I recently returned from a week long vacay at the Farm. No, I'm not talking about my good friend's beautiful house/estate on the Chesapeake Bay...I'm talking about the rather infamous psychiatric facility on the south side of Jersey. Does Jersey even have a South Side, you may be wondering...and yes, yes, it does.
I checked last Friday late evening after a rather hectic drive, in which I had a dream that my companion and I spun about 360 degrees on the freeway and ended up in a ditch. It was raining too except the raindrops have mouths and hair and they were saying things to me like, "Told you so" and "Dont speed" and "You idiots." So that was disconcerting. Upon arrival, I was given a room in a rather luxurious house that contained several other rooms which were reserved primarily for "married couples." Now I put that in quotations because "married couples" at this particular farm were not necessarily "married" but rather raging alcoholics. Could never figure out why they used those terms. The rest of the week dissolved into scant memories of cute dogs (or were those kids???), cartons of cigarettes, loads and loads of some kind of pong (must have been ping), and all in all, general merriment. I can't wait to go back. To all my friends still dealing with their recovery, you can do it. I miss you all. Thanks for the memories. See you next year.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
When You're Bored...You Start Searching for an Identity
Its Saturday night. I've been up since 6am this morning and my day has been filled with a myriad of upper crust activities including, but not limited to, golfing at a country club and sailing on a nice boat. The evening ended with a viewing of not one, but two documentaries, both of which I am tickled to praise. The first, Man on Wire, follows the fantastic and slightly deranged psyche of Philippe Petit, the famous wire walker who walked between the Twin Towers in NYC. He also walked between the steeples of Notre Dame and a big bridge in Australia that overlooks the Sydney Opera House. Pretty neat stuff, as my father would say. I think the man is slightly crazy but he's French so that explains it all. The next was Planet B-Boy which explores the world of break dancing and follows a couple crews of breakdancers as they battle it out for the ship, as in championship. Its actually a rather fascinating doc that focuses primarily on the dancing but briefly touches on the feud between b-boys and the hip-hop culture as well as the role of b-boys in more traditional and rigid cultures. The film also follows two crews from South Korea who are, to put it plainly, effen awesome. Its a very gripping human interest story mixed with some rediculous dance moves. And cleverly shot angles.
Now, its late and I'm bored so I decided to turn to Facebook to help me forge an identity. Facebook is so awesome not only because it allows people to stalk strangers and strangers to stalk you and strangers to stalk your friends, it also provides these quick and easy quizzes which allow you to really find your true self in just a few simple clicks. It then can post the info for all to see so all the girls who should have been Belle from Beauty and the Beast can now friend eachother. New friends just like you.
So far, I'm having an identity crisis. I'm like Gollum and suffer from multiple personality disorder which would explain why on some days, I'm the Teletubbies. I'll have four kids but I'll be arrested soon after for a jet packed oriented crime and I dont speak Bermudian well but my heart is purple which is funny because I'm evil like Castro and I should have gone to Penn.
This is too much for one night. I'm going to bed.
Now, its late and I'm bored so I decided to turn to Facebook to help me forge an identity. Facebook is so awesome not only because it allows people to stalk strangers and strangers to stalk you and strangers to stalk your friends, it also provides these quick and easy quizzes which allow you to really find your true self in just a few simple clicks. It then can post the info for all to see so all the girls who should have been Belle from Beauty and the Beast can now friend eachother. New friends just like you.
So far, I'm having an identity crisis. I'm like Gollum and suffer from multiple personality disorder which would explain why on some days, I'm the Teletubbies. I'll have four kids but I'll be arrested soon after for a jet packed oriented crime and I dont speak Bermudian well but my heart is purple which is funny because I'm evil like Castro and I should have gone to Penn.
This is too much for one night. I'm going to bed.
A Peeve
Sooo...this is random but I'm not a big fan when people use numbers to substitute for words. Sure, its catchy and perhaps at times clever and faster and, on rare occasion, slightly humorous but for gosh sakes, its overdone. Like a song in an ipod commercial, its overstayed its welcome and now you never want to hear it on the radio again. Ever.
So, take back your H8 and your comiser8 and consum8, particip8, magistr8, gener8, obliter8, compens8, mastic8, popul8, and I'm sick of thinking of more.
Booyah. Also, here's another gem I came up with straight from the mind of Kay Pea. I overheard some dudes talking about how they smoked weed in Amsterdam and how it was totally cool and blah blah blah and I wanted to lean over and say, "You idiots. Smoking weed in Amsterdam is like eating a gyro in Greece."
Booyah again.
So, take back your H8 and your comiser8 and consum8, particip8, magistr8, gener8, obliter8, compens8, mastic8, popul8, and I'm sick of thinking of more.
Booyah. Also, here's another gem I came up with straight from the mind of Kay Pea. I overheard some dudes talking about how they smoked weed in Amsterdam and how it was totally cool and blah blah blah and I wanted to lean over and say, "You idiots. Smoking weed in Amsterdam is like eating a gyro in Greece."
Booyah again.
Friday, June 12, 2009
My Week
Sometimes a blog is quite a chore. Especially when you realize there are actual, live people reading it.
Here's a rundown of the recent happenings in my life. My days are spent changing diapers and picking up train sets so when I get home, all I want to do is smoke cigarettes and drink heavily. Which I do. All in moderation, of course. And then sometimes I tweet. And sometimes I check Facebook pictures to see who has a new baby. Or who is expecting. Or who is now in a relationship. Sometimes I de-friend people for the heck of it. Sometimes, I harass my neighbors about their incredibly poor parking job on our cramped street. Sometimes I secretly curse my lazy mailman who can't walk up five steps to put our mail in the actual mailbox. Sometimes I go to the park and push an empty swing and pretend to talk to a non-existent baby in the swing. I'm hoping one day someone will see me and call a psychiatric institution. I've always wanted to see what those were like. Sometimes I walk to the underpass and swap stories with the men who live under the bridge. Sometimes I lie down in traffic to see if anyone will stop. Sometimes I see how many cotton balls I can shove in my mouth. Sometimes I sing ridiculous children's songs at the top of my lungs. Sometimes I think about calling the cops on my neighbor who lives downstairs who smokes weed in his apartment and possibly deals. Sometimes I pretend I'm paralyzed and crawl around the apartment on my elbows.
And sometimes, sometimes, I sit up late at night and think of ridiculous things to write on my blog. But only sometimes.
Here's a rundown of the recent happenings in my life. My days are spent changing diapers and picking up train sets so when I get home, all I want to do is smoke cigarettes and drink heavily. Which I do. All in moderation, of course. And then sometimes I tweet. And sometimes I check Facebook pictures to see who has a new baby. Or who is expecting. Or who is now in a relationship. Sometimes I de-friend people for the heck of it. Sometimes, I harass my neighbors about their incredibly poor parking job on our cramped street. Sometimes I secretly curse my lazy mailman who can't walk up five steps to put our mail in the actual mailbox. Sometimes I go to the park and push an empty swing and pretend to talk to a non-existent baby in the swing. I'm hoping one day someone will see me and call a psychiatric institution. I've always wanted to see what those were like. Sometimes I walk to the underpass and swap stories with the men who live under the bridge. Sometimes I lie down in traffic to see if anyone will stop. Sometimes I see how many cotton balls I can shove in my mouth. Sometimes I sing ridiculous children's songs at the top of my lungs. Sometimes I think about calling the cops on my neighbor who lives downstairs who smokes weed in his apartment and possibly deals. Sometimes I pretend I'm paralyzed and crawl around the apartment on my elbows.
And sometimes, sometimes, I sit up late at night and think of ridiculous things to write on my blog. But only sometimes.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
A Constant Reminder
I've never been real comfortable with the concept of flirting. In grade school, it was gross. In middle school, it was foreign. In high school, it was all the rage. In college, well, in college, flirting meant that you should probably be ready for marriage. Or maybe not. Either way, I sucked at it.
Presently, in the post college adult years and as a single lady (thank you beyonce for ruining that phrase from now on), I've had to resurrect those long lost or perhaps, never acquired, skills from the past. And let me tell you, its been Rough. With a capital Rarrr.
A couple of weeks ago, I'm at this bar in my neighborhood with some friends. We've been dodging the much older bar owner who is creepy and over enthusiastic about being surrounded by girls half his age. We plant ourselves at a table with a booth that makes us look wholly unapproachable as we stare and judge the patrons surrounding us. A brave guy in a Detriot Tigers hat tries to strike up a conversation.
"Did I hear the word beersicle? You ladies want a beersicle?" He proceeds to ask the bartender for beer on ice. We give a perfunctory HA to his rather unusual gesture. He then comes back for more. We respond by all getting up and moving, at the same time. All 6 of us. He follows with his friends. By this point, we realize we've been rude and seat ourselves at a round table that allows for a bit more interaction with others. Detriot and his friends move in. They are pleasant, drunk, but pleasant. I start talking to this Indian guy in a Michigan state hoodie.
"So...are you guys originally from Chicago? How do you all know eachother?"
"Oh we all went to college together. Most of us are from Detriot."
"Michigan State I assume."
"Yeah, how'd you guess?" he responds, laughing. Then silence. "So Michigan St. What happens to you guys in the championship? You just choked," I say in a playful tone.
Now, mind you, I am referring to Michigan St.'s run to the NCAA Championship. Basketball. This is the extent of my flirting. Talk sports and inevitably insult the man's alma mater. But I used a playful tone? He didnt pick up on that??!
"Excuse me. We did not choke. If we had all the money and the endowment like North Carolina who are just a bunch of bleep bleep bleep who take their bleep bleep bleep and bleep it and bleep that." He then stops. A petite brunette wearing half a shirt stumbles by drunk and throws her arms around this guy. "Buyy me a drink whoop whoop." He kind of sways with her and they disappear in the crowd. FAIL.
I try and chat with the rest of them. We talk about how we love Chicago in the summer and the really drunk one shouts, "Yeah Obama. Are you Obama? For Obama? Obama is my boy." He is met with silence from us. "What, I totally thought there would be more Obama fans in this part of town. You all suck." FAIL.
One of them pulls out a cigarette. Oh, common ground. Lets bust out those skillz. I try a coy smile and say, "Oh nice. Time for some fresh air?" He gives me a weird look until I pull out my own pack. "Nice. Do you want to come with us?" I nod and he even pulls out my stool and holds the door. A few puffs later, the conversation turns weird. At one point one of the guys told my friend to "kiss me, kiss me right now on the mouth." FAIL.
It then starts to pour. I mumble something about my hair getting frizzy in the rain and they mumble something about going home to smoke weed because the bar scene is lame. I couldnt agree more at this point. And those flirting skills...well, I'm beginning to think its not just me.
Presently, in the post college adult years and as a single lady (thank you beyonce for ruining that phrase from now on), I've had to resurrect those long lost or perhaps, never acquired, skills from the past. And let me tell you, its been Rough. With a capital Rarrr.
A couple of weeks ago, I'm at this bar in my neighborhood with some friends. We've been dodging the much older bar owner who is creepy and over enthusiastic about being surrounded by girls half his age. We plant ourselves at a table with a booth that makes us look wholly unapproachable as we stare and judge the patrons surrounding us. A brave guy in a Detriot Tigers hat tries to strike up a conversation.
"Did I hear the word beersicle? You ladies want a beersicle?" He proceeds to ask the bartender for beer on ice. We give a perfunctory HA to his rather unusual gesture. He then comes back for more. We respond by all getting up and moving, at the same time. All 6 of us. He follows with his friends. By this point, we realize we've been rude and seat ourselves at a round table that allows for a bit more interaction with others. Detriot and his friends move in. They are pleasant, drunk, but pleasant. I start talking to this Indian guy in a Michigan state hoodie.
"So...are you guys originally from Chicago? How do you all know eachother?"
"Oh we all went to college together. Most of us are from Detriot."
"Michigan State I assume."
"Yeah, how'd you guess?" he responds, laughing. Then silence. "So Michigan St. What happens to you guys in the championship? You just choked," I say in a playful tone.
Now, mind you, I am referring to Michigan St.'s run to the NCAA Championship. Basketball. This is the extent of my flirting. Talk sports and inevitably insult the man's alma mater. But I used a playful tone? He didnt pick up on that??!
"Excuse me. We did not choke. If we had all the money and the endowment like North Carolina who are just a bunch of bleep bleep bleep who take their bleep bleep bleep and bleep it and bleep that." He then stops. A petite brunette wearing half a shirt stumbles by drunk and throws her arms around this guy. "Buyy me a drink whoop whoop." He kind of sways with her and they disappear in the crowd. FAIL.
I try and chat with the rest of them. We talk about how we love Chicago in the summer and the really drunk one shouts, "Yeah Obama. Are you Obama? For Obama? Obama is my boy." He is met with silence from us. "What, I totally thought there would be more Obama fans in this part of town. You all suck." FAIL.
One of them pulls out a cigarette. Oh, common ground. Lets bust out those skillz. I try a coy smile and say, "Oh nice. Time for some fresh air?" He gives me a weird look until I pull out my own pack. "Nice. Do you want to come with us?" I nod and he even pulls out my stool and holds the door. A few puffs later, the conversation turns weird. At one point one of the guys told my friend to "kiss me, kiss me right now on the mouth." FAIL.
It then starts to pour. I mumble something about my hair getting frizzy in the rain and they mumble something about going home to smoke weed because the bar scene is lame. I couldnt agree more at this point. And those flirting skills...well, I'm beginning to think its not just me.
Friday, May 29, 2009
OMG!! CAN IT BE??
Is Cameron Diaz finally going to try (gasp) ACTING??!?! I'll believe it when I see it...
Summertime
So summer has hit the Chi-town. The patio furniture is out, bar windows are open, and people are beginning to shed that extra white layer of skin accrued from those long harsh winter months. I usually dont enjoy summer...I mean, I love the sun fo' sure but I hate tube tops, swimsuits, and boys who wear colored flip flops. Especially boys who wear flip flops any color other than brown or black. Embrace the fact that its okay for you to wear leather, just this once. On your feet preferably.
If you are like me, you associate music with summer. Specifically live music. Or any music. For example, at Ravinia this year, the 4 Tops/Temptations cover band will be playing. I plan to hit that up with the 'rents. If you dont know who either of those bands are, google them, then hit yourself in the head for googling them.
Summer in our apartment begins with a summer song. Last year it was Umbrella by Rihanna. The year before that it was Bleeding Love by Leona Lewis. This year, we have yet to determine an appropriate summer song. Any suggestions? The Ting Tings are a strong contender this year or perhaps the Killers or maybe its a throwback year....suggestions welcome.
If you are like me, you associate music with summer. Specifically live music. Or any music. For example, at Ravinia this year, the 4 Tops/Temptations cover band will be playing. I plan to hit that up with the 'rents. If you dont know who either of those bands are, google them, then hit yourself in the head for googling them.
Summer in our apartment begins with a summer song. Last year it was Umbrella by Rihanna. The year before that it was Bleeding Love by Leona Lewis. This year, we have yet to determine an appropriate summer song. Any suggestions? The Ting Tings are a strong contender this year or perhaps the Killers or maybe its a throwback year....suggestions welcome.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
HIATUS
So, I've decided to take a little hiatus from this little dealio and put my efforts behind another project.
Check it out at: www.thegreatmovieadventure.blogspot.com
Or dont. Maybe you are sick of me. I'm sick of myself as well. Thats why I like to take on projects like this that may, in hindsight, be a complete waste of time. But then again, whats time to a hog?
Check it out at: www.thegreatmovieadventure.blogspot.com
Or dont. Maybe you are sick of me. I'm sick of myself as well. Thats why I like to take on projects like this that may, in hindsight, be a complete waste of time. But then again, whats time to a hog?
Saturday, December 06, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
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
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
Saturday, November 22, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 14, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
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.
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
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
Monday, November 03, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
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!
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.
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.
Monday, September 29, 2008
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.
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.
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