Friday, October 29, 2010

Irritate me.

It has been awhile since I had an all-out grieving of my life's annoying aspects, hasn't it? While I didn't wake up on the wrong side of the bed (in fact, I woke up to P.I.C. bringing me coffee and later making my breakfast, the exact RIGHT side of the bed), I still have an incident that bugs me from two mornings ago.

It is no secret to those of you faithful readers: I tend to be rather irritable. Whether it is the person who elbows me to get on the bus ahead of me, or the phantom that clips its nails every Thursday afternoon in my office, I GET ANNOYED. It is the truth. Love it or hate it, it is how I roll.

The other morning, I am waiting with the masses in the El station for my blue chariot to come along and whisk me to my place of work. I walk to the front of where the train will stop because then it is close to the stairway to my building. I used to snag a seat on one of the wooden benches, but recently heard from a reliable source that bed bugs MIGHT reside in those benches, I now choose to stand. I was standing in my usual spot, doing my usual scan for mice and rats down in the tracks (WHAT? Doesn't everyone do that when they ride the El???) when I saw a guy that had been sitting on the bench near where I was standing get up and walk to the edge of the platform. He had made an impression on me as I had walked by a moment before with his too-tight shirt and his sweet tribal arm band tattoo. I figured that he was joining me in my rodent search.

HOW WRONG I WAS. I listened to him suck in through his nose and mouth at the same time and pull all of the mucus to the back of his throat and then whip that mucus out of the front of his mouth onto those unsuspecting train tracks. I WITNESSED HIM HOCK A LOOGIE.

Allow me to let that sink into your system. Sick, right?

So, here's the irritation: I cannot stand when people spit in my presence. I don't care if you are getting over a cold and just have to get that out of your system. I don't care that you just smoked a cigarette and now must complete the ritual. Spitting is nasty. PERIOD. If you are one that MUST spit, please, please, please do not do it in public. It makes you look like a disgusting animal.

And that, my friends, is my irritation of the day (and me imploring you to change your ways if you are a spitter.)

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Why I hate haunted houses.

A few weeks ago, I was out to dinner with friends and one was rather adamant that we visit a haunted house. I ended up winning that battle because I was not the only one who wasn't into the whole "haunted house" scene, but still, it can be embarrassing to admit the real reason why I hate haunted houses. Well, there are two reasons, actually.

Reason One: I had two really bad experiences when I was younger. I remember my friend's eight birthday party. We had pizza at her house, then her mom threw us all in the back of her minivan and took us to the nearest haunted house. There was a huge line, so we all joined the line. I remember feeling nervous, but not overly scared. We had been in line for a few minutes when I heard a huge RIIIIIP behind me. I jumped, turned around and see one of the monsters from the haunted house RIPPPING on a chain saw. RIGHT BEHIND MY NEWLY EIGHT YEAR OLD SELF!!! (Yes, I say newly because I had been seven three weeks before.) Of course, I began sobbing and refused to go in any other haunted houses that night.

Maybe the next year, my parents insisted on taking me and my brother on a haunted train ride. I am fairly certain she thought that I had exaggerated my previous experience and was being a "diva" and that I would be able to handle this. (ME? A diva? Unthinkable!!!!)  This involved going through a shed with monsters in it, banging on the train guessed it...chain saws and other heavy poles. It was so cold that I was wearing a snow cap. My way of coping with that experience was pulling it over my eyes and just not seeing it. At one point, I felt one of the "monsters" reach in the train car and grab my ankle. (My mom insists that I made this up in the midst of my terror, but I swear it happened.) To make matters worse, the train BROKE in after the first shed and the MONSTERS had to help push the train car up the hill so we could get out.

Two HORRIBLE experiences, no?

Reason Two: (I suspect this is the real reason I cannot tolerate haunted houses.) I am still afraid of the dark to some extent. I remember being young and unable to sleep, or even move in my bed, because I was certain that there was a ghost waiting there for me if I flipped over to the other side. There were always monsters in my closet and under my bed. To this day, if I sleep alone, I do a "walk-through" of my apartment to make sure I am in fact alone and safe to go to sleep. I might not have the same paralysis due to fear as I once did, but I still remember my youthful fright.

Moral of this story? DO NOT ASK ME TO GO TO A HAUNTED HOUSE. I will say no.

(I will, however, carve pumpkins, dress up for Halloween and drink spiked cider. I'm not a fun-hater of all fall things. I swear.)

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

A very culinary weekend...brought to you by wine.

Friday night, one of my very dearest friends treated me to a cooking class for my birthday. Neither of us is particularly culinary, despite my efforts to the contrary, so there was worry that we just might loose a finger throughout the course of the class. Lucky for us, the class not only started with a kick ass sangria recipe and included all you can drink from our respective homemade vats of it, but also wine and copious amounts of food that we prepared. We left feeling a little bit more culinary than when we walked through the doors. Was it the wine or the instruction? Who really knows.

In fact, I felt so culinary that I created a weekend of fancy meals. Saturday night, I made a pretty amazing risotto that made our entire apartment smell of fall and loveliness. P.I.C. took to bragging about me via facebook and the twitter. I felt quite fancy. (P.S. Risotto involves endless amounts of stirring. My recommendation to you is to have your handy sous chef on call to keep refilling your wine glass.)

Here is my most delicious roasted squash:

Mmm. Brown sugar and cinnamon. Also, does anyone else get the giggles when picking out a butternut squash for purchase? It's just me? Never mind.

Sunday night, I made a burgundy pork tenderloin that turned out quite well. With a WINE sauce. I find it interesting that the items I continue to cook involve wine. Perhaps I love it that much? Or perhaps I love having wine to drink that is the perfect accompaniment because it is IN the dish. I don't know. But cooking with wine is FUN. Even though I usually have to google in the grocery store "what kind of white wine do I use in risotto?" (Answer: Sauvignon blanc is a safe bet.)

My two dishes turned out pretty well and produced enough food for another meal later in the week. The expense at the grocery bill was definitely worthy given I fed two people four meals, two of which were heavily wined. Sadly, the wine didn't last through two meals. I mean, come on, I had to COOK with it. Oh yeah, and use some of it my recipes. That too.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Another funny episode with Larry.

Sometimes Larry makes me want to pull my hair out. Lately, however, I have been able to elicit a goofy side from him. He responds well to my silly nature. Naturally, I find this hysterical. Here is the latest.

Today, we are attempting to get ahold of our clients (four individuals) to schedule something. Naturally, no one answers their phones, so we have to leave messages. On one of the voicemails, there is an automated announcement that advises us that "No one is available to take your call." Since we were calling a woman, and the automated voice was definitely the male version, I say to Larry jokingly, "She sounds like a man." However, cleverly, I have said this toward the end of the message. He says to me, "That's not her right," then realizes I am joking and starts to laugh JUST AS IT BEEPS. The message was hilariously awkward.

Point for me in my efforts toward making this office a place where everyone laughs. In the legal field, this sadly is quite a chore. However, I hope with my persistence I can change things. Baby steps right? It helps when you've got a Larry in your office. Truth.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Scary dream with a Rascal.

I am pretty sure I woke up crying in the middle of the night. And when P.I.C. woke me up this morning (reason number 1,248,996 why I love him: NO ALARM CLOCK NEEDED), I was beyond freaked out. You see, I had dreamed that my work had transferred me back to my home town.*

:::::::::::DUN DUN DUNNNNNN:::::::::::::::::

In this dream, we were having a conference. No one would acknowledge me. In fact, at one point, we all turned the tables into a circle formation to face one another. No one said anything. Therefore, I spoke up. "Hi everyone. My name is Fabulously Awkward. I am coming here from the Chicago office." And silence ensued. Seriously? Could they not see how hilarious of a person I am? Did they not sense my fun-loving nature? WHY WOULDN'T THEY SPEAK TO ME??

At that moment, I spied another friend out of the corner of my eye, someone I knew from law school. I chased after her trying to figure out what was going on. Sadly, she evaded me, escaping narrowly in a scooter. Not a "Ciao, I'm from Italia" scooter. It was one of those scooters that elderly or morbidly obese people use to get around. She got away from me on one of those. Word to the wise, this friend is neither elderly nor morbidly obese. But clearly, in my dream, she wanted nothing to do with me.

When P.I.C. woke me up, I was so confused in typical fashion. Only this time he didn't have to clarify the date for me or that he was, in fact, P.I.C. Nope. He had to clarify that my office would never transfer me to my hometown. So, smart readers, please tell me: What does this dream mean? And why was my friend on a RASCAL? (I just remembered what they were called!)

*In no means am I knocking my hometown. I enjoy visiting my friends and family there. I just have no plans to move my pernament residence there. That's all.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

I am a klutz.

I am what most people call a klutz. I drop things. I trip. One glass of wine and my words don’t come out quite so eloquently. I leave the freezer door open for all of my freezer foods to melt. I forget to put the coffee carafe under the brewer when I make coffee. Oh wait. That last one was P.I.C., not me. (ZING!)
However, being this way for my entire life, I have learned to operate my klutziness with some serious smooth operation. I have dropped enough forks at dinner (often flinging them off the table in dramatic fashion, and usually after that aforementioned one glass of wine) that I have learned how to drop things in a rather inconspicuous fashion. Basically, I pretend it didn't happen.

My smooth klutz skills were put to the test at my friend's wedding this weekend. After not much food during the day (seriously, someone needs to remember to FEED THE BRIDAL PARTY) and a cocktail hour with tiny bits of protein which were delicious, but not enough to sop up the pinot grigio I was sipping, I was at the not-so-eloquent state. Within twenty minutes of sitting at the table, I had sent my champagne flying (away from the table, and I only splashed my friend's husband a little bit on the leg.) While the glass was half-full and the liquid went away from the table, it made a pretty loud splash noise. My friend's husband looked at my incredulously as I calmly picked up the overturned champagne flute and moved it to the middle of the table. I then apologized for his pants. Ooops.

Shortly after that, I flung my dinner fork from the table. My usual action at this point is to kick it under the table and calmly ask the server for another fork. Lucky for me, there was a dessert fork right in front of me. Once again, I was busted by my friend's husband. He was either impressed by my ability to just keep with the flow upon dropping nearly everything I picked up or fairly certain that I had serious issues with my motor skills. I am going with the former.

It takes a klutz as experienced as me to really pull it off. And I do. Sadly, I pull that klutz routine off every day of my life. I mean, come on, I drove off with the gas pump and still calmly walked back to the pump to get my receipt. That takes serious klutz skills. Right?

Monday, October 18, 2010

More solid evidence that I am a crazy cat lady.

What, say you? You didn't NEED more evidence? Well, here it is anyway.

I made that crazy cat famous with his glamorous and angry-looking mug.

Cat lady, signing out.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

I will get to keep my head. Yay!

I don't watch a ton of television live. No, I don't have one of those fancy DVR or Tivo things. Nope. (P.S. I don't even have cable. I cancelled it when I moved over three years ago and have enjoyed not paying for it ever since.) However, I would be a big fat liar if I said I did not love television. Because of my sans-cable existence, I watch a lot of television through Netflix. Furthermore, I tend to go overboard watching these shows. Given a free span of several hours and a few Netflix discs (or access to a season via online streaming), odds are good I can waste away watching a show in a rather obsessive fashion.

P.I.C. and I have been watching The Tudors. Seriously, if you haven't watched this show, I highly recommend it. I love so much about it. The historical aspect is fascinating and quite sensational. The actors are brilliant and completely compelling as 16th century royalty. The costumes are absolutely incredible. The scenery is gorgeous. The filming is beautiful. It is my current obsession.


Seriously, don't read if you haven't seen the series. While you might know the history, I don't want to ruin the experience of watching it on the screen.

We just finished Season Two. In very dramatic fashion, Anne Boleyn is beheaded. (And Henry VIII eats from a beautiful swan which actually was quiet dramatic.) It was quite sad, because despite hating her at some points, she really got screwed by Henry. Well, face it, all women who get involved with Henry get screwed. His first wife was divorced (and a new religion was born). His second wife was essentially set up to be executed. His third wife dies in childbirth (but he actually mourns her because she finally gave him a son.)

In any event, the season finale episode was very compelling. It was clear in the episodes leading up to the finale that Anne Boleyn would meet her demise. The execution scene was shot beautifully and acted brilliantly. I shed a tear for the late Queen. And afterwards, as I was getting a drink of water in the kitchen, P.I.C. walked up to me, and hugged me. He looked me into the eyes and said very seriously, "Don't worry, honey. I promise I will never have you beheaded."

He's a keeper, right?

Friday, October 15, 2010

Weddings, schmeddings.

Today on this chilly October Friday, I will stand up in my dear friend's wedding. It is the last wedding of the year. Huzzah! I do, however have SOME complaints. Namely, I'd like to lodge a complaint with the VERA WANG store.

(If you listen closely, angels are crying as I deign mock the VW.)

You see, our bridesmaid dresses are absolutely gorgeous. They are VW. Black, knee-length and flowy, they seemed to be quite a nice choice for a fall wedding.

Hey. I don't really look like a bridesmaid, do I?
So, we all get measured and according to VW, I am TWO SIZES bigger than I normally wear. Fine. I have learned that in bridesmaid dresses, your sizes are rather off. Two months later, my dress is in. I pick it up. It falls off my body. Alterations clearly are necessary. Of course, I am supremely annoyed. Had I ordered the correct size, I am certain the dress would have fit beautifully. Now I have to pay extra money to fix something based on YOUR bunk-ass sizing. Vera, I was annoyed.

I took the dress to my local dry cleaner. (Note, this may have been my first mistake.) She does the measurements and tells me it will be no trouble to have it on time. Terrific. We were on the right track.

When I went to pick up the dress, the dry cleaner/tailor gave me a $5 discount. Of course, this made me suspect. I asked her, "If it doesn't fit, can I bring it back for more alterations." She then began to YELL at me for ordering my dress two sizes too big. When I attempted to explain it was the size that they had made me order, she just shook her head and told me, "NO." As if I were lying. Seriously. I paid and rather bewilderedly walked home with a growing sense of doom in my belly.

Of course, this made me panic. I got home and tried the dress on. It fit, however there was a strange poof on the left side of my chest. And the straps were decidedly small, leaving me to feel like the great hulk bridesmaid.

Hulks want to wear Vera Wang toooo.
UGH. So now I have to wear this dress for twelve hours and I am pretty certain that the straps will pop off "hulk-smash" style. Awesome.

On a happier note: my friend, the bride, had one shower I had to attend (um, hi, it was the one I threw). She was very nice to all of us, not making us buy matching shoes. We had rehearsal dinner at Wildfire (YUM). She bought us the most beautiful necklaces from Tiffany & Co. for our gift. And she has called me several times to thank me for my help with her wedding stuff. I love her. But I already knew that.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go get beautiful. Hulks like make up and updos too.

P.S. Vera Wang, you're a real bitch. (I'm sure you're a very nice person. And no one disputes that your gowns are the best and most beautiful. But the fact that my bridesmaid dress now looks like a crazy person's garment makes me unhappy. Let me rant.)

Wednesday, October 13, 2010


Tonight, as I continued to feverishly work through Season One of Glee (and yes, I am also current on Season Two...), Quinn began to sing "Papa Don't Preach" by Madonna. I often forget that I loved this song when I was about seven years old. You see, my mom's youngest sister (Auntie Em) was only ten years older than I. She was, to put it mildly, the coolest person in my world. Auntie Em loved Madonna. That meant a darling little buck-toothed seven year-old Fabulously Awkward loved Madonna too.

"Papa Don't Preach" was one of my very favorite Madonna songs. In fact, I recall going through some of my mom's keepsakes several years ago to one of my little "All About Me" books I had filled out when I was in second grade. According to that, I always wanted to play the flute and my favorite song was "Papa Don't Preach." (As an aside, I did end up playing the flute. I did not, however, have any unfortunate pregnancies. Yay, me!)

But really, that song is about some seriously deep issues. "I'm keeping my baby." Yeah. Rather inappropriate for a seven year-old. Yet I still retain some very vivid memories of singing the shit out of that song. I'm pretty sure I would braid my hair to get it nice and kinky. Madonna didn't have flat hair in the 80s, that's for sure. I fully intended to be a mini-Madonna. Lace gloves and all. (I also turned my First Communion lace gloves into fingerless Madonna gloves. I find that ironic on several levels.) Ya know, except not have to beg my father for forgiveness for my illegitimate baby that I was carrying through song. I don't think I planned on that in my Madonna transformation.

This was like me, only I was mini.
(I lifted this photo cuz it's awesome. Thanks!)

Along those of inappropriate childhood fanaticism, I believe that most girls in my generation grew up with a rather fervent love of the movie Dirty Dancing. "Nobody puts baby in a corner," right? I remember reciting it word for word from a very young age. And the part where her dad says, "You looked wonderful out there" gets me EVERY. TIME. Sadly, we also probably all remember the age were when we realized what happened to Penny. A little bit of innocence was lost on that day, I'm sure.

I'm pretty sure I have the time of my life every time I watch this movie. It's embarrassing, I know.

How about the movie Grease? That movie is rife with sexual tension and innuendos. No matter to my young eyes and ears, I sang along and wish I could be one of the Pink Ladies. Who didn't, right? Then you realized what "knocked up" meant and went..."Oooh." I think then I might have even thought, "Gross."

Tell me about it. Stud. (I use that line occasionally.)

So, yes, Glee reminded me that I still know every single word to "Papa Don't Preach." It also made me realize that I loved the most inappropriate things from a very young age. Glad to see that I retain some characteristics from my youth. Even at thirty. years. old. Sigh. I feel old.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

So this is thirty.

I couldn't sleep last night. The whole "turning thirty" and "feeling old" thing was getting to me. Most of all, I knew that if I fell asleep, I would wake up and be thirty. Guess what? I stayed up. When the clock passed midnight, nothing momentous happened. Well, I was pretty tired. But that's what I get for letting insomnia rule my world, I suppose.

Honestly, I feel the same as yesterday. I did have one incident that I can either attribute to being blond or being old and forgetful. I got out to the far-reaching county for my depositions today very early. I decided to gas up P.I.C.'s car. In so doing, I decided to really scrub his windows because apparently our parking spot is under a bird toilet. (Awesome, right?) The pump went off, and I was still scrubbing away. I finished washing the bird business off the car, then hopped in the car. I slowly pulled out and heard a thud. Um. What? Yeah. Turns out, what had happened was, I forgot to put the pump back on its little resting spot. I looked back and saw the hose and pump trailing. Fortunately, I didn't pull out quickly so no damage to the pump was done. I stopped the car and sauntered out toward the pump and hose. Another woman pumping gas watched me curiously. I am not sure if she expected me to act all frazzled and embarrassed, but I was certain to play it cool. Well, as cool as you can be for doing one of the most boneheaded things you can do at a gas station. I put the pump back in my place and even pushed the button for the receipt. A little nod to the woman with a "WTF are you looking at, this happens" look and I was on my way.

Truthfully, I think I played it off rather well. Until I got in the car and realized, "OMG...where is my cell phone?" I couldn't find it in my purse or in the car, so I was certain that what had happened was that I dropped it on the ground when I casually picked up the pump. I pulled over into a parking lot and began a frantic search for my phone. GREAT. Ten hours into my 30th year and I have already lost my cell phone. I even drove BACK to the gas station (mind you, the place where I had made an utter ass out of myself by DRIVING OFF WITH THE PUMP STILL ATTACHED TO MY CAR), certain that it was laying on the ground unscathed. As I began to make the left-hand turn back into the gas station, I heard my phone vibrate. Sure enough, it was just tucked on the other side of the console.

So. Aside from the morning being a HUGE duh, I feel like thirty ain't so bad.

Now, if you don't mind, I intend to have both cocktails and champagne this evening. Because I am THIRTY. And it's my birthday and I can do pretty much what I want today. Including taking the pump with me. Yep.

Monday, October 11, 2010

My latest degree (subtitle: I throw awesome parties).

DISCLAIMER: Mom, Dad and other family members that diligently follow my blog: This may be awkward for you to read. It has to do with certain activities at a bachelorette party. Please read with caution. This content is most certainly not appropriate for children, or anyone who might call me daughter.

So, behind my name, I can legitimately put a "J.D." Four years of college, three years of law school and six figures in debt just for that. And after last weekend, I now also can put an "F.D." behind my name. Whaaaaa? You haven't heard of a F.D. degree? Well, it stands for for fellatio doctor, or doctorate in fellatio. (I WARNED you guys.)

You see, my friend Ruthie is getting married. I, along with her other fun-loving bridesmaids, threw her a shower and bachelorette party. She had told me about this class she went to at another friend's home in which a woman would come into your home and teach a class on, you guessed it, the art of giving blow jobs. Since Ruthie made it clear that a stripper would not be well-received, the bridesmaids and I needed a little something extra to take our party from "It was a really nice time" to "Holy sh*t, they let us stay in the VIP karaoke room so late that we had to sneak out the back door!" My opinion? Don't throw a party unless people are going to legitimately rave about it. It's kind of my thing. We were gonna learn to give blow jobs. Done and done.

So we booked a lady to come and teach us the Art of the Blow Job. We timed the class so that it would be well after all of our party attendees had drank plenty and were in fine spirits. I figured this lady would come in, bring her veggies and creep us out Andy Dick a la Old School-style. We'd all be drunk, have a good laugh, then would head out for some karaoke fun.

Turns out, they don't really use vegetables when giving a blow job class. In fact, it's a lot more scientific and informative than Andy Dick's vegetable lesson. Our instructor arrived, large suitcase in tow, ready to teach us the way. She wasn't creepy at all. Roughly our age, she was cute, smart and fun. The opposite of creepy.

Her first matter was to pass out worksheets and pens. You know, for note-taking.
Keep this by your bedside. "Hmmm, do you feel like a sausage wrap tonight, honey?"

Then she pulled out a plastic bin of dildos of various sizes and colors. Truthfully, there was a dildo for each girl no matter the preference. The bin was passed along, and we took our penis of choice out. Then she passed around the lube. (Seriously, you try rubbing your hand along a rubber dildo without it. The friction is awful.) We went down the line, learning all the names for the various hand-to-penis actions. Some people took notes, some just committed them to memory, but everyone participated. It was great fun. We learned that the maneuver called the "Pleasure Tunnel" is the best, according to some gay guys who have taken the class. We deemed that one the "Never-ending Vagina," although I highly doubt the gays would take to that nickname.

When the time came 'round for us to move onto the blow job part of the evening, we were all sufficiently comfortable with our chosen fake penises. We learned to put a condom on with our mouth first, because safe blow jobs are the way to go. We giggled, choked, learned interesting facts and ways to relax the gag factor (lay on your back with your head dangling off the bed.) Oh, and did you know that after you have been exclusively sleeping with one person for three months, your body's e. coli then becomes the same bacterial strain as that of your partner? Gross fact, yes, but interesting. This is why you NEVER lick the butt of a person you hook up with on a one-night stand. TRUTH.

It's really hard to follow up a sentence about licking someone's butt. But I must move on. Suffice it to say, the class was informative and fun. I highly recommend G Boutique for your fun lady party needs. They do other classes and have a really nice store in the Bucktown neighborhood if you live in the Chicago-area. (By the way, this endorsement is strictly based on my experience with the party that evening.)

I awoke to P.I.C.'s coffee table looking like this:

Yep, those are dildo rings on the coffee table.

And now you know how I got my F.D.

Oh, and by the way...we did have to sneak out the back door of the karaoke bar. See? I always throw a good party.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

The realization is sinking in...

...and I don't like it. Remember how I have been all "wah wah, I'm turning thirty, woe is me?" Well, I was really saying that not really believing it. Today, I realize, it sucks.


I just hit delete. I sat here for ten minutes griping about all of first world problems, including a dry cleaner that blamed ME for ordering a bridesmaid dress two sizes too big and having to alter it, thus making it look rather crazy. But then I hit delete. I deleted my whiny diatribe on how it sucks to get older. Everyone knows that. And I am not the first person to have that epiphany. I won't be the last.

Despite having a rather major day-long freak out about my upcoming milestone birthday, I am grateful. I have friends that are seriously out of this world. My family is truly awesome. My boyfriend fits his moniker, and truly is my partner-in-crime in my crazy life. And as of today, I have twenty-nine people who care to read what I write, no matter how inane or stupid it may be. So thank you! You keep me writing day after day, even when the things I have to say are beyond mundane.

So rather than pouring my soul out to the Internet and seeming like a whiny brat (I mean, face it, you know that without me having to type it), I just want to put it out there...I am happy. I might look like a female hulk in my friend's wedding, but at least I will be the one tearing it up on the dance floor like I just don't care. Because you wanna know something? I really don't.

I promise that I will continue to tear it up, not care, and live my life the best I know tearing it up. Let the next thirty be even more fun than the first. The realization is that I will likely need copious amounts of love, vodka, grace, friendship and wine to get through my life and its dilemmas. Good thing I have plenty of all of those things.


Friday, October 8, 2010

Happy Friday from the Fabulously (and SASSILY) Awkward

Believe it or not, I genuinely mean that today. This isn't a "I'm going to punch the next person who says, 'TGIF!' day". Nope. It's a happy day. Today I learned that my very own laziness can benefit me.

For starters, I am having an awesome hair day. This never happens. Then again, I never do my hair for work. Why? I just don't really care that much. It's long, blond and straight. Therefore it air dries just fine. In fact, in the winter when I am forced to use a blow dryer, I get completely whiny. True story. I am, to put it mildly, supremely lazy when it comes to my hair. I do not get my hair cut into fancy fashion (despite my obvious fancy personality) because I know I will not put the effort into making it look nice. It's just not me.

So. Why did I choose today to do my hair? On a Friday, no less? (Clearly, I have trouble getting out of bed on Fridays, let alone washing and DOING my hair.) Well, today was the day I had to make a visit to the DMV to get my new drivers license. Not being one to want a crap-tastic photo for four years, I put a little effort into my appearance this morning. Too bad I can't get the energy to do that every morning because I did walk to the bus this morning humming, "I feel pretty...oh so pretty..."

When it came time to choose the DMV at which I would renew my license, it was either the allegedly super fast express DMV or the one located in my building. Guess which one I chose? Oh yeah. Rather than walk a few blocks out of my way, I went to the one in my building. I really am that lazy. Lucky for me, the DMV treated me nicely today. I was in and out in ten minutes. Star treatment for the girl who did her hair, right?

The guy taking my photograph was especially hilarious. Imagine that skit from SNL where they do the "Da Bears" thing. You know, the bigger guys with the Chicago accents where they eat sausage and have regular heart attacks? This guy had to be one of them, Bears jersey and all. When I sat down for my close-up, he told me, "Look glamorous!" Lucky for him, I always look glamorous, hair done or not. (This statement may or may not be false.)

One minute later, when my license had been printed, he looked at it, went to hand it to me, then looked at it again. "Sassy!" he said. The man, who likely still busts out the Grabowski Shuffle in honor of Ditka to get ready for game day, totally made my day. To me, it just looked like a reasonable photograph that I wouldn't be embarrassed to use. To him, it showed a sass-tastic girl. And come one, we all know that I'm no parts reasonable and all parts sassy.

Sometimes laziness pays off, kids! Had I gone to the express DMV, I might not have gotten the model treatment. BUT FOR my laziness, in fact, if you want to be all legal with the causation of my good day.

Happy Friday everyone...may your weekend not be reasonable and ENTIRELY sassy. Oh wait. That was the wish for my weekend.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

I'm gonna start smoking a pipe.

Today, on our walk home from the train, P.I.C. and I got into a discussion about smoking. Rather, we started discussing the prevalence of the tobacco shops on Division Street. Seriously? There have been probably three new stores in our area that have opened since we moved over into this neighborhood over a year ago. Doesn't that seem like a lot?

I actually had seen a guy earlier today smoking a pipe outside of my work building. A real, Sherlock Holmes-looking, pipe. I expected him to call the other suited dude, "My dear Watson." Sadly enough, I didn't hear that. What a disappointment. Of course, he wasn't dressed like Sherlock Holmes. But I digress...(as I usually do.)

I actually like the smell of pipe tobacco. I hate cigar smoke, and the only bit of cigarette smoke I like is when one is first lit (something about the paper being singed.) But pipe smoke is different. Cleaner. Almost like an incense of woodiness and herbs. It's lovely. Homey. I am certain a part of me likes it because one of my grandpas used to smoke a pipe.

I got to thinking...what if I started smoking a pipe? Wouldn't that be super interesting? You'd see me, standing outside with all the little people smoking their plebeian cigarettes. I'd be looking significantly cooler, striking my match on its book, lighting my mahogany pipe. I would look smart. Sophisticated. European, even.

Or else I would just look ridiculous.

It would be an interesting social experiment, wouldn't it? Chick smoking a pipe, yea or nay?

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Birthday...the final countdown.

"Do do do do do do do do’s the final countdown..."

Oh hey guys. It’s just me, your favorite most fabulous awkward person in your life. Just remind you that today means it is ONE WEEK until I turn thirty. Sadly, I have not thought of more helpful hints to pass onto you all. Maybe some regrets...

I wish that I had watched Arrested Development earlier in life. Perhaps my meager viewing might have saved it from its early demise. As evidence from the introduction to this piece, you can see how much I have come to love that show. I just do.

Honestly, I try not to dwell on regrets, other than the one i just mentioned. Live and learn. That could be another “thing I have learned in my twenties.” Of course, I have made mistakes. Some of those I regret, and some were too fun to regret. Fortunate for YOU, those mistakes and other things make up this person I am today. Pretty kick ass, right?

On other news, as I attempted to pawn off some depositions on the new girl because opposing counsel set THREE for my birthday, my boss was not impressed. Even when I told him it was my TWENTY-FIRST birthday that day and I was ohsoexcited because I finally would be able to attend happy hours with my coworkers! He didn’t believe me, but then I began to describe the “Doogie Howser” theory also worked for lawyers. Not sure if it was youthful face or the sincerity which which I told my tale, he seemed to believe me. Just kidding. He didn’t.

So, you might be asking, what did I learn today that I might write down on my late-80s model IBM?

“Seven days until my thirtieth birthday today. I have learned that T.J. Maxx is still an excellent spot to shop for shoes.”

The finalllll countdown...

Monday, October 4, 2010

One more thing...

While you're making your blog reading rounds today, head on over to and leave me a little comment love:

It is a fun little piece focusing on the finer things in life: family and fromage. I also talk about beer, but I didn't know if there was a way to say that with an "f" and I didn't want to kill the alliteration I had going on in that previous sentence. Seriously, I'll be your best friend. Well, maybe not for a whole day. Eh, yeah, maybe we don't have to be best friends. But for like a minute, I shall think of you fondly.

Finding a hobby...via google? Results not pretty.

Remember last week when I wrote that incredibly insightful posting about the things you should learn in your twenties? (Please let it be known that I do not find myself insightful. I intended the previous statement to be silly. Just like me. I don't take myself so seriously, neither should you.) One of the things I mentioned that I found to be of value is having a hobby. This reminds me of a recent story that my dear friend, McQueen* told me about her husband.

She has been married for a few years now to a truly great guy. They both travel a lot for their jobs, so hobbies seem to have fallen by the wayside. When they are together, they mainly spend time at home, relaxing and enjoying each other's company. Although, as anyone who has partaken in a relationship for longer than a year or so, this gets old. While it's nice to spend time along in your home together, you never want to feel like you are in a rut. Being bored one day, McQueen says to her Mr. McQueen, "It is kind of boring hanging around here all the time. Plus we live in the 'burbs, which we both know totally sucks.** We should think of something fun to do together. You know, like maybe a bowling league. But not bowling. Just something along those lines."

Mr. McQueen, as I mentioned before, is a great guy. He loves to make his Mrs. happy. So he does what any sweet and loving husband does: he does a google search for couple's activities. The result was not pretty. Not that he found something offensive. He just found what has to be the most ridiculous list of activities you have ever seen. I mean, it has to be a joke, right? You tell me.

I almost want to make up a joke commercial for this list and post it on youtube. I think it'd probably go something like this:

"ARE YOU AND YOUR SPOUSE BORED OF SITTING AT HOME? DO YOU WANT SOMETHING THAT CHALLENGES YOUR MIND AS WELL AS GETS YOU WORKING AS A TEAM? Why not try number 90 on our LIST? You can sit together over your table and pore of a handwriting sample. How FUN would THAT be? Maybe you're all into your fitness. If that's the case, I would recommend trying suggestion number 88, Grip Strength! For one low cost of $9.99, you too, can have a copy of this list. Get OUT of your boring rut. FIND A HOBBY! We can help YOU!"

Too bad Billy Mays passed away. I am relatively certain he could sell the crap out of a list like that via infomercial, right? I cannot even believe that a normal human being put this list together. McQueen, while touched at the effort, told me she may have peed a little when she read it the sixth time. (No judgment. That means something is REALLY funny. Duh.)

*Please note that for the protection of all parties involved, I did not use the real names of the parties in this story. Additionally, please note that if you think that I use real names in any of my stories, you are delusional.

**The suckage of the suburbs has been slightly exaggerated. Mostly because I want McQueen to move to the city so I can see her more often.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Lists make me feel mature.

I am awake at 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday. Today shall be one of those days that can only be accomplished by making a list and crossing stuff off. I will be hosting a bridal shower and bachelorette party at my home tonight. There is an entire apartment to clean to give these ladies the pretense that I don't normally miss my hamper at the end of the day. There are cupcakes to bake. Errands to run. Surfaces to wipe, and things to put away.

Whenever I make such a list, I always feel rather grown-up. I mean, face it, if I made it to (almost) thirty, through four years of college and three years of clown college law school, I should know how to make and execute the contents of a list, right? So here I am, sitting at my kitchen table, list to the right of me, dishwasher running, starting my day. I am SO MATURE.

Wanna see my cupcake tins?

Hehe. It's six little weiners. Hahahahha.

See? So mature. Me and my pan of little penises.

I can't fight this feeling anymore...

Oh. Hi. Yeah, that was just me. Singing. Last night one of my oldest and dearest gal pals took me to see Rock of Ages. It was pretty awesome. If you want to know all about it, I suggest you read the the most awesome recap by another hilarious writer. I can wait while you read.

In any event, last night, as I sang along, clapped my hands, and sat there with a huge stupid grin on my face, I remembered how much I LOVE musicals. Whether it's cheesy Mama Mia shows (yes, I love Abba. So what?) or London productions of Chicago (West End, baby!), nothing else can put a two hour perma-grin on my face like a good song and dance production.

I think back to where my love of musicals began. I believe I was in the seventh grade. I decided that I was going to start trying out for musicals. Never mind the fact that I had a terrible singing voice. I still tried out. Most of the  times I was assigned to the chorus. You know, the background noise. One very fateful year, I won the role of Student Number Four. Oh yes. The big time baby. The production? Little Miss Christie. My line? "Intelligence?"

Yep. One line. Well, that was until a certain star of the show got caught making out with her boyfriend in front of her locker and was kicked out of the musical. Little not-so-Miss Christie, huh? I then was labeled "Student" and got a few more lines. Sadly, there were no solo singing numbers for me. Too bad.

I stopped doing musicals after junior high. Mostly, I realized that I wasn't happy being stuck in the back of a chorus. I had skills. I wanted to shine. Cheerleading and dance team it was. There I let my dance talents shine, along with my other spandexed and be-scrunchied girls. The desire to perform was something that became a part of who I was. To this day, I relish the part of me that enjoys entertaining my friends. Whether it be a silly dance or a little limerick I write for a special occasion (seriously, I have done this, and it's a crowd-pleaser), being in the spotlight is something I enjoy tremendously.

On a semi-related note, I recently learned that I am quite talented as a singer. I mean, I got a 98% on the singing part of Beatles Rock Band a month or so ago. Me = mega-talented, apparently.

Intelligence? (NAILED THAT LINE, DIDN'T I???)