False Advertising

Subs so fast you'll freak??!!

More like subs so slow you'll freak out and wring your hands and tear out your hair and bite your nails down to stubs because you are so hungry and you dont care about the snow or the safety of the driver or the unsuspecting pedestrians who may get struck down because your driver is picking up on your negatory, hungry vibes all because you are hungry and wouldnt have ordered if you hadn't been so taken with the subs so fast you'll freak line and now you are freaking out like a diabetic who hasnt had sugar.

Whew. Take a breath. This is what happens when you are too lazy to cook and its effen freezing in Chicago and fortunately for you, the city offers a wide variety of tasty food delivery options. And because you are slightly hung over. The start of a great (?) weekend.

Things to Keep you Busy

Kay Pea has a new job. This is great news for Kay Pea since she now will have the money to pay off that extremely high gambling debt and that ill-advised purchase of a thoroughbred horse complete with a jockey. She is not ready to part with Little Pennypants and Ralph. She is also going to stop writing about herself in the third person because her brother told her that it was annoying and just lame.

So yes, I have a new job which is great since I was coming up to a relatively long period of funemployment. For the record, funemployment does not mean that I dont work. I work. I just dont do it regularly with normal hours and a steady paycheck. Its quite liberating except for the whole no steady paycheck thing. So I will be monitoring new chickens now, feeding, caring and tending them. And yes, this is a metaphor. I dare you to figure it out.

However, this new gig does allow me a bit of free play. And since I've exhausted all my favorite websites and my favorite bloggers are taking a hiatus, I've sunk to a new low. Celebrity blogs. Yes, I know. Shameful. Yet quite entertaining. For example, did you know that a certain musician (dating Jennifer Aniston) has a penchant for cake-baking? Did you know that MK&A sign each blog entry with double X's? Did you know that not all celebrity blogs are designed to plug their latest clothing line or pimp their new film project? Some of them actually ponder the world and all its glory and some even venture into the political world and societal problems like global warming, gay marriage, and taxes. Fascinating stuff for us real people. So the next time your favorite Kay Pea takes a hiatus because her little chickens have been let loose from the pen or they need to be walked to school, I urge you to fill the void with this.

OOOO,
Kay Pea

Lazy Saturday

There is nothing better than waking up late on a Saturday morning and then spending the whole afternoon in your comfy pants with a carton of Thai food and piping hot cup of coffee.

That is, until you decide to go out on a whim and watch Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2. Then you are left sitting with an empty carton of Thai food, a cold cup of now gross coffee wondering where the last two hours of your life went.

Thank you Mr....Hitler??

A few weeks ago I worked the polls. Dont remember that election? You know, the one where America fell in love with itself and when we elected the first African-American president that is subsequently splashed all over the news and shoved down our throats. Yes, that election. I dont mean to downplay the significance but it is turning out to be slightly annoying now.

Anyway, I have many memories of said election; some horrible, some hilarious. Needless to say, my favorite, slightly awkward moment was this:

When first arriving at the polling place, you give your name to me and I find it in a big book that lists if you registered to vote. Once I find your name and verify that you are indeed eligible, I'm required to say your name loud and clear for all to hear before passing you to the next station to get your ballot. I'm still not sure why we do this but apparently its the way its always been done. After a while, it gets pretty lame and awkward. Mr. Smith does not know why I insist on saying his name so loudly and then Mr. Stanislawukuwitzch gets annoyed that I dont pronounce his name right. Then comes Mr. *Walter Hitler. Obviously, Walter is not his real name but you get the idea. Our exchange went like this:

Me (without looking up): Hi, name please.

Mr. Hilter: Walter. Hitler. H-i-t-l-e-r.

Me: (head shooting up-I want to see this Mr. Hitler) Okay, Mr...Hitler. Here you are. Walter...Hitler. Please sign here MR. HITLER

Mr. Hitler: (obviously annoyed and probably dealt with this a million times) Thank you.

Me: No, thank you MR. HITLER for coming out and voting. America thanks you.

Mr. Hitler: ........

Me: You can go proceed to the next table Mr. Hitler and recieve your ballot. You are ready to vote.

Umm....can anyone say hilarious? You can only imagine my delight when his wife came in about 2 hours later.

Wish #4

I wish it was okay to be rude sometimes. But its not. Not ever. Kids reading this, dont go to your parents telling them that Asiankp said it was okay to be rude. Because its not.

However, sometimes, I wish it was okay. Yesterday, I worked the polls all day in my precinct in what is now known as one of the most historic days in America. Voting is apparently all the rage these days. So is stupidity. I can't begin to tell you all the rediculousness I put up with yesterday. People refusing to stop their electioneering even while they are behind those makeshift private voting booths. People making all kinds of mistakes on their ballots after 20 plus explanations. People complaining that we didnt give out those snazzy "I Voted" stickers. People complaining how we didnt have electronic ballots. Seriously America, if you only vote to push buttons on a screen and get a shitty 20 cent sticker, then you are a sad, sad citizen and I dont respect you.

I also wish that the city of Chicago would do a better job of weeding out these poll workers. I can't tell you how excrutiating it was to work these other women. "Cindy" was an short lady sporting grey sweat pants, a dirty red t-shirt, and a purple sweatshirt with a box of Marlboro Reds sticking out of the pocket. "Michelle" was elderly lady with impeccable make up but missing some serious brain cells. "Sarah" was an tall, portly lady who boasted of once being in the medical profession but left because she didnt like sick people. When Cindy and Sarah werent at eachothers' throats arguing they were either yelling into their phones at Election Central or commenting on the voters in line. Michelle was utterly useless since you had to talk to her like a 3 year old. "Yes, put that there. NO, there. Yes, slowly. No. NO. Drop the pen. Sign here. On the line. On the line. NO MICHELLE, ON THE LINE." That was my day from 5am-8pm. No wonder the voters in our line complained about us about 5 minutes after the polls opened. We were a disaster. More on election central later...

But back to my wish, sometimes its just easier to be rude...and deal with the consequences later.

Sidebar: A letter to the world

Dear World (well mostly the American majority),

You now have the candidate you have always wanted. All your whining and moaning and 3rd grade behaviour has paid off. Congratulations to you. Yes, it is historic. Yes, it is monumentous. Yeah for you.

NOW WILL YOU SHUT UP ABOUT IT ALREADY. He hasnt done anything yet.

Sincerely,
Ms. Liberty

Wish #3

I wish my friends lived closer.

Now, dont get me wrong. I have TONS of friends in Chicago. TONS. I'm got so many friends that I dont know what to do with them. Ive got more friends than their are Chins in a chinese phone book.

Okay, so I dont have tons of friends which you obviously deduced from my aforementioned wish.

But I had a fantastically solid group of friends from college, many of whom are now married, having babies or living in foreign countries. They are all special and great and pretty much the coolest people around. And I wished they lived closer. I wish I could go hang out at their houses and play with their adorable children. I wish we could hang out on balconies and smoke cigarettes like the old days. I wish they were around so I could be in a serious conversation without having to defend my morals and beliefs. I wish they were around so they could back me up. I wish they were around so we could commiserate together. I wish they were around so we could laugh together. But they arent. And sometimes you realize that you can still be pretty lonely even when you are living in a city with over 200 million people.

Case in point. A good friend from college left me a message this evening pretending to be "Sandra" from the McCain campaign and reminding me to get out and vote. She even used a fake accent which I easily saw through since all of her accents sound the same. Still, I loved it.

And that is why I wished my friends lived closer.

On a side note, I have to get up in about 5 hours to work this election. Wish me luck. I aint puttin up with any parties crap especially at 6 in the morning.

Wish #2

I wish it was November 4th already. Why? Because people have been wishing it was November 4th since last Christmas. And I want it to be here already so I can stop being bombarded about it. Sure, I'm going to vote. Or not vote. Wait, I'm confused Hollywood, you dont want me to vote? Or wait, you DO want me to vote? I'm confused. Sarcasm? Oh, you are being sarcastic. Glib. Treating me like an idiot, talking to me like a child. I totally get it now. You think the average American citizen is an idiot. Thanks for clearing that up for me. I totally respect you guys now.

But seriously, I wish it was November 4th yesterday. That way, it would be all over and we can get back to the things that really matter like North Korea's impending annihilation of South Korea or, even more important, voting for celebrities on their respective reality TV shows.

By the way, my money was on Cloris Leachman...I'm out $20.

November is Wish Month, Not NAMOPOBLOFO

Apparently, in blogger world, the month of November is some celebration termed some big compound word acronym. Is that even possible? Anyway, the gist is that you post something everyday for an entire month. Most of the bloggers I know do that anyway making this a mindless event that people get excited about but really it holds as much significance as Columbus Day.

However inane I find it, I do appreciate the consistency and commitment to doing something every single day besides bathing, grooming, and eating. Lately, I've found myself engaging in wishful thinking and to give these delusions the credence one reserves for delusions, I figured I'd write about them in a forum that caters to folks who wish to do something constructive with their mindless thoughts. (Read: A blog)

#1) Sometimes I wish I had some kind of juvenile delinquent skill.
Let me explain, on several occasions, I or my friends have locked keys in our car. This usually ensues in much cursing, frustration, high-pitched voices, occasional tears and an overall buzz kill for any event. How cool would it be to whip out a hanger or one of those useful tools that people on TV carry around and say, "Dont worry guys, I got this." Then in five minutes flat, you have successfully opened the door, saved the party, and gained throngs of fans. Or, at the very least, saved your friends money. This wish is not limited to lock-picking skills but any other type of minor law-breaking skills. Maybe snatch and grab skills. Or car jacking skills.

I guess I'll just have to be content with my nunchuk skills.

Dear Barry

Apparently, my below post has some how found its way to upper management. I should know better than to use real names of businesses. As a result of my scathing review, apparently I hate America and your eyes. I am an evil person who hopes that your retinas burn in the sun and that you go blind.

This is not the case. I care very much about your eyes. In fact, if my post has at all, in any way, caused you NOT to buy sunglasses for fear of fashion suicide, please send me an email and I will personally purchase sunglasses for you from any store of your choice. I only meant to comment on how the ad made me laugh and reminded me of the follies of childhood. So to Barry and the rest of the folks, I apologize. Twas not meant to harm. I guess I'm glad to see that you are still live and kicking. Keep on keeping on. God Bless!

Oh Craigslist...you crack me up

Due to our current economic crisis and what seems to be my permanent state of funemployment, I peruse the Craigslists ads at least 3 times a day. Today, in the part time section, I unearthed this gem: (names have been changed to avoid lawsuits)

Love to work in Fashion? Come join us at (random sunglass store)!

Fashion? The (Random Sunglass Store)?

Hmm...lets see. When I think of the Random Sunglass Store, I picture some bleached blonded adolescent who couldnt get work at the Hip Clothing Store. In our mall, the Random Sunglass Store was placed right outside the Hip Clothing Store. The Random Sunglass Store boys would sit there and salivate at the young high schoolers exiting the Hip Clothing Store with large bags and Daddy's credit card. If they were lucky, a girl from that group would look over in their direction and wave. But no one ever bought sunglasses there. You could get sunglasses at Other Hip Stores. Not at the Random Sunglass Store. It was fashion suicide. Maybe it still is.

I'm glad to see their still working on their marketability.

F.A.G.

Heres a story for you. My great uncle, Uncle Frank, was a fabulous man. He was a joker, a smoker and a midnight toker. In fact, that song was written about my dear old Uncle Frank. Okay, so he wasnt a smoker. And I have no idea what a toker is. But my Uncle Frank was still a fabulous man. He was my grandma's brother and ever since I was a little girl, I always remember him depositing himself in my grandfathers leather chair, soaking in the circus that consisted of myself, my brother and my 8 cousins. With 10 children constantly running around and constantly demanding attention, Uncle Frank was always there to lend a hand, a pair of eyes or some discipline when needed.

When the dinner was done and all the children satiated and fed, he would sit in the corner partaking in the "adult" conversation, his dark brown eyes shining. He always had a small, sharp moustache that he liked to rub with his fingers especially when telling a joke. He was a killer poker player and his bocce form was envied throughout southern Italy. My father likes to tell me that Uncle Frank was the original Renaissance Man. A great man. A family man.
I was only 7 years old when he passed away. In fact, his was probably the first funeral that I can actually remember. His cold, lifeless hands scared the crap out of me and I didnt understand how these could be the same hands that showed me how to make a cross out of palms or showed me how to throw the bocce ball with back spin. Children process death very differently than adults. This is a fact of life. And a story for another time.

However, several years later in my teenage years, my grandparents moved out their house to a smaller condo. While helping them move, my brother and I found a large box with miscellaneous items labeled F.A.G. We snickered. Like typical immature teenagers, we thought it was hilarious that my grandpa had actually labeled stuff FAG. Everything in the box had a big F.A.G. taped to it. My grandpa didnt have a mean bone in his body so this trite label was both fascinating and scary. We finally showed the stuff to my mom who put on a very somber face. She informed us that these were Uncle Frank's possessions. My Uncle Frank. Frank Antonio Gallo. F.A.G. My brother and I felt like someone had just slapped us in the face with a wet seal. We silently took the box to the trailer, let our hands linger on it for while and pulled the door shut.

At some point during all this, I managed to swipe a mini magnifying glass that my Uncle Frank had used to read the paper. There in big letters on the front, a bold F.A.G. I slipped it into my pocket thinking that it would come in handy some day. To this day, I have not used it. But it sits on my dresser for all to see. Some people see it and snicker. Some hold it up and give me a sort of WTF look. Others ignore it. But every time I look at those three letters, I think of my Uncle Frank's twinkling brown eyes, his sharp grey moustache and that magnificent bocce form.

Guests of House

I have some houseguests coming over this afternoon who I dont really know. Now, I am not in the habit of inviting strangers over for dinner or to enjoy a beer or two during a warm summer afternooon, but every once in a while, I will open up my home to be used as a meeting grounds of sorts. Such an act results in strangers showing up at your door. I have met a few of these people once or twice before but both times, either party has been a.) in a drunken stupor b) ridiculously distracted or c.) not interested or some combination of a, b, and c.

I love meeting new people. This is what life is all about. Well not completely but life is half comprised of the people we know and love and adding to your circle of friends will give your life more meaning, or so the fortune cookie said. Regardless, these things still stress me out. Do I need to go hide that book because its contents are offensive to the Buddhist coming over? Do I need to take down that painting because it causes my guests to go into hyperventilation? Does the sofa color remind my guest of some horrific childhood accident? All these things cause Asiankp to sweat like a mule pulling a 200 pound man in the Grand Canyon. I know its never good to sweat the small stuff and I shouldnt really care what these people think of my house and my decor but dont pretend that these thoughts never go through your head. Because they do. And it makes me never want to have guests over. Ever.

I Miss the Rains

It has been incessantly raining in the Chi-town. I hear there are hurricanes elsewhere and tragedy striking the southern states but here I am, acting like a pre-pubescent teenager frolicking in the rain:

Anyway, rain can be fun. Very fun. However, rain is also incredibly damaging. Since my poor little apartment is probably an eyesore to the large condos on my block, it is no surprise that our roof is leaking and the ceiling is starting to crack. Its a little scary since the crack resides right over our staircase and every day is a challenge because I know that just when I least suspect it, the ceiling will start to crack and ginormous pieces of plaster will fall on my head giving me temporary amnesia.

In order to save our pathetic carpet, we have devised a very advanced and cutting edge way to stop the rain.

Thats right. A bowl. And not just any bowl but a large, mother of pearl colored plastic bowl. We are a fancy lot. However, this bowl does nothing for the aesthetic of the staircase nor does it detract from the ridiculously dirty carpet or the walls which happen to be painted 3 different shades of white. Nor does it hide the semi-dead flowers, a love token from our previous roommates' now husband, that hang on the wall.

Inspired by my friend Leah, who has two of the most adorable children you will ever see in your life and the most creative person I know, I decided to "make-over" our slightly trailer-park esque aesthetic.

The result:


Ha. These things dont happen overnight. I'm probably better off getting hit by the plaster.

I'm a Horrible Person

For many reasons. One particular glaring reason is the fact that I didnt realize it was 9/11 yesterday until 8:00 this morning. Most dates come and go with little to no significance for me except holy days, close friends birthdays and national holidays. 9/11 however is a date that holds significance for pretty much any American. Even if you dont agree on the logisitics or the vast conspiracy theories surrounding the day, a sane human being cannot argue that 9/11 is most certainly a day to be remembered. To mourn those lost and to remember the sacrifice of so many.

Now I've never been one of those extremely patriotic folks...dont get me wrong, I love my country, support my troops, and appreciate democracy. I dont, however, get weepy every time I hear the national anthem nor do I own American flag print boxers. My apartment does not boast the American flag from our doorstep nor do we have bald eagle busts on the mantle. For those of you who think thats crazy, I should mention that my grandmother used to have not one, but two bald eagle busts. One for the kitchen and one for the study. She also used to have a small sliver of the orginial American flag that her ancestors suppposedly passed down to her. In addition, she had several George Washington prints adorning the walls of her modest retirement home condo.

However, even to a slightly jaded mid twenties freelancer, 9/11 remains an important event in history and perhaps even more significant because it has become my Neil Armstrong moment, my JFK assasination moment, my US Hockey team beats Soviets moment, my George Washington crossing the Delaware moment. Its a moment that someday I will share with my children. I will tell them how I was scared, college freshman sleeping in and about to miss my English Lit. class when a air horn went off and I heard the pounding of feet in the hallways of my dorm. I will tell them how I gathered with hundreds of my fellow students watching footage of the attacks in stony silence. I will tell them how the entire university gathered in our chapel to pray for those who perished. I will tell them how moving it was to hear stories of courage and how our nation handles crisises with dignity, resolve and compassion. I will tell them that however cliche and corny it sounds, it is always important to never forget.

I only hope that I can follow my own advice from here on out.

A Peeping what?

There is a small window in my front door. It slightly resembles a doggy door but at eye level. Its backed by several small steel strips that create a sort of pattern or formation and offers a slightly obstructed view to those looking in and those looking out. Some days I am very happy that this window exists because it allows me to spy on the occupants outside the window, offering me a small view of the outside without betraying my position. On the other hand, sometimes I hate this window because if a person places their hands against the window and peers in, they have a direct and clear view of the couch and our subsequent main living area as well as a slender of the kitchen. This makes it difficult to sit on the couch and ignore who ever is knocking because they can clearly see that you are ignoring them causing them to knock harder and maybe even wave, which is utterly distasteful, especially when you are intent on ignoring them. Its almost by waving they are acknowledging that you are ignoring them, yet they continue to make a fool of themself with a pilthy greeting. Its like they know that you know that they know they are annoying you with their presence. I do abhore pyschology.

Anyway, this occured today with a certain subject. I was enjoying a late breakfast when I heard a knock at my door. I craned my neck to see who it was but said person had already placed their hands against the window and was looking in. Our eyes met and I had no choice but to walk over and open the door, interrupting my breakfast and my reading of a highly informative website. Said person had been going for a run and was sweaty and then proceeded to walk around the apartment to "cool down" and then sat on my couch. I could do nothing and after a bit of hemming and hawing, said subject left and I resumed my morning routine. But it got me thinking about Peeping Tom and the legend of Lady Godiva and I wished that I could place a spell and that all folks who peered through my humble window while pressing their dirty paws against the glass would suddenly and swiftly be struck blind in the eye.

If only life imitated legends...

Random

My commuter paper has recently taken on a new look. It is now wider and fatter and less newspaper-y but more Rolling Stone-esque. Modern writing template and bigger pictures and smaller type. I dont like it.

Dont they know that wider and fatter is never better? For a newspaper, of course.

Good Gawd

Its been a while...I dont really know where to start seeing as my lack of blogging was due to a lack of content in my life and since my life hasnt changed that much, I can't imagine my blogging will thrive.

However, I am 25 now. Yes, thats right. The big 2-5. A quarter of a century old. Being 25 feels like 24 and 23. No big significant change. Only a slight reminder that I'm closer to 30. And most of my friends who are 25 have two children already.

But I digress. What I really want to talk about is sheets. You know, sheets on your bed. Well, far be it from me to judge other people and their cleanliness or their hygenie but seriously people...you should wash your sheets at least 3 times a month. If not more. You excrete so many bodily fluids that you arent even aware of, that washing your sheets is the only sane thing you can do to prevent any kind of weird infection. AND...lets not get into odor. I can't think of anything nastier (except feet) than that distinct sleep smell. Even describing it, is starting to make my coffee come up...that slightly hazy dreary smell which washing sheets eliminates or abates. Either way, its time that the masses take a page from the Asiankp handbook of hygenie and wash your damn sheets.

Did I mention that now that I'm 25, I've become increasingly anal?

Gets Me Everytime

I was cleaning out my favorites section and found this:




Cracks me up everytime.

Sloth

Watching Michael Phelps on TV makes me feel slothful. Like if I was an animal or if I believed in that weird animus/daemon/spirit creature crap, I would be a sloth. A horn-toed sloth. But maybe I would have a colorful tail, like a parrot. Or perhaps I could be a mixture of parrot and sloth...a paroth. Still with horny toes.

I'm sorry. I dont know where this is coming from. You know whats funny though? After 8 Olympic gold medals, Michael Phelp's mother still breaks down in tears. I know its an emotional rush but still after 8 medals and 14 total golds, you think the woman would be used to this by now. But I digress...I'm not a mother nor will my children ever win 8 Olympic gold medals in swimming. In archery maybe but not swimming. Oh you didnt know? Koreans are expert shots. Expert. We also excel at pistol shooting apparently but I love how we are not very good at Taekwondo, even though the sport originated there. And I thought it was a young Korean boy's way of life. The hand-and-foot combat. I guess they just dont make foot soldiers like they used to.

I'm putting together a birthday wish list and all I can come up with is a new planner. I feel like I should be turning 50 with a possible Alzheimer's approaching.

Olympics Schympics

Olympics have consumed me. Entirely. They have even consumed my dreams. Last night I had a dream that Michael Phelps was really a robot and on his final swim of the evening he banged his head against the Timex wall and his skin peeled away and it was revealed that he was indeed, non-human. I know everyone is in awe of the man and his swimming prowess and his endurance and his ginormous sized feet and the way his wingspan is twice his height and blah blah but what fascinates me is how he manages to keep on those legging suits during his swims. You know the ones that come just below the hip bones of males almost revealing what lies beneath. I feel at any time, those things are just going to come sliding off and Phelp's celebrity status will skyrocket. Or plummet. Depending on what lies beneath.

A good reader

I've come to the realization that I'm a much better reader than a writer. I have not blogged in weeks but I've added at least 7 new blogs to my Favorites tab on my old school but dependable PC.

I'd like to say the spirit hasnt moved me in a while but the real reason is that I got locked up in prison and I got my hand chopped off a la T-Bag. But never fear, I scored some batteries from my guy in Kitchen and swiped a pillow case and beat the living daylights out of the birdie who decided to sing about my recently acquired contraband hidden in my toilet. As it turns out, I had the wrong snitch so I've been doing everything I can to get my ass to solitary so I wont be jumped in yard. The DOC out here is corrupt but if I can swing a couple weeks of good behavior, I could be in out in 20.

Ohhhh....I'm sorry. Did I mention that I'm completely enthralled with Prison Break? Not familiar? Well you should be. Otherwise I've got a shank with your name tattoed on it.

Getting High with Odd Thomas

One of my fellow bloggers has taken to mentioning Dean Koontz and this book Odd Thomas for quite some time so I decided to take him up on it and read the damn thing. I liked it. I liked it alot. Not only do I love Koontz references to classic literature (William Blake, hells yeah) but the story is masterfully crafted. Great, now I sound like a pretentious asshole.

Anyway, this isnt a book review. If you like good stories, I recommend it. However, this is about getting high. No, for those of you out there who dont me, I didnt really get high. Unless you consider reading a quality book akin to the hallucinogenic high that comes from smoking herb, then yes, I did get high on good literature.

I checked out Odd Thomas from the library and have been reading it straight for a week and half now. Except for the occasional Arrested Development show, it has become the essential part of my daily bedtime routine. Brush. Floss. Wash Face. Curl up with Thomas. With 100 pages left to go, I realized that the book was due today. With a break from work, I decided to plop myself on my deck with a glass of water, cigarettes and the steely resolve to finish Odd Thomas before noon.
After 50 pages or so, I knew the goal was in sight. Thomas has just discovered a body and...well, I wont ruin it but it was a good, good part. As I flip to the next chapter I spot something pressed into the creases of the book. It was green with a slight hint of orange. At first I thought, oh great, a booger. Thats rich. And original. Some idiot didnt like the book so he picked his nose and left his nasty green gooze in between the pages for people like me to find.

Looking closely, I realized it was not a booger. It lacked the sticky consistency of a booger. Rather than attach itself to my finger, this "booger" crumbled like the Walls of Jericho. Because, like all humans, we have a fascination with all things gross, I began to poke and prod and like a 3 year old kid, I let some of this "booger" linger on my finger and slowly drew it up to my nose.

The distinct smell of mary jane hit me square in the face and I think I may have accidentally snorted a piece of it in nose during my "holy crap, its weed" reaction. I picked at it some more and noticed the small trappings of weed crammed into the spine of the book. I laughed. The idea of some high school pothead reaching the climax of Oddie's story, freaking out and promptly rolling a doobie to offset the drama is, in fact, hilarious.

Curious to find out more, I flipped through more pages and noticed small specks of greenery lining the spine of the next several pages. Wanting be a 100% percent sure of my discovery, I jammed the book into my nose, inhaling and exhaling that rotting skunk smell. This was weed all right. Real cannabis.

Still reeling, I finished the book. I'm about to return it to the library this afternoon and part of me would love to walk up and say, "Excuse me, but someone left some weed in this book, its not me, but I thought you should know." Or "I believe some lowlife street thugs are using this paragon of literature to traffic drugs."

Perhaps I'll just quietly slip the book into the large steel dropbox and leave it for the next patrons. Maybe a little high will brighten their day.

Are you Pregnant?

For some reason, I've been having a insane fear that someone will ask me that question. They will catch me wearing one of those empire waist dresses (that are oh-so-comfortable and my current summer wardrobe of choice) and my belly will slip through and then they will utter those three words. Ridiculous, right?

Now, I'm not pregnant in any way, shape or form, nor do I wish to be pregnant at this juncture of my life. And I'm not fat...but not skinny. Healthy is a word I like to use. Perhaps this fear of the question is only, as my friend TV Girl says " projecting negative body image issues" onto to my perfectly normal sized figure, but still, I'd like to be prepared should someone decide to get nosy. So, I've come up with a few responses to the question.

-"No. But I love what they've done with your face. How long ago was the surgery?"

-"No. Its only a boob job gone completely awry."

-"No. I have the largest tumor known to man and I've got 3 months left to live."

-"Yes. No thanks to your husband."

-"No. I have stomach cancer. Thanks for bring it up. You are a bastard."

-"Ohh my gosh, I am...what the...who the...." (followed by intense wailing and crying and falling down on the ground)

Best Wedding EVER.

This past weekend, my roommate of almost 6 years got hitched. To a great guy. My roomie and her new mother-in-law have the same name. First and last. Random factiod. I guess its true that guys want to marry girls like their mothers. Or maybe not. Either or, it was amazing, beautiful, fun and all around the best party I've ever attended. I was trying to think of how to write about the wedding when I noticed Fort Knock's post so you can go ahead and read it there.

There a few details that do not apply to me but its still a spot-on description. I probably shouldnt be riding on his coattails and write something original but I'm just too tired. Why beat a dead horse? Does that saying even apply?

Either way, my newly nuptialized friend is swimming on a beach in Mexico and I wish her all the best. Thanks for everything.

Going to the Chapel...

So B is getting married in T minus 2 days. I dont really have any idea what the whole T-minus thing means but it sounds very official. I'm standing up at the wedding (meaning in it) so I had to get a dress. A black one. And I did. It was all very last minute and worked out perfectly reminding me that my penchant for getting things done at the last minute is still working in my favor, at least for the time being.

However, I decided to come home to shop for this particular dress because I wasnt having any luck in Chicago (aka. didnt really look hard enough). Something about shopping in my own hometown where I dont have to pay for parking or get accosted by tons of other out of towners coming to the BIG CITY to do the whole shopping thing relaxes me and gives me the space and time I need to do this thing I usually abhore. Plus, my mom can come with me. And we always have a good time. In fact, I do have a particularly funny story about the two of us shopping for some new brasierres but since part of the readership of this blog is male, I dont know if its appropriate to tell the story. Oh what the heckfire, I'll tell it anyway.

Nanny Diaries

So my nanny job is coming to an end. In fact, tomorrow will be my last day. I know what you are all thinking: "Man, that was fast." And I bet I know your next thought: "Does this mean more funemployment?" Unfortunately no, funemployment has been replaced with wedding craze which begins a week from Saturday and continues through September. A note to my friends seriously dating someone, please dont get married until at least after Christmas.

Anyway, today is Thursday which is usually a soccer night. My little man, T, now knows that Thursdays are soccer nights so every Thursday he asks me: "Asiankp, are you going to fall down in your game tonight?" The reason for this question is that 3 weeks ago Friday I showed up with a pretty big scar on my leg when some wanna-relive-my-athletic-days-Lincoln Park-ex-frat boy tripped me. I told T I fell in the game. For the last couple weeks leading up to today, T has dropped hints about me trying to run without falling and wearing pillows on my legs for when the bad people come to hurt you.

So today our conversation:

T: Asiankp, are you going to try not to fall in your game tonight?

KP: Well, lucky me, we dont have a game tonight T.

T: Why? Because you always fall?

KP: No, because we lost our last game...it was the playoffs and we lost in the very last second.

T: (pause) Well, at least you wont have to feel clumsy tonight.

I have NO idea where he picked up that word and equated it with me falling and well, I guess some of my genius is rubbing off on him.

Shun the Non-Believers

Unicornicopia lives.

For those of you too lazy to click:

'Unicorn' deer is found in Italian preserve

A deer with a single horn in the center of its head — much like the fabled, mythical unicorn — has been spotted in a nature preserve in Italy, park officials said Wednesday.
"This is fantasy becoming reality," Gilberto Tozzi, director of the Center of Natural Sciences in Prato, told The Associated Press. "The unicorn has always been a mythological animal."
The 1-year-old Roe Deer — nicknamed "Unicorn" — was born in captivity in the research center's park in the Tuscan town of Prato, near Florence, Tozzi said.

I got new posters for my new room

This one for my love of Chicago and my recent love for Devil in the White City. Havent read it? Read it.

This one for my love of the novel and my love for Atticus Finch.

Obamamania.

So this Obama fellow...he's taking over my city. And its annoying. And believe me, its not just because of the politics. I mean, whether you are a Democrat, Republican, white, black, red, yellow, anytime the media/television/print world focuses on just one, singular thing, its annoying. However, since the man has secured the Democratic nomination, perhaps the public will be granted a reprieve for at least a few weeks. I fear it will only be weeks and not months and years like I hope.

Another pseudo-celeb dominating the print world is R. Kelly. My commuter newspaper, The Red Eye has a little feature called Trial Watcher. Basically it gives updates on the Kelly case and serves to annoy the living daylights out of me. Now you could say, "Asiankp, just ignore it and move on" but since I am a bit OCD and have to read EVERY part of the paper ( I just do, I can't explain it) having to read verbatim cross-examinations is about as fun as getting teeth pulled. On a side note, the Red Eye calls itself a sib of the Trib. Whatever, it's more like the bastard child of the Trib's second cousin.

So beside R. Kelly and Obama, whats up with all this rain? Floods and more floods and tornados??!!

Something is rotten in the state of Illinois.

Life Lessons

Never judge a book by its cover.

I know its an old adage that you've heard from your parents, grandparents, teachers, condescending friends and pretty much any person who likes to lord stuff over you.

But, I have to be honest. Its really very true. And nothing is more sobering than realizing the annoying and obnoxious things that some of your peers say are, suprisingly, the troof. The real troof. I say troof because my ego doesnt allow me to write the actual word. To do so would be to admit to actually learning something from someone else and owning up to the fact that, on a rare occasion, Asiankp is wrong.

So back to the judging the book. I'll start small. A certain friend has been hinting that I should watch a certain television program. She is an accomplished writer and television reviewer and has a number rating system for the various shows that she watches with 10 being life changing and 1 being really not worth a damn and you might actually be dumber for watching the show. October Road falls into this category. But I'll not go into that. She surprised me for a visit about 2 weeks ago and brought along the first season of what is now at the top of Asiankp's list. Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose.

I'll admit, when I first heard about this show, I was tempted. A visit home and my dad's support for the show quickly kiboshed any hopes I had of getting in too deep. I mean, come on, my dad's favorite show is American Idol. How can I trust that? After that, I got too involved with other stuff like looking for a job, blogging and seeing how many movies I could watch in one day, that my interest was nothing more than lint in the dryer. When she told me to watch it, I put it off and put it off and procrastinate and procrastinate. Finally, I relented. If the girl could fly over 300 miles in one day to visit me, she had to be on to something. Let me say, I was wrong. The show is above and beyond what I expected and has my full support and my undying love.

But this is not about my unhealthy obsession with things on the small screen. This story only reminds me of another story where my prideth went before the falleth. Almost a year ago, I embarked on a trip to NYC to see a holy man. I went with 3 close friends. Another girl who was an acquaintance of one in my party was going to meet up with us for a few hours. Now, I had met said girl a couple times before. She was a model. Yes, a model. A runway model. She was no Gisele or Tyra or Heidi but give her a few years and she could be. Lets call her Gitydi.

Regardless, I scoffed at her. I scoffed at her profession and what she was like even though I had only spent about a total of 5 minutes with her and I never directly spoke to her. In fact, I made it a point to avoid her and try to throw withering and judgmental looks her way. When everyone else told me that Gitydi was the nicest girl and so down to earth and really cool in a grounded way, I laughed and said, sure and Hitler was misunderstood. Which didnt really make sense then and doesnt make much sense now either.

So the idea of spending a couple hours in the presence of Gitydi in NYC, her mecca, I assumed, was less than thrilling. I did the brat act for the entire 4 hours before meeting up with her. Throwing out mean comments, being snotty. Basically, I reverted back to the age of 5 when mom and dad wouldnt play the game I wanted to. Here were my friends forcing me to hang out with someone who was going to be perched on a high horse and flaunting her beauty in our faces. Of course, no normal human does that unless you are on a reality show but I firmly believed in the theory that the pretty girls are always mean and bitchy.

To make a long story short, after smoking all my cigarettes and calling all the people I could so I wouldnt have to go and sit with all those adoring Glamazons, I reluctantly headed into the Starbucks and took a seat across from Gitydi. Immediately after sitting, Gitydi focuses her attention on me, "So Asiankp, so-and-so says that you are interested in casting? Thats so great..." I cant really recall the entire conversation but let's just say she was down to earth, friendly, unassuming and perfectly normal. Not to mention that the girl was just plain nice. I learned that she was a few years younger than the rest of us and had a hard time struggling to remain modest and grounded in a profession that does its best to make the polar opposite. We chatted for a few more hours and she even held her own when I threw my sarcastic, dry humor her way.

When we left, I turned to my friend and said, "Never again. Never again will I pre-judge. This was a great lesson. Dont ever let me do this again." So here I am, ashamed to say that I have to remind myself of that mantra again. And not just with TV shows but with life. I like to walk down Michigan Ave, past big groups of people carrying Abercrombie bags and Burberry purses and I like to pass judgements. But who knows whats going on behind those bags and purses. Maybe they are for a friend or maybe they have tastes just like I have certain tastes and while those tastes may not seem normal, they exist to make us each individual.

So there is power in those old sayings. The truth can set you free.

Holiday

Yesterday was Memorial Day, making last weekend Memorial Day weekend and consequently one of the most emotional weekends of my life. Okay, so thats a bit dramatic but still, it was emotional. My roommate of over 6 years left for Beantown. I can only say that the night was drowned in a giant pool of gin and tears. Okay, no gin. Asiankp seems to have hit some sort of alcoholic barrier. ANYWAY, as a result of my long time friend leaving, I was having a phone conversation with another great friend who lives many many miles away and casually said, "Hey, you should come to Chicago this weekend." Lo and behold, the next day she texts me saying, "My flight gets in at such and such a time at O'Hare." HOLY. MOTHER. AMAZING. Said friend and I had an absolutely fabulous time, chilling, smoking, talking, walking, marveling at all the "famous Chicago landmarks" and just catching up and enjoying the company of a good friend who knows you so well that you finish eachothers sandwiches. Thank you friend! It meant more than you know.

Unfortunately, the little peeps that Asiankp has been watching have been sick so, natch, Asiankp caught the bug and was sick for a majority of the weekend. Said friend braved this all like a champ and even had comforting words for my sickly soul.

So that was my weekend. It was also nice because long time roommate and her fiance made their trip to Beantown safe and sound and in one piece. Oh, did I mention that I finished it up with a little Chicago by the sea sailing trip and some delish BBQ pork?

Fear of the Drool

Okay, so I know that babies who are teething drool. All the time. No really, all. the. time. I know its painful for them and its very messy and one of those things in life that can't be avoided and something we all experience but when I have to change Baby X's outfit 3x in one day because of the drool, I wonder if something is off. By the by, Baby X is the name I'm giving to the ADORABLE baby I nanny for. This is to protect my own rear end and so in the future, she can never google herself and find that her old crazy nanny wrote all about her baby days on the world wide interweb.

Back to the drool...it doesnt just cover the front of her onesie right under her chin. It covers the ENTIRE front of the onesie and, like a sponge soaking up water, it keeps seeping in so much so that it forms a rather perfect oval down the front of the onesie. If someone saw her, they would say, "Why did someone pour water all over that baby in the shape of a giant egg?" Seeing as I have to do the kids laundry once a week, changing the outfit 3x in one day does not bode well for me.

However, the face that she makes when I give her that baby Tylenol is so freakin cute that I can't help but forgive her for wiping her snotting nose and drool stained face all over my shirt and pants.

Do Yo' Chain Hang Low?

So, I'm not sure why but this video cracks me up. Animal showed it to me and I must say, she has good taste. I dont know if the butchering of the nicey nice children's song or just the teeth on this mutha but its worth it.

Sounds of Summer

I love summer. It's my birthday season and the weather is nice and you can dine al fresco and you could barbecue everyday and there are lots of people out and you can wear sundresses and did I mention the weather is nice? I have a rather obsessive personality and I love to pick a song for the summer, a song that I can constantly replay over and over until my roommates kill me and forever and ever amen, I'll always have this song to remind me of the summer of 08. Anyway, this was last years anthem:



It's Drive Somewhere by the Vuglar Boatmen.

Anyway, here is Summer Anthem of 2008 for Asiankp. Its an oldie but a goodie and even though everyone and their mom will be like, "Oh Asiankp, that song is so old" I dont care because thats just like, your opinion, man.

2008 Summer Anthem: Young Folks by Peter Bjorn and John

Samantha Who? I love you.

I am aware that the premise of this show is rather sophomoric and borderlines on a fluffier Sex and the City wannabe but for some reason, I really enjoy it. I dont know if its seeing Barry Watson onscreen again (Oh Matt Camden...) or the resurrection (?) of Christina Applegate's career but the show makes me laugh and regardless of the predictable plots, its like biting into a crab rangoon. It looks a little weird on the outside but oh so tasty and delicious and something you can count on in times of need.

Damn. I'm just not as good on the metaphors as TV Girl.

A Picture is Worth...

I noticed in previous posts, I had pictures. They were fun and it adds a fun aesthetic to the blog to those folks who are too tired to read or too lazy to scroll down. I've been there. So, I'll post a recent photo. I got a haircut and the glasses are fo' real.

Little Irks

So I went for a run today. I'm trying this new thing called exercising to increase the endorphins to my brain and make me a happier, healthier person. But dont worry, I've still got the cigarettes if all else fails.

Anyway, as I was in shower after my run, for some reason, a draft was entering the bathroom and the shower liner kept sticking to my body. This is annoying on many levels. One, I cannot properly clean my body when there is a nasty old shower liner sticking to it. Two, everytime I swatted it off, it kept coming back on a completely different part of the body. Third, I tried to direct the shower head to keep a steady stream of water pushing the liner against the tub eliminating the stickiness problem but since the shower head was spraying in the direction of the liner, I had to get closer to the liner to stay under the water bringing me in contact again with the dreaded liner. I know there are starving children in India and thousands of Chinese students suffering from an earthquake and here I am, bitching about my shower liner. I am aware that my priorities are out of line here but seriously, this liner problem is just one of those things that irks me. Its like a misquito bite that wont go away and can't be cured with Benadryl.

We all have those things in our lives. Those little annoyances that, in the large scheme of things, are not worth it at all but they still just bother us enough to make us stand up and take note but not big enough to go on a crusade. Sometimes, they bother us just enough to write an entire blog post on.

Here are a few others:
-There are 6 steps from the street level to the door of my apartment. My mailbox is located next to my door. For some reason, my postman refuses to walk the stairs and leaves our mail in our neighbors mailbox on the street level. This annoys him, me and the rest of the residents of the 1713 block. Plus I dont want Jimmy to know which magazines I'm subscribing to.

-When other people open your mail. I am a Netflix member and a majority of the movies I get are for the apartment. However, please refrain from opening the envelopes until I get there. For two reasons: one, you (and you know who you are) consistently rip the return envelopes in the wrong way and refuse to follow directions and two, I dont want to be subject to explaining my movie choices to a judgmental, un-informed movie police.

-Leaving laundry. This is a minor detail. It happens to the best of us. But seriously, if you throw a load in knowing full well that you are leaving for the afternoon and the better part of the evening, where is the logic in that? Granted it is not hard for me to put your clothes in the dryer but what about when I accidently shrink your favorite mu-mu or have to sort through some questionable stained underwear or your wide array of colorful thongs? Awkward level: HIGH. And for the record, this applies to more than one person.

So, what bothers you?

NO STANDING

You know those signs...the ones around big cities usually situated right below a streetlight that say "No standing." Well, yeah, those signs. I'm not exactly sure what they mean. I guess they refer to cars double parking and no standing/waiting/being an asshole and parking in a non parking area. Well, the point I'm trying to make is that I dont like those people who turn those signs into photo ops. You know the type. They take pictures while standing under the no standing sign and give a goofy grin and point at the sign. Hohohoho. So funny.

Granted, when I was in London, they have this fabulous tradition of painting directly on the street saying LOOK LEFT or LOOK RIGHT. I have a picture of me looking left making the goofy face and pointing at the street. But give me a break. I was in Europe, I was in college, I was probably drunk.

Anyway, those people give me ulcers. It's been a rough week here in Asiankp land. There is some stuff going down with the folks at home and my little charges keep me busy and tired. And there is the festival that I'm assistant producing that closes this weekend. All in all, I'm looking for a break.

This post is mindless and half rant and half update. I'm going to quit now because I'm giving myself an ulcer.

Evitetation

Evites are funny things. Speaking from experience, my dealings with Evite are mostly love/hate. I love how easy it is to send information about a party to millions of people and then how easy it is for them to invite other people and pretty soon you have a party of 1 billion. Okay, so thats never really happened. Yet.

But, I hate the essence of the evite. I hate the colors they choose and the themes and the whole ridiculous responses and the layout and even that you have to register. Of course I am one of those people who tries to come up with witty replies to my evite rather than the standard, website provided crap responses. Maybe its the impersonal personal nature that I love/hate. Getting handwritten invitations to events are flattering and look pretty but they cost money and then you have to pay for postage. Evites are free. And you can feel a bit like Big Brother because as an administrator, you can see who looked at the evite and how many times they looked at it and then you can send mean, nasty emails to your friends saying, "WTF? Why havent you responded to my evite?"

However, you can't tape an evite to your fridge and then everytime you go to get milk or cream or ham, you can't be reminded of the fun bridal shower you have to go to in 2 weeks. Well, technically you could tape it to your fridge but honestly, who would do that?

Here's one thing I know...it is NEVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES ACCEPTABLE TO SEND WEDDING INVITATIONS VIA EVITE. I think its important to reiterate this cultural and perhaps moral wrong because with the way technology is creeping into our everday lives, some sucker out there is bound to send one. Dark days indeed.

Burn ouuut

So Ive started my nanny job and lets just say: it's interesting. Not what I expected, could be worse, kids arent terrible, over in a month and half. It will be another fun, random chapter to the Asiankp Book of Life. I figure it will come right after the chapter on "Summer Job at the Stadium: Surviving Verbal Molestation" and before "I'm Never Having Children."
Kidding. I hope I dont have that chapter. But you never know. I may be so burned out on another people's kids that I wont even be able to consider my own brethren.

However, today we went to the park which happens to be near a school. Since its a school in the middle of the city, they use the public parks as the playground. Sure enough, when noontime rolled around, I heard screams and high pitched yells coming from the school. Suddenly a horde of plaid jumper wearing kids attacked us. This was fine and my litle charge, T, seemed to enjoy his sudden company. Of course, these 30 or so students were accompanied by only 2 teachers. And these teachers seemed to be more interested in their footwear than watching the kids. But I digress. I watched T, grateful that I had chosen a bright orange fleece as outerwear which clearly set him apart from the other plaid skirt and tie-wearing youngsters swarming him.

I heard some minor taunting behind me and turned to see a group of 6 boys surrounding a young girl. They must have been about 10 or 11. They followed her around the park, shouting her name and forming suffocating half circles and when she tried to escape they closed in tighter and laughed at her. This continued for about 10 minutes and it was clear that the young girl was growing more and more agitated. Finally, the boys cornered her into those orange tubes (you know the ones) and trapped her in from either side, pounding on the top and shouting. I began to feel a bit sorry for the girl and looked to the teachers to do something. Sure enough, there they were looking at their feet. I started to head over there, determined to do something and slightly aware that this was not my place. About 10 steps from the tube, I heard a whistle and the boys' heads cocked to one side and they scattered as quickly as they had gathered and joined the other kids forming a line out of the park. The girl crawled slowly out of the tube and looked around for her predators. She breathed a sigh of relief, shot me an embarrassed look and took up the last place in line. She stood apart from the other kids and shuffled her feet back and forth, keeping her head down. I watched her shoulders hunch over as she made her way back to the school.

I'm not sure what I witnessed but I can tell you that if I see that happen again, I wont hesitate next time.

Extra, Extra

So this week, I've winked and waved at James Van Der Beek and been "in a scene" with this star of TV's October Road. My scene will probably end up on the cutting room floor but being on a film set of a legit production is very cool. Now, I promised myself that I wouldnt get all giddy and brag about my experiences but honestly, it is very cool especially when you are actually interested in that line of work. To see directors, producers, and actors all doing there thing and right in front of you is a very flattering thing. Its like they are dangling the forbidden fruit right before your eyes but you can't touch it even though the illusion of it "being at your fingertips" is ever present.

Such is the life of an extra. Or so I'm told. I dont know if its the fact that real movie stars are in such close proximity or if the lights are too bright but I swear, every person I met started talking about their work and what movies they were in and who they met and who they saw. I even fell into it saying, "Oh yeah, that film, I was working in the casting department for that picture." It was sickening. I'm kind of ashamed of myself. But seriously, it was like an unwritten rule--I had a conversation with a guy and when I asked him if this was his first time being an extra, he sighed and said, "Oh no, honey," and then proceeded to whip out his resume and profile and pictures of all the films he'd done. When I say done, I mean, been an extra in. Another lady told me that "this one director actually gave me direction and told me that I was doing a good job. I think he really liked my look." Or another young buck started to lecture me on the benefits of joining the SAG and whether or not Robert Downey Jr.'s career was over. Another lectured me on the "language of a hot set" and said we can breathe a sigh of relief when the AD calls out "check the gate." And still, another remarked on the perkiness of the PA's. "These PAs are so much nicer than the ones on (certain film). Those PAs were all from LA and they were mean." There were a few star struck girls who waited around for James to finish lunch so they could take a picture. Unfortunately, after lunch, James went right into a production meeting and the adolescents were unintentionally ignored.

Anyway, it was fun day and fun way to make some money.

Story I probably shouldnt share but I'm going to...

So my brother just got a place out in Cudahy. I havent seen it yet (I know, bad sister) but I hear its pretty sweet and it has a hot tub. He has 3 roommates. Some are cool, some are not. But that besides the point, I mean, I'm not living with them and I have the freedom to come and go when I please if said roommate begins to annoy me.

ANYWAY, one of these roommates, lets call him MUFASA has a girlfriend and MUSAFA wants girl to live with them for the summer. So the other night, she came over to "meet the guys."

The night went like this:

My bro: Hi.

MUFASA's girl: Hi, I'm MUFASA's girlfriend. I'm really smart.

My bro: ......

Later on in the evening....

MUFASA's girl: Actually, the only people smarter than me are Asians.

Wow. I cannot WAIT to visit.

Obsess Much?

I have about a week of funemployment left and I'm proud to report that I finished the entire 2 seasons of Heroes in about a week. I should point out that Season 2 of Heroes is only like 9 episodes but still people...two whole seasons in 7 days?!?! I AM amazing.

Or incredibly stupid. Here's how its done: You have to be funemployed. You have to have a strong internet connection. You have to be willingly to sacrifice sleep to find out if Peter Petrelli really can save the cheerleader.

This weekend, I was up until about 5 or 6am watching Heroes on the instant viewing of my Netflix account. This one of the perks of Netflix is that with your membership, you get unlimited hours of online viewing. This is also the downfall of Asiankp. Unlimited. Hours. Movies. If there was a kryptonite for Asiankp, it would be those three simple words.

But anyway, before you judge me, I will have you know that I'm working on a freelance casting project that has required me to get up before 8am so its not like I'm just sleeping away the day. I'm not that lazy, people. But I might be crazy. Since completing Heroes, I now walk down the streets imagining I have powers and that I will meet a like minded individual who also has powers and we will meet and duel in the middle of the street with our imaginary powers and then we will realize that we are the same and that we have to team up and use our powers to save others and the world from some giant corporation that fronts as a greenhouse emissions task force.

Geez. Maybe I should get some sleep.

But seriously, if you could have a power, what would it be?

Curse of the Double Wide Stroller

In my years of nannying/babysitting, I am always haunted by this thing they call the double-wide stroller. When I first started babysitting, I was fourteen and my first job was for a family of 7. Naturally, a double wide stroller would be an absolute mindless purchase when you already have seven kids, whats the point of picking 2 to put in a stroller? I dont know, maybe it makes sense to you, but it doesnt to me.

Anyway, many of the families I now sit for, have a 2 kids and a double wide stroller. This thing is the biggest pain in the ass. First of all, a stroller already can be awkward to the unsuspecting sitter but a DOUBLE-WIDE (DW) stroller, 2 strollers strung together by iron and latches is an entirely difficult thing to navigate. The thing takes up the ENTIRE sidewalk and doesnt turn or manuever when you want it to. The double body weight doesnt help either. Most of the time, the DW functions to give the older kid a break when you go on long walks but I say, make the kid walk. Child obesity is rapidly rising in the states and the fact is, that if we all got rid of our DW's, I swear that statistic would drop like its hot. Kids have their whole life to figure out laziness, let's not give them time to like it.
Then, after you return from your walk all sweaty from pushing and navigating sidewalks built for half a person, you have to fold this DW. How does that latch fit there and the wheels go up there and what the hell does this lever do and oh my gosh, I just snapped the most important part. Add to this equation a baby you are trying to hold in your arms and a toddler running up and down the sidewalk. As you try for the fiftieth time to get the legs to snap into place, the baby starts slipping and you end up holding him sideways like a sack of groceries and the toddler starts getting risky and flirts with running into the street. As you yell at the toddler and the baby starts crying because all the blood is slowly draining to his head, you still cannot get the wheels to fold up. You then try and jam the darn thing into the foyer without folding it but no, the wheels are too wide for the door frame. You silently curse and jam again hoping that somehow, some way, the thing will automatically fold itself up and make your life easier.

No, it doesnt. You end up dragging the kids upstairs, leaving the stroller half folded and possibly broken at the bottom of the stairs, hoping no one will steal it. Once the kids are napping, you sneak back out to the front and give it one last try. You push at the wheels, you kick at the latches, nothing. Nothing moves or bends and thankfully, nothing snaps. You sigh and leave the stroller outside with a note that says, "DO NOT STEAL." You hope that your strongly worded Black sharpie sign will be enough to dissuade possible stroller thieves. You feel good that you used a Sharpie. Sharpies mean business.

Later that afternoon the mom comes home and quickly folds the stroller faster than you can say Jiminy Cricket. You sigh and laugh.

All these thoughts run through my head as I bike home. Suddenly, I see a roadblock ahead. Yes, there straight ahead of me is a nanny and another double-wide stroller. The street is narrow which is why I'm biking on the sidewalk but knowing that the DW is approaching and that as much as I value my life, no one will like me if I knock some kids into the street while trying to save my own ass, I know I will have to veer into the street to avoid the DW. I see the nanny start to shift uncomfortably. She knows that the navigation ahead will not be smooth. I smile and calming start to head into the street, trying to make things easier for her. However, a pothole greets me. My bike begins to wobble and I end up having to awkwardly hop off my bike and jam my toes into the concrete and my butt comes into full contact with the bike bar in the middle. Ouch. I stand up as cars honk at me. I dont know if they are laughing at me or honking to see if I'm okay. I dont really care. I'm already mortified that half of the people probably think I dont know how to ride a bike.

The nanny and the DW have already passed. She is struggling to push the DW up a small hill. I see the toddler peek his head around the edge of the DW and I swear, a faint smile crosses his face. He knows the DW has bested me. And it will continue to best me.

HI BOO!!!!!

A special shout out.

April Showers

This weekend we hosted a bridal shower for my roommate B. As far as bridal showers go, it was totally boss. There were the awkward silences, the laugh-track esque giggles, and the usual social niceties exchanged when a group of people who sort of know eachother dress up and are thrown into a room together with booze and food.

But seriously, it was nice. For a diferent take on the shower, read here as my other roommate, the ever vicious, vindictive Crystal exploits my lack of experience in the kitchen, in throwing parties and overall my lack of knowing how to simply live. She is just a vile human being really. In fact, sometimes I sneak into her room late to make sure she is not an evil computer who needs to recharge their brain at night but I have to exit quickly because an overpowering sensation of "smother her with a pillow" takes over.

Funemployment will be put on hiatus for a month or so. I have accepted a nanny job to start at the end of April and run until the middle of June giving me steady work and money for a decent period of time but also giving me freedom to continue trying to freelance when able. Since the start date still gives me about two more weeks to laze about, I'm going to try and catch up on Heroe, Eli Stone and a plethora of poorly acted movies.

View from the Bottom

So today I decided to volunteer my funemployment time to helping out a friend. Said friend works for a theater company and they needed help painting and constructing the set design. I believe the theater term is "load-in."

Natcherly, my inclination was yes, I would love to paint. FYI, I do LOVE to paint. I love getting it all over my hands and jeans and even in my hair and then walking somewhere to get a sandwich covered in my paint and having people stare and whisper, "There goes an artist. Look at all that paint on her." I feel very hipster and cool and creative. Okay, so there's no whispering but who can argue with a cute girl with paint on her cheek and in her hair?

However, I was not prepared to stand under a ladder watching an overweight male staple a curtain to a large wood wall. Let me explain. When someone is standing over you or high above you, you can see under their shirt. Depending on their movements or whether they wear an undershirt (which all males SHOULD do), you can see quite a bit. Today, I saw a large gut and a rather hairy stomach. It was enough to make me eat the paint. It only lasted about five minutes though. Then this male decided to crouch on the ground and staple the curtain into the bottom of the large wood wall. And this, was not a sight I was prepared for. His jeans hung low and when he kneeled and leaned over, they fell even lower. Plumbers crack does not even begin to describe it. I dont know what humans find so attractive about the derriere but it is not a pretty sight. Not at all. And that was only morning.

As a female, I get very self conscious about whether this area is showing when I bend over, so much so, that a majority of my shirts are stretched WAAAAY out because of my propensity to continually pull them down over my jeans in every situation that involves crouching or sitting or kneeling or...well anything really. This also happened at my previous employment when my boss crawled under my desk to fix the space heater. I politely insisted that she not crawl there or at least wait until I got out of my chair and on the other side of my desk, but no, she wanted to do it right then and there. Again, I saw the San Andreas Fault and it was weird because there was no way in hell that she didnt know it was hanging out. And that even boggles my mind more. Do some people not care that others can see? Am I crippled by an overwhelming sense of modesty when it comes to the buttocks? Is that how I snag a husband? Someone help me out here.

Fact or Fiction?

Today at work, a woman brought her dog. This was no ordinary dog, it was a wiener dog. You know, the long, long, stout dogs that used to lick my Grandpa's toes.

Yes, that dog.

Anyway, the woman had a special Louis Vuitton bag from what she called the "Wienerlicious" line designed for high class folks with special needs dogs. See, this wiener dog had cataracts so it fell into the special needs area. Anyway, the pink and white stitching on the new Wienerlicious purse looked really familar. It reminded me of some stitching my cousin had done when she spent some time in a Vietnamese sweat shop. She had decided to take a trip to Asia, fell in love with Vietnam and decided to try and film an expose on the exploitation of young Asian workers in sweatshops. She didnt get very far because she ended up loving the sewing and stitching, long hours and cramped work conditions. She came back to the States after several months with a large laundry bag filled with Coach purses that she intended to sell for half price. Recently, she went to China to investigate human rights violations.

Back at work, the woman asked me to hold her bag for her. She had a quick meeting and since my boss is allergic to Louis Vuitton, the bag and the dog would stay with me. I asked if I take Teeny-Weeny (the dog's name btw) out for walk around the office. She said fine but warned me that TW suffered from spasmodic bowel movements and I was responsible for whatever fell out. I didnt mind. I had had an unfortunate run-in with a co-worker that morning (he spilled coffee all over my new blouse) and I wanted test TW's condition on his new carpet. So we set off, an unlikely pair, me in my coffee stained blouse and TW in his extra long, extra wide Louis Vuitton suite.

At first no one paid attention to us. I rapped TW on the nose with my fist so he would make a noise but no noise came. I slapped him on the ass several times, still no sound. If I couldnt make him bark, how the hell would I make him piss all over my co-workers carpet? I decided to turn to more extreme measures. I took TW out of his bag and tossed him as I high as I could in the air. Halfway through his freefall, he let out out a whine followed by three short barks. I caught him with one hand and he rewarded me by shitting directly on my shoe. Was this the beginning of the end? I ran with the wiener dog in one hand and the Louis Vuitton in the other to my co-workers cubicle. TW proceeded to leave a trail of excrement all the way down the hall. I burst into my co-workers cubicle but noticed immediately that the bastard had had his carpet removed early that morning. Something about a spill and he liked the wood floor better. So there I stood with one unhappy wiener dog named Teeny-Weeny and a Louis Vuitton bag covered in shit.

It was looking like a great effin day.

When Life Throws You Lemons...

I just sit there and stare at them. I dont know what the word is for that, apathetic maybe? I've currently hit week 3 of funemployment and after a few weeks of positive networking that didnt really get anywhere, I'm starting to slump. Sure, I have options, temping, etc. but what the hell...I didnt quit my PR job to temp. I did it because I had a clear goal in mind, a clear path I wanted to take. I still have that path, only its become cloudier and cloudier. Damn it. Although I am hungry so maybe I will take those damn lemons and sell them for grocery money.

A Pregnant Man

This a rather bizarre state of affairs. Its weird, weird, and beyond weird. A transvestite kept his/her female reproductive organs so he/she could get pregnant with his/her wife. Eh. What a strange world we live in now.

Anyway, the video included in this link is hilarious though. Watch Oprah struggle through the interview. I can't tell if she's shocked or wanting to laugh or just plain weirded out.

10 Facts about Unicorns

Mags once told me that a blog should be informative. So here's something for you.

10 Facts You May or May not Want to Know about Unicorns:

1.) The word unicorn comes from the Latin unus 'one' and cornu 'horn'.
2.) The horn was said to neutralize poison.
3.) The myth of the unicorn orginiated in India.
4.) The unicorn is said to be tameable only by a virgin woman.
5.) In the last Narnia book, The Last Battle, the king's best friend is a unicorn named Jewel.
6.) The unicorn can be found on the royal coat of arms of Scotland and the UK.
7.) The royal throne of Denmark was made of "unicorn horns."
8.) PT Barnum's exhibit of a unicorn skeleton was a hoax.
9.) The rhino is a distant cousin of the unicorn.
10.) The Last Unicorn book was made into an animated movie adaptation called The Last Unicorn.

I want to move to LA

I'm not talking about Louisiana although I'm sure it has its merits. I'm talking about the big, urban jungle, soul-sucking metropolis in California. Yes, that L.A. It's a long shot, sure but since I want to pursue a profession that practically screams LA, then I should move there. Sounds easy enough right?

However, I may not be cut out for the lifestyle. I dont doubt there are some friendly, laid-back, God-fearing, moral folks in California but they seem to be few and far between. And they definitely dont live in L.A. proper. At the age of 24, I still feel like the freshman from high school. I'm scared I won't fit in and the L.A. aristocrats will see me for the poser I am and run me out of town on a rail.

Why I love Thursdays

Today was the first game of our spring season outdoor soccer league. It's April in Chicago so naturally it was 30 degrees, windy, and rainy. As I took the field, my two shirts were already soaked through, my thighs chapped and red, and my hands were frozen and puffy. Yet, I was still thrilled to play. I was excited and ready and had that nervous feeling in my stomach, the same nervous feeling I would get before all big games. For us ex-collegiate athletes, there is no greater feeling than returning to the game you love. You are usually a step slower, a skill set off the mark but still passionate as ever to play the game. This is why I love Thursdays. Do I regret missing the Office and LOST? Hardly. Because every Thursday night, I'm getting to re-live at least an hour of glory, pretending to be that cocky upperclassmen again, juking girls on the field and making big plays. For a few moments, I get to enjoy being part of team, bonding over victories and agonizing over defeats. We celebrate goals like we've never scored them before and we point fingers and curse when the other team scores. We get T-shirts. We go out for beers after the game and examine every play and theorize over different set ups for next week. And that is why I love Thursdays. Game days.

And for the record, we won 2-0.

I Had the Weirdest Dream

I know stories that start out that way are usually followed by some grandiose, ricockulous story but I really did have the weirdest dream. So weird in fact, that when I woke up from my dream, I was still in my dream because B was not in the room with me and then when I finally woke up from that dream, I walked downstairs at 2am just to make sure I was not still in the dream.

I didnt have any unusual items to eat last night. I was a bit stressed about an interview I had this afternoon but usually sleep dispels any notion or thought of stress, at least for me. So, the dream. It was very V for Vendetta-esque:

I was hanging out in the library, reading John Steinbeck's Tortilla Flat. All of sudden a black bag is stuck over my head and I'm knocked unconscious. I awake in a small room with cement walls on three sides and then a large 2-way mirror facing me. The celing is cracked and water is slowly dripping on my arm. I'm seated in an uncomfortable metal chair with my hands bound behind me. Across from me is a man who looks like Christopher Walken with a Tom Hanks-in- the-DaVinci-Code hairstyle. He also wears an eyepatch. He walks behind me and cuts the tape off my hands and tells me to place them on the table. From there, he begins to ask me a series of questions. For some reason, despite my kidnapping and what appears to be a rather precarious situation, I'm a smart ass. He asks what do I love the most in this life? I respond, "Red Velvet Cake." He then asks some more questions which are designed to tear me apart psychologically. I can't recall the questions but I remember them being the kinds of questions in movies where the one being questioned begins to tear out their hair, sweat profusely, demand to be released and then is reduced to a shell of the person they once were, a crying, sad, soiled mess in the corner.

But I dont turn into that person. I continue with smartass comments but begin to get angry. Pissed. Violently angry. Maybe it is working. I throw a chair and pound my fists on the table. I press my face against the two way mirror and make monkey faces and flick off whoever is behind the mirror. I moon them. All the while, the Christopher Walken look-a-like with the bad haircut never moves from his chair. Finally, tired from my antics, I slump back in the chair and ask for a cigarette. I smoke and Christopher Walken's twin stares at me. Finally, when I'm done, I put the cigarette out in my hand and laugh as I smell the burning flesh. Christopher Walken laughs too. He says he wins. Then the light goes on on the other side of the 2 way mirror and I see three of my friends: KS, CR, JR. Christopher Walken's clone tells me this is all a joke. He works for a company that, for a large fee, kidnaps people and breaks them down psychologically while the paying customer can watch the process. It's weird and sick. I hear KS laughing and she say, "Oh man, when you said Red Velvet Cake, we were all cracking up."

At that moment, I woke up and thought I was in my room. But I looked around and B was not there and this apartment did not look like my apartment. I started to panic and then I really woke up. There was B snoring soundly and the futon was there across from my bed with all the books from the library I had checked out earlier that day.

Oddly enough, I had the good sense to write it down as soon as I woke up the next morning. It was that weird.

Coming Together

I've been struggling lately. Most of the struggling is internal but it shows when I start smoking even when I'm sick. Anyway, most of the struggle stems from my career choices or lack there of. How come everytime you try and make a decision based on 2 limited options, a third more attractive option presents itself but does not contain the same stability as your previous two options? How come everything happens all at the same damn time? Some people delight in all their wishes happening at the same moment but I like mine in small doses over time making the wishes last longer and remaining better.

It just goes to show that you can't always get what you want. There would be no struggling. And isnt that what ultimately makes us human? Our struggles and our perseverance? I hope so because if not, then I'm less than human now.

Side Splitting

The past couple of days, I have been obsessed with this website. I read the list over and over again. Then I recover and read it again. A few might think it inappropriate but to them I say, "Get an imagination and get a life." It's funny and the tone, well, tone is everything. I am even in the process of writing my own. It will be entitled, #93 on the List of Stuff White People Like: J. Crew.

However, I wanted to share #2 here in case any of you folks are too lazy to actually go the website, even though I have it linked in several places. I feel it captures not just white people but young people in general.

#2 on the Stuff that White People Like: Religions that their parents don't belong to:

White people will often say they are “spiritual” but not religious. Which usually means that they will believe any religion that doesn’t involve Jesus. Popular choices include Buddhism, Hinduism, Kabbalah and, to a lesser extent, Scientology. A few even dip into Islam, but it’s much more rare since you have to give stuff up and actually go to Mosque. Mostly they are into religion that fits really well into their homes or wardrobe and doesn’t require them to do very much.

Guest Starring: The TV Girl

One of my favorite bloggers, the illustrious TV Girl, has been on hiatus for a bit. So, in an effort to re-prepare yourselves for her genius take on television in the modern world, I now post the second part of the 2 part series: Parents of TV. Here she tackles motherhood. Enjoy!

The Parents of TV: Best Moms

I have a good relationship with my mother. It is never perfect, but through a great deal of hard work, as well as trial and error, my mother and I have forged a mutually respectful and companionable relationship. We drink coffee and smoke cigarettes together, travel together, and argue about the appropriate understanding of memetic representation in Harry Potter. I mention this because it makes me a much harsher judge of Mother/Child relationships on TV. Motherhood is probably the most difficult vocation, especially in the post-Feminist age where women are considered wrong for wanting to devote themselves to it full time. I try to bear in mind both my family dynamics and more universally human concerns when evaluating portrayals of motherhood on TV, but I often find myself dissatisfied. I am disinclined to assent to the superior mothering skills of Lorelei Gilmore (Lauren Graham) and Nora Walker (Sally Field). These two characters are hailed as the be all and end all of motherhood; I think they form the Scylla and Carybdis of fictional moms. Can someone explain to me the point of the Ross/Rachel baby on Friends, because I would hope any child treated so dismissively would be taken by the state. I will not even try to express my wonder that Rosanne’s children did not murder her in her sleep. But in all fairness, there are some instances of genuine motherhood on TV.

Lucille Bluth (Jessica Walter) on Arrested Development
I understand that I have to defend this choice, since this woman is an alcoholic sociopath who manipulates her children simply to pass the time. She is a horrible woman, but in a twisted way, I think she is a great mom. She holds her family together, albeit with an iron fist. All of her children, with the exception of Michael (Jason Bateman), are utterly deficient human beings. Without her presence they would all be dead in a ditch somewhere. You could easily make the argument that they are as they are because of her less than stellar parenting skills, but there is no type of saint that she could have been to counteract their father(s). Through her passive-aggressive wiles, the Bluth family celebrates birthdays and holidays together, attend social events as a family, run a (successful?) company, and participate in charitable work. They always cause a scene, usually end up on the evening news, and the community would probably be happy if the whole family was incarcerated. Yet, under the hawk-like matriarchy of Lucille the Bluth’s function as family unit. I hope someday I can say as much for myself as a mother.

Miranda Hobbes (Cynthia Nixon) on Sex and the City
What I said in the introduction may incline you to think that I don’t believe women should work. That is not the case. I simply have a dislike of the idea of “having it all.” Attempting a demanding full-time career and children requires compromising both. Such a lifestyle also requires a support system willing to pick up a great deal of the slack Miranda and Steve (David Eigenberg) are my favorite storyline in the entirety of Sex and the City, in part because I really think Miranda made an admirable effort to maintain her career and be a dedicated (and for a time single) mother. She did not want to be a mom in the first place; Brady was the result of the Reproductive Special Olympics, and like any show in our post-modern era, Miranda considered having an abortion. But she chose not to, and despite being utterly emotionally unprepared made room in her life for a son. She was often sleep deprived and on the verge of a breakdown, and if you have ever met a new mother (even in the best of circumstances) that is how it is. Miranda did not have it easy, and her friends lent a hand, most often in the way friends help with babies; getting the mother away from said baby for a night. When the time was right, Miranda gave up her Manhattan lifestyle and assented to move with Steve and Brady to Brooklyn, so that Brady could grow up in a house, with a yard in which to play with the dog. I have always wondered (and maybe the show addressed this and I missed it) but since Brady is named after his father’s last name, did they change his name when Miranda and Steve got married, thereby making him Brady Brady, or did they leave him Brady Hobbes?

Marge Simpson on (the early seasons of) The Simpsons
Yes, she is two-dimensional. Yes, at this point in the series she is a pale caricature of her former self. Even so, for the first half of the 90’s Marge Simpson was the best mom on TV. Committed to being a full time housewife, she confronts the repercussions of limiting her own career ambitions, periods of self-doubt, and bouts of exhaustion. For a half an hour at a time, Marge shows us all of the difficulties of loving another person and raising a family with that person. And for many years, Marge rose to each challenge. She maintained the house, the food, the laundry, and also carved out a life of her own, through activities like painting and community theatre. She demonstrated to her children principles such as forgiveness and compassion. But she was an immensely realistic cartoon. Marge’s love prevents her from taking a stronger stance on the tough issues such as discipline. Her position as mother skewed her perspective, making she has trouble seeing the gravity of certain behaviors and therefore justifying or excusing punishable offenses. I wonder if there is any mother who has not found herself in the position?

Grams (Mary Beth Peil) on Dawson’s Creek
Technically Grams was, obviously, Jen (Michelle Williams)’s grandmother, so maybe she shouldn’t count for this list, but she is great, and deserves recognition. Who would have guessed when we first met Bible-thumping, long skirt wearing, no cussing Grams that she would be the one to protect and nurture self-destructive, guilt ridden Jen and too gay for a small town Jack (Kerr Smith)? That is not a fair question since Jack did not arrive on the drama-ridden but picturesque coastline until the second season, but you see my point. It stands to reason that having made some serious mistakes in raising her own daughter (Jen’s self-involved mother) Grams did not allow herself to repeat her behavior. Grams never became a moral relativist; rather she put the mandate to love above the mandate to preach. Grams embodied the delicate balance between instruction and comfort that all mothers strive to achieve, demonstrating that the right thing has to be said in the right way to be effective.

Mary Winchester () on Supernatural
At this point you may think I am either grasping at straws, or I am way too critical. Feel free to think either. The fact is that only great love (or professional training) can convince someone to lay down his or her life to protect another. Mary goes one step further. She extinguishes her immortal soul to save the life of her son Sam when he is about to be killed by a poltergeist. While I am unqualified to judge the theological possibility of such an act, I think Mary deserves our respect for protecting her children from beyond the grave.

The TV Girl

Election Fever

I usually try and stay away from the political stuff but with Obama's recent support videos jamming up the YouTube, I was pleasantly surprised to find this: