my hair feels mullet-like. This irritates me to no end. I am not a mullet-wearing kinda girl. (P.S. Someone please reassure me right quick that layers do not equal a mullet. PLEASE.)

Also, while I have mentally pledged to myself to not complain about the heat, I'm giving it an honorable mention to my top three annoyances. Showers are no match for this weather. Why bother, right? Although, the heat does give me a legitimate excuse to not run after work. I mean, a heat advisory is a real thing, right? I guess I choose my gut over heat stroke.

Happy Friday, everyone. (I'm a jerk.)

Messing with Sasquatch

I've been in a rather jokester mood as of late. Perhaps it was my coworkers joke last weekend of texting me while I was at Lollapalooza on Friday afternoon and telling me that we did, in fact, have a hearing that Monday morning on a case I'd thought we'd resolved. Turns out, she was pulling my chain and laughing hysterically to boot as I began frantically sending text messages about hiring a court reporter for Monday and mentally writing an opening statement in front of the Budweiser stage. JUST KIDDING. Not cool at all. Since that moment, I've felt a desire to give it back. You know, that feeling of GOT YOU? Yeah. I wanted to serve it up.

I got my opportunity the other day and it was delicious.

I'd been wondering why P.I.C. had been teasing me so fervently lately. We've always had that relationship where we tease each other. It's the way I was raised (hi Mom!) and the way everyone in my family relates to one another, and it is the same for P.I.C. Teasing = I love you. That's just the way it is. Some days it seems a bit much from him though. The other day, he brought out the whiny little girl in me and I asked him, "Why do you tease me so much?" Silly me. That's just the way it is.

So when the opportunity to "punk" someone (thank you, MTV) came around, P.I.C. became my intended target. A simple text from a girlfriend asking if I could babysit on Saturday night turned into..."What if I told P.I.C. that I volunteered HIM to babysit for Saturday night since I can't do it?"

A little background information: P.I.C. has never been around babies, for the most part. Like most guys, he didn't babysit his way through high school as his female counterparts might have done, and he just didn't ask to "hold the baby," something the females in my family loved to do. He's often told me that he'd prefer to just have a baby come out at about two years old, when "they don't look like an alien and can talk and all that cool stuff," and I actually had to explain to him WHY you don't give infants peanut butter. (No child of his will develop a peanut allergy, because he fully intends to build up peanut immunity from birth.) So I knew deep down that telling him he would have to babysit by himself would probably induce hysteria.

Let's do this.

I decided, "Why not, let's see who can't make over medium eggs now, Mr. Funny Man." Here is how the text messages ensued:

F.A."I volunteered you to babysit."
P.I.C. "Who?"
F.A. "It's for our friend's friend. She's 1, your nephew's age. Thought you'd be able to handle it. Saturday night. You can park in the condo parking garage."
P.I.C. "I'm going to assume you're joking."

At this point, I decided the screws needed to be put to him. I told my friend, "Hey, guess what I'm doing?" She joined in the fun. She texted him:

"I really appreciate you babysitting for me Sat nite. You're doing me a HUGE favor and it means a lot to me."

With additional foundation laid, I continued the joke via text message.

F.A. "No, I really thought you'd appreciate the money. You can meet your friend after for drinks."
P.I.C. "Are you serious? I'm going to to be alone with a one year-old?"

At this moment I knew I had him. That text message assured me that he was buying it. Additionally, I was laughing hysterically.

F.A. "Think of it as practice. I'm sure the money'll be good. And the kid will probably be in bed by 8 so you can just watch TV."
P.I.C. "Tell me you guys are f**king with me right now."
P.I.C. "Do I have to feed them? Change a diaper? I've never watched a five year-old let alone a baby."

At this point, I can feel the panic coming from his text messages. I let him know I was joking to this response:

P.I.C. "I hate you both right now."

Perhaps I shouldn't wonder why he teases me incessantly. For the record, this was totally worth the wrath I endured from him. Totally.

That guy.

While my time at Lollapalooza ended up being about the music and not as much about the personal observation I had planned, there was one particular drunkard that sticks out in my mind. It was day three at the Arcade Fire show. P.I.C. had just returned from rocking out to a few songs of Soundgarden and we had pressed inward for better sound to the middle of the crowd.

Day three at Lollapalooza turns out to be quite the show of nastiness. The portapotties smell funky, beer cans go uncollected and people stop worrying about lasting another one or two days and just get wasted. We had an encounter with one such fellow. We had just gotten into the middle of the crowd to finish watching Arcade Fire, as I had said. There was a youngish married couple in front of us also enjoying the show. However, it turns out, the guy was gone. As in, "drinking beer and smoking whatever all weekend and finally it caught up to him" gone.

Some of the antics we witnessed from Drunk Guy:
1. Inability to keep his shirt on. We lost count of how many times his wife put his shirt back on his body. (Honestly, to defend the guy, it was probably 1,000 degrees out on Sunday evening, if I'd have been able, I would have wanted to take my shirt off, and I wasn't drunk.) This made me think of Jim Breuer doing Tracey Morgan on the WGN Morning News. Watch and laugh. See if you don't start saying "Yammo take my shirtoff." (It gets good at the 2:30 mark. Trust me.)

2. He fell down. Flat on his back, he almost took out my friend. My friend's husband had to help him up, for which he got a very enthusiastic high five. My friend got a pleading "I'm sorry" from the wife.

3. Crowd mingling. This might have been my favorite antic of his. He would walk up to the surrounding people, grab their hands, and initiate an enthusiastic jumping up and down dance move.

4. Increasing in severity scolding from the wife. Nope. Changed my mind. THIS was my favorite antic. At first, she seemed mildly amused. About the fourth time she had to button his shirt off, she started looking annoyed. It started appearing as if she was dealing with a petulant, misbehaving child. Hilarity began to ensue. She would say such things as, "Look at me, look at me. You need to stop" and "No. No. Shhhhh." She did the aforementioned pleading apology to me as he enthusiastically began jumping around and CRUSHED a water bottle that exploded my feet in water. My friend said she overheard the guy say to his wife, "Nooo, I don't hate you." We determined that at some point when she was scolding him, he'd said "I hate you." Eventually, about thirty minutes before the show ended, she started packing up to leave. He protested. His form of protest was to get down on one knee, a move usually accompanied by him taking his shirt off again. She began to pull him up and tell him, "You have run out of all other options. The only option left you have is to go home."

Oh, the hilarity of Drunk Guy. Good thing I am able to turn episodes with "That Guy" into funnies. Otherwise I'd have been a nervous wreck on a steady stream of Xanax this week.

(Also, I had thought of perhaps putting a spin on this entry that "all men are like toddlers" which could be a semi-accurate statement. Then I realized that I have never witnessed P.I.C. and my friend's husband behave like toddlers. I felt that making this an angry female blog entry would be unfair. Mostly because I fancy myself a cool chick with feminist values and not an angry one. Mostly.)

Lollapalooza Days Two and Three: A little rain then heat never hurt nobody.

Well. Sadly my title of this post is a lie. People were passing out left and right on Sunday (Day Three) from the heat, dehydration, drinking, drugs and the like. Yikes. So, I suppose I should reword it to say "A little rain then heat didn't hurt us." But I'm not going to do that. Much like my laziness in editing the title to make it a true statement, I am not going to write separate entries about Days Two and Three at Lollapalooza. Why? Same reason: sheer laziness. Let's get on with it, shall we?

Day Two was hectic. We literally walked from the northern-most stages to the southern-most stages six times. At least. It's a hike. We saw a ton of bands. Rather than stay for entire sets, we popped in and out of shows to hear a song or two. My favorites included Gogol Bordello, a crazy gypsy band that had the entire crowd in a dancing frenzy and Green Day. Apparently, I also decided to start taking pictures of guys in Ed Hardy t-shirts.

Here's one:

We had fully intended to go catch the end of Phoenix, but we were having way too much fun at Green Day. Their show was insane and included pulling people up on stage, Billie Joe Armstrong giving away a guitar (!!!), fireworks and massive singalongs. It was incredible. And I'm not even a huge Green Day fan. We got home from Day Two, showered, and passed out as if we'd been knocked unconscious by a frying pan.

Day Three arrived with some rain. No ponchos for us, we toughed out the rainy time by hiding under the trees and scoffing at those who felt the need to ponch up at a couple of drips. Not gonna lie, I felt pretty rock and roll. (Yeah. I'm a nerd.) We started with a London-based girl called Neon Hitch. She was very energetic and fun. At that moment, I decided Day Three would be a dance party. That is, until we walked over to see another band and decided to set up shop for a little sitting and listening to music in the background. We learned that when we were tired, we could set our blanket out between the Budweiser stage and the Playstation stage and listen to each band pretty clearly. Since the rain had long-gone and the sun had come out, it was hot and very humid. My grand notions of a dance party had faded for the time being.

We walked around a bit, found our Brooklyn buds (who had nearly received concussions from the MGMT crowd surfing), and found our places for the final show of the night: Arcade Fire. P.I.C. made it down to the south end for a bit of Soundgarden and then joined us later. The show was amazing. Truly amazing.

Honestly, I expected to go to Lollapalooza 2010, have a good time, reaffirm my self-diagnosed case of agoraphobia and say "That was fun. Don't think I'll do it again." I thought I'd have funny little stories about drunk people and people with poor social skills and funny outfits. While I do have those stories, those are not the ones that ring clearest in my head. The music has stayed with me.

Surprisingly, I want to do it again. I want to experience the crowds and the sweat and the filth. I really loved it more than I ever thought I would. Despite the dirt, the sweat and the obnoxious people, the uniting power of music is a beautiful thing. It is almost like discovering you have 95,000 new best friends, all who came together to experience music in a most amazing way.

Not to worry, I'm not going to go music snob. P.I.C. has dibs on that moniker. But it's really nice to know that I have a greater appreciation after three intense days of music.

(I'm sure I'll be back to my snarky self tomorrow. And listening to the new Enrique Iglesias song. Judge me. I don't care.)

Lollapalooza Day One Recap: From Airplanes to a Disco Stick

As I write this entry, please realize that my feet are the size of cantaloupes and my entire body has been ravaged by mosquitoes. Day one of Lollapalooza...check! It was a blast. We saw FOURTEEN bands perform yesterday. Not a bad first day, huh? My favorites were B.o.B., Matt & Kim, The Ettes, The Strokes and The Black Keys. I bet y'all were CERTAIN I would say that I loved Lady Gaga. My not-so-professional music opinion? Meh. Seriously. Meh times two. As much as I have a dance party around my apartment to her songs, she was bizarre on stage. I left and caught the entire Strokes set which was incredible.

Now, onto the review of the personal encounters I had as a concert-goer. I was excited to see B.o.B. perform live, so we left home a little bit before 11:00 a.m. to catch them at 11:30 a.m. Silly me for not leaving early, the lines were crazy, as I should have anticipated. We were through the gates by noon to catch the tail end of B.o.B. which was incredible. He finished with a cover of MGMT's Kids which was fantastic. At this point, it wasn't too crowded and no one was incredibly wasted.

As the day progressed, and we walked around catching a song here and a song there, we noticed the girls that were at Lollapalooza for one sole reason: Lady Gaga.

I'm pretty sure this girl was not there to see The Strokes:

I only wish I had the stealthiness to snag a photograph of the girl wearing caution tape as a top and five-inch stilettos. Joke was on her when she got over to the stage where Lady Gaga was performing and it turned out to be a mud pit.

My most horrific crowd moment was during Matt & Kim, a band that I was beyond thrilled to see. It was around 5:00 p.m. and starting to get very crowded. People were also starting to get drunk et cetera so the pushing was starting. I started a new personal policy. If someone wanted to push past me and didn't say excuse me, I would either (a) not move, (b) toss an elbow out there, or (in the most egregious case) (c) do a trippage. Okay, so I only tripped on person and I didn't really elbow anyone, but that was after she stepped on my foot, I shouted in pain, and she just kept walking. So deserved it. Poor P.I.C. Him having to manage stressful crowds and my attitude problem was likely a real challenge. We survived though. And Matt & Kim ended up being one of my favorites of the day, crowds aside.

People watching was excellent from the Lady Gaga fans to the crazy tattoos, like this guy's:

Sure. A flaming sword sounds great for an all-back tattoo.

In any event, a super fun day. I'm hoping that today I get my desire to trip people out of my system (as in, I stop doing it) today. Only time will tell.

Lollapalooza Vacation 2010

I know. Two postings in one day. Y'all can barely stand it. In a good way, of course.

Well, as of 5:00 p.m. today, I have decided I am on a Lollapalooza 2010 vacation. Yep, I will be attending Lollapalooza for the very first time. Perhaps you know this, but I am not a "music person." I love music. I mean, I was in a band, for crying out loud. (Ugh. OK. So I played the flute in the sucky band in high school. The Concert Band was the second tier band. That was all me.) But seriously, I am constantly chastised for my collection of Britney Spears CDs or the fact that I leave the embarrassing radio stations on in P.I.C.'s car. I get it. I'm not a cool music person. That has long since been established.

So why, you might be wondering, would a girl like me be attending Lollapalooza?

For starters, I do love music. The fact that I don't know half the bands on the line-up is regardless. I enjoy listening to all kinds even if I'm not familiar with the particular band. Additionally, live music is something special. The vibe of the crowd, the presence of the band, all of these factors can add up to a fantastic experience. And, most importantly, the observation of people. Oh, when people come out in masses, the observations are truly great.

With that, my dear readers, I reveal my own brand of coverage of Lollapalooza 2010. I will be watching people, seeing their weirdness, their own little (or big, we can hope) moments, and documenting them with my mind. I hope to share some super-fun stories with you as the weekend progresses.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm back to making my own schedule of unknown (to me) bands. I'm that cool. (Not really. Let's be serious. Flute. Sucky band.)

The meanest lady in the world.

I have been at my current job for over seven months now. I have lost my building ID card once. Allow me to tell you how this caused me to encounter what is arguably one of the meanest ladies in the world.

It is important to note that I am prone to losing things. I am relatively certain that I will never receive an engagement ring because I have lost nearly every piece of jewelry gifted to me by a significant other. I have lost drivers licenses. Keys. And building passes? Yeah. I lose those on a semi-regular basis. For those of you who have never had to get one, a building pass is a common accessory you receive when you are working in a building in a big city. Sometimes it has your photograph. Sometimes you have to scan it as you walk by security. But in every grown-up job I have had, I have had to use a building pass. And every building pass I have ever had has been lost at least once. (That's at least six, for the record.)

So, of course, two months into this job, I drop my building pass somewhere in the quarter block walk from my office building to the courthouse. How I lost the ID is not the relevant inquiry to this fact. I know that when I receive a building pass, it is likely to get lost at some point. When I will lose the ID is the important question. After several unsuccessful visits to lost and founds (did YOU know there was a lost and found in the Daley Center?), I was faced with contacting Human Resources and telling the representative that I needed a new ID card. This is a chore in and of itself. After I had waited the requisite three days to make sure that no one mailed it back to building security (seriously?) and showed the video proof that I had gone to all available lost and founds (kidding), I was able to get on the list to get a new ID. Ten days later. Say whaaaa? Oh yeah. They only print the IDs once a month. Shoot me now. (Or then. You know.)

So ten days of having to ask the receptionist to buzz me into the front door (supremely annoying, trust me), I hustle down to the second floor to get a new ID. I join the growing line of employees waiting to receive a new badge. At my present place of employ, you wait in a long hallway with a few chairs. When it is your turn, they will say next. At that moment, you are expected to be in that office explaining how you are (a) on the list to get a new ID and (b) that you are not an incompetent buffoon for either losing your ID or requiring a new one (because yours has expired.) Speed is key here. This woman is already angry. The key is to attempt to not anger her further.

As we all anxiously awaited to bolt down the hallway when it was our respective turn, the conversation stuck to one topic: the insane meanness of the one individual who printed the IDs. I am not sure how long she has worked in the building, but she is notorious for giving the business (which is my speak for being nasty) to anyone and everyone who requires this basic necessity of a building ID. After approximately twenty-five minutes of anxiety, it was my turn. I changed into my running shoes and positioned myself close to the door so that when she said next, I could be in the chair in a flash.

I knew she was going to be upset from the get-go because I had to tell her that I had lost my ID. I sat in the chair as she looked through each and every one of her email print-outs that put us on the ohsoimportant "list" to get a new ID. She looked through those emails probably six times. After I nearly had a heart-attack thinking that she was not going to give me a new ID, she found the email. I then explained to her that "no, my name didn't change, I just lost my ID." The look of disdain that woman gave me probably knocked me down to an even five foot six inches of height (down from five foot six and a half). She then asked for my drivers license and began the process of printing me a new ID. Of course, at this very moment, the machine chose to break. Out of toner, she says. Apparently, this was all my fault. Ten minutes later, she fixed the toner problem, all the while spouting nasty little blurts implying that this trouble in her life was due to me losing my ID. I received the ID after being in that uncomfortable chair for fifteen minutes with a stern admonishment: "This is your ONE. DON'T lose it again." Alright, lady, I got it. Now you know why I hold it in an obnoxious pink holder. Less likely to lose it again and go through this nasty process.

Every time I see this woman outside of her ID-making cave of an office, I laugh. Honestly, how can anyone be so incredibly mean to every single person who walks through her doors? It is actually quite hilarious. I anticipate after I have been working at my job for awhile longer that I will want to mess with her. Maybe after I have been with this job for a year. Then it is likely for me to lose my ID and have to go pay her another visit. I actually get very excited when I see her. She maintains a look on her face that makes me think she has just taken a swig of sour milk, then squeeze a half a lemon in her mouth for good measure. I don't know how any person can look so sour day after day. Perhaps this is her special gift. Or curse.

The other day, I was reminded of this awful mean woman. I was riding the elevator down for lunch. I stopped on the tenth floor. A woman was trying to get onto the elevator, but she paused. She had this panicky look on her face as she pawed through her purse in front of the open elevator. She did one of those self-frisking moves and realized she was wearing the item for which she had been so fervently searching: THE ID. She gets into the elevator making an offhand comment about how she can't lose her ID: That woman who makes the IDs is the worst. I laughed. Perhaps I am the only person who is amused by this mean lady. However, it is certain that I am not the only woman she has verbally abused.

Packing. And a trip down memory lane.

Once again, I am preparing to pack my life up. Time to move. Again. Well, I have told myself that I will kick it into high gear after Lollapalooza. So, as of August 9, please feel free to tell me to stop blogging and start packing. It's highly likely that anything  I do via twitter, yelp, facebook or blogspot will be an attempt to avoid packing. I need enforcers in my life. Help me.

One of my favorite things to do when I have a huge task on my plate is to procrastinate. I will go into the project with the best of intentions, yet I am so very easily distracted.

"Oooh, is that a shiny coin?" Yep, that's me.

Packing up my photographs is the worst. I can look at my wide collection of photographs over and over again. The packing of my photographs will most certainly mean me wasting a day of just looking at my old life when I was a youngster. Did you know that I used to be a cheerleader? It seems like another life. I remember my first year of law school when I told a classmate that I used to be a cheerleader. She said, "Really? I can't picture you as a cheerleader."

Well. Booyah.

There I am. Well, there we are. We did both cheerleading and dance, but competed mainly in dance. Above is a photograph from 1998, the IDTA State Competition. Delightful, right? Feel free to make fun of the spandex-clad, high-ponytaled, scrunchy-wearing bunch.

In any event, for most of my life up until the point where my law school classmate told me she couldn't see me as a cheerleader, I had identified with being one: a perky, fun-loving and ditzy girl. Someone telling me that I didn't seem that way was liberating for me. I still will defend cheerleading as a sport. I probably will forever. I did it for years, I know how hard we worked. I still have my videos from our state championships. And I remember routines we did. It will always be a part of me. I imagine that I am still described as fun-loving. Perky? Not-so-much. Ditzy? Depends on the day. I will still bust out a toe touch if need be. (Yeah right. I attempted to do the splits five years ago while I was studying for the bar exam. I couldn't get up the el stairs for a week. Bad idea.) Okay, so I might not actually bust out a toe touch, but I can remember the mechanics of how to do one. That counts for something, right?

On a similar note, I just proved my point. I started to write this, then decided I was going to throw an old photograph in here. I ended up going through all of the old photographs that I had scanned in over the winter onto my computer. Goooodbye thirty minutes! Good thing I haven't started packing yet. I'd be screwed already.

Ms. Sass moved to California.

Perhaps you recall my friend, Ms. Sass. She is my coworker that started at my office on the same day as me. Well, she was my coworker. In June, Ms. Sass decided that a change of scenery was in order. She packed up her belongings, brought along her brother and cousin, and road-tripped it to the land where the grass is always greener (thank YOU for that, Katy Perry). Through her and her own awkward moments, she has provided much material for this blog.

My work partner-in-crime was gone, and I was sad. Still am. But thanks to modern technology, she is still able to update me on the shenanigans of her every day life (No pistol whipping, please). God bless gmail.com and its amazing chat feature.

The other evening, she pops up to chat. She types this: "Ummmm just had to share this: people in bldg across the alley having sex w windows open-guy started barking  and yelled f*ck! And barked some more. Someone needs to know that story."


Apparently, since she lives near the beach (what a bitch), no one has air and everyone leaves their windows open. She often likes to tell stories of young actors walking by her window whining about their agents and auditions. This was the first rather salacious eavesdropping she has ever reported.


She then tells me that this guy has started yodeling. At this point, I accused her of lying. While Ms. Sass has always been honest with me, even I found this far-fetched. I demanded that she take her fancy little iphone out and start recording. Allegedly, the sound would not pick up. I don't fully believe her. Then again, if you click on Katy Perry above and see some "real" California girls, perhaps this type of activity isn't so strange.