I don't know if you know this or not, but yesterday Chicago got flooded. BIG TIME. I went to Bible Study, and by the time I got out, almost all roads to my house were flooded. I live less than a mile from my church, and it took me an hour and a half to get home.
Here's what I saw on my way home:
1. A manhole cover shoot off like a geyser was underneath.
2. A car completely under water.
3. No police. Anywhere.
I have never been so happy to live on the top floor of a high rise in my entire life. I am not kidding.
And today? A high of 28. Meaning the water is just going to freeze over, and everyone's basements are going to flood again next week when it warms over yet again.
In other news...
I may have a job. I do not want to jinx it, but it's looking mighty good for me. They (the company) were very happy with me. And I was very happy with them. This job would be perfect for me too.
In other other news...
I am incredibly tired. No, for real. Exhausted. So sorry this isn't that humorous of a post, or really a long post. But I am going to bed. Have a great weekend folks!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Keeping Busy
With Spring on the horizon, and me being unemployed and all, I am trying to find ways of keeping busy. You know, other than cleaning my house until you could eat off the toilet seat. See, I knew that I cleaned my house too much when my friend Lori said she was channelling me when she cleaned her house in her Facebook status. There is something wrong with that.
So, I am trying to think up some hobbies for myself. You know, other than quilting and Facebook. Here's what I came up with:
1. Gardening. I found a website that shows you how to make those upside down hanging tomato plants, without having to pay for the As-Seen-On-Tv product. I plan on going to my condo association and asking to plant a vegetable garden as well. I mean, we're sitting on all this land, why NOT make a vegetable garden.
2. Making a Robot Cookie Jar. I saw one on How I Met Your Mother, and wouldn't you know, there aren't any out in the world wide web for me to buy. I guess I am just stuck MAKING one. I am sketching it out. Does anyone else want one? You all know I have a serious thing for robots.
3. Cheesecakes. I have been searching for the perfect cheesecake recipe for some time. I think I have found it. My goal for next week - make the perfect cheesecake.
4. Join a martial art. This is going to be something for both Eric and I. We both want to get back into martial arts.
5. Golf. Heck, I already act like a retiree, might as well get fully into my destiny. And man, do I love golfing.
6. Cleaning under my appliances. What can I say, old habits die hard.
Any other hobbies you all think I would be good at or should take up? Because I am all ears. And for the record, those are clean enough to eat off of too.
So, I am trying to think up some hobbies for myself. You know, other than quilting and Facebook. Here's what I came up with:
1. Gardening. I found a website that shows you how to make those upside down hanging tomato plants, without having to pay for the As-Seen-On-Tv product. I plan on going to my condo association and asking to plant a vegetable garden as well. I mean, we're sitting on all this land, why NOT make a vegetable garden.
2. Making a Robot Cookie Jar. I saw one on How I Met Your Mother, and wouldn't you know, there aren't any out in the world wide web for me to buy. I guess I am just stuck MAKING one. I am sketching it out. Does anyone else want one? You all know I have a serious thing for robots.
3. Cheesecakes. I have been searching for the perfect cheesecake recipe for some time. I think I have found it. My goal for next week - make the perfect cheesecake.
4. Join a martial art. This is going to be something for both Eric and I. We both want to get back into martial arts.
5. Golf. Heck, I already act like a retiree, might as well get fully into my destiny. And man, do I love golfing.
6. Cleaning under my appliances. What can I say, old habits die hard.
Any other hobbies you all think I would be good at or should take up? Because I am all ears. And for the record, those are clean enough to eat off of too.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Shortest Job In History
So, I was offered a job. Hold your congratulations until the end of this story. Trust me.
I went out for a job about two weeks ago, and the interview went really well. I got along with my future boss, as well as everyone else who interviewed me. Everything came up aces. I was told by my headhunter that it would take about two weeks to get everything set up and cleared.
I got the call yesterday that I got the job. "Woo hoo!" I said! Then I hung up the phone and proceeded to dance around my living room. I may or may not have been wearing pants.
Then the phone rings again.
The headhunter tells me that the company has decided to institute a hiring freeze. I do not have the job after all.
There was considerably less pantsless dancing in my living room after that phone call. The headhunter was royally pissed off, I must say. Probably because he is now missing out on his commission. I feel his pain - I am missing out on a PAYCHECK.
So, here's hoping my interview on Thursday goes much better. Perhaps I will have a job for more than 30 seconds this time!
I went out for a job about two weeks ago, and the interview went really well. I got along with my future boss, as well as everyone else who interviewed me. Everything came up aces. I was told by my headhunter that it would take about two weeks to get everything set up and cleared.
I got the call yesterday that I got the job. "Woo hoo!" I said! Then I hung up the phone and proceeded to dance around my living room. I may or may not have been wearing pants.
Then the phone rings again.
The headhunter tells me that the company has decided to institute a hiring freeze. I do not have the job after all.
There was considerably less pantsless dancing in my living room after that phone call. The headhunter was royally pissed off, I must say. Probably because he is now missing out on his commission. I feel his pain - I am missing out on a PAYCHECK.
So, here's hoping my interview on Thursday goes much better. Perhaps I will have a job for more than 30 seconds this time!
Monday, February 23, 2009
Travel Goals & a Beatdown
Eric and I have this thing...we joke about things we need to do/see in the next decade. When we first started dating, I told him I needed to do three things before I got married: 1. Visit a foreign country on vacation, 2. Swim in the ocean (any ocean), and 3. See Disney World and/or Disney Land.
So, when Eric's Aunt turned 50, she took everyone on a Disney Cruise. We went down to Disney World the day before the cruise left, thus checking off #3 of my list. The last day of the cruise, we visited Disney's private island. (Side note: If you get the chance - GO THERE GO THERE GO THERE YOU DO NOT EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU ARE MISSING GO THERE!) On Disney's Private Island, I got to swim in the Atlantic Ocean, thus checking off #2 of my list.
In between Disney World and Disney Super-Awesome-Fantastic-Island, there was Nassau. We went to Nassau, and thus, checking off #1 of my list. But Nassau, unlike Disney Island Paradise, was absolutely horrible.
We met up with another couple from the ship, and figured that there was safety in numbers, and off the boat and into the port of Nassau we went.
Three steps off the boat - someone offered us Cuban Cigars. Awesome, we thought, but no thanks.
Five steps off of the boat - someone offered us cocaine. Not so awesome, we thought, no thanks, and we started walking quicker.
Ten steps off of the boat - someone offered us horse meat. Don't act like I didn't shove that in my gullet as fast as I could. But that isn't what this story is about.
Half an hour off of the boat - the husband of the couple we were with gets mugged/pick-pocketed. Eric yells as me and the guy's wife to go back to the boat, and they take off after the mugger. They catch up with him, and give him a olde fashioned American beat-down (Dear Canadians: That last sentence right there is why we say we're Canadian when we travel now. Sorry about that.) The Royal Bahamian Police show up, and they immediately side with the tourists, since, well, Nassau's main source of revenue is ...wait for it...tourism! So, as we are walking away from the bru-ha-ha, Eric and the husband are talking, and they realize something: They now have more money than they started out with. They also now have American money AND Bahamian money. So yeah, we hightailed it back to the boat as fast as we could before the police realized that we just mugged the mugger for MORE money than we originally started out with.
So yeah, just to recap - Don't go to Nassau unless it's Paradise Island (also super-awesome-fantasticness), go to Disney's Private Island if you can, Disney World is pretty fricken awesome, and horse meat is pretty fricken tasty when it's served from a cart in the middle of the Bahamas. (I had not learned yet not to eat things from carts, in the event you were wondering.)
So, when Eric's Aunt turned 50, she took everyone on a Disney Cruise. We went down to Disney World the day before the cruise left, thus checking off #3 of my list. The last day of the cruise, we visited Disney's private island. (Side note: If you get the chance - GO THERE GO THERE GO THERE YOU DO NOT EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU ARE MISSING GO THERE!) On Disney's Private Island, I got to swim in the Atlantic Ocean, thus checking off #2 of my list.
In between Disney World and Disney Super-Awesome-Fantastic-Island, there was Nassau. We went to Nassau, and thus, checking off #1 of my list. But Nassau, unlike Disney Island Paradise, was absolutely horrible.
We met up with another couple from the ship, and figured that there was safety in numbers, and off the boat and into the port of Nassau we went.
Three steps off the boat - someone offered us Cuban Cigars. Awesome, we thought, but no thanks.
Five steps off of the boat - someone offered us cocaine. Not so awesome, we thought, no thanks, and we started walking quicker.
Ten steps off of the boat - someone offered us horse meat. Don't act like I didn't shove that in my gullet as fast as I could. But that isn't what this story is about.
Half an hour off of the boat - the husband of the couple we were with gets mugged/pick-pocketed. Eric yells as me and the guy's wife to go back to the boat, and they take off after the mugger. They catch up with him, and give him a olde fashioned American beat-down (Dear Canadians: That last sentence right there is why we say we're Canadian when we travel now. Sorry about that.) The Royal Bahamian Police show up, and they immediately side with the tourists, since, well, Nassau's main source of revenue is ...wait for it...tourism! So, as we are walking away from the bru-ha-ha, Eric and the husband are talking, and they realize something: They now have more money than they started out with. They also now have American money AND Bahamian money. So yeah, we hightailed it back to the boat as fast as we could before the police realized that we just mugged the mugger for MORE money than we originally started out with.
So yeah, just to recap - Don't go to Nassau unless it's Paradise Island (also super-awesome-fantasticness), go to Disney's Private Island if you can, Disney World is pretty fricken awesome, and horse meat is pretty fricken tasty when it's served from a cart in the middle of the Bahamas. (I had not learned yet not to eat things from carts, in the event you were wondering.)
Sunday, February 22, 2009
My Buddy Hank
Once, after a night of heavy drinking, a group of friends and I decided to go see a movie.
I should stop right here and tell you that I don't drink. Very rarely will I drink. Usually just on the day of the South Side Irish Parade. And even then, not much. This means I am the designated driver pretty much all the fricken time. This also means that I have a great memory for antics my friends partake in, even when they do not. This also means I have great fodder for this blog. THANK YOU DRUNK FRIENDS!
Anyway, so after a night of hard drinking, we head out to the local mega-plex. My friend Hank is talking to me, and in very much into the conversation. He is also very much drunk. So, we buy out tickets, and I head to the bathroom, because, if you do not know by now, I have a bladder the size of a walnut.
Hank follows me, walks into a stall, and doesn't close the stall door. He starts peeing. We are still talking, and I am peeing, and it occurs to me - THESE ARE NOT UNISEX BATHROOMS. Right about the time I realize it, so does a little girl, who runs out of the bathroom. Hank is washing his hands, and the women on either side of him are staring at him like "Do we say something...?"
This is when it finally dawns on Hank that he is indeed in the women's restroom. We quickly exit, and go into our theater, if for no other reason than we did not want the heighten the chances of the cops coming and finding us, and arresting the "pervert" in the women's restroom.
But seriously, we carried on that conversation for three whole minutes before we realized what was happening. And that's just kind of sad, considering I was STONE COLD SOBER.
I should stop right here and tell you that I don't drink. Very rarely will I drink. Usually just on the day of the South Side Irish Parade. And even then, not much. This means I am the designated driver pretty much all the fricken time. This also means that I have a great memory for antics my friends partake in, even when they do not. This also means I have great fodder for this blog. THANK YOU DRUNK FRIENDS!
Anyway, so after a night of hard drinking, we head out to the local mega-plex. My friend Hank is talking to me, and in very much into the conversation. He is also very much drunk. So, we buy out tickets, and I head to the bathroom, because, if you do not know by now, I have a bladder the size of a walnut.
Hank follows me, walks into a stall, and doesn't close the stall door. He starts peeing. We are still talking, and I am peeing, and it occurs to me - THESE ARE NOT UNISEX BATHROOMS. Right about the time I realize it, so does a little girl, who runs out of the bathroom. Hank is washing his hands, and the women on either side of him are staring at him like "Do we say something...?"
This is when it finally dawns on Hank that he is indeed in the women's restroom. We quickly exit, and go into our theater, if for no other reason than we did not want the heighten the chances of the cops coming and finding us, and arresting the "pervert" in the women's restroom.
But seriously, we carried on that conversation for three whole minutes before we realized what was happening. And that's just kind of sad, considering I was STONE COLD SOBER.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Not That Funny
So, this post probably won't be funny for most of you, but I figured it would make for a good blog post, so here we go:
I sleep with a Saint Metal underneath my pillow. I do this because I often wake up at 3:33 a.m. and it kind of freaks me out that I wake up at this time.
Yesterday morning, I woke up to a distinctive CLANG in my kitchen, so I get up to investigate. In the kitchen, on my counter, is the metal that is normally under my pillow. It twacked against a metal colander in my kitchen. I am literally standing the kitchen, completely puzzled about how it got there. I even went back to my bed to make sure there wasn't ANOTHER metal somehow in my house. And it wasn't there.
So yeah, it completely freaked me out. So happy Friday to everyone, me, I am not going to get any more sleep for the rest of the month. Dang it.
I sleep with a Saint Metal underneath my pillow. I do this because I often wake up at 3:33 a.m. and it kind of freaks me out that I wake up at this time.
Yesterday morning, I woke up to a distinctive CLANG in my kitchen, so I get up to investigate. In the kitchen, on my counter, is the metal that is normally under my pillow. It twacked against a metal colander in my kitchen. I am literally standing the kitchen, completely puzzled about how it got there. I even went back to my bed to make sure there wasn't ANOTHER metal somehow in my house. And it wasn't there.
So yeah, it completely freaked me out. So happy Friday to everyone, me, I am not going to get any more sleep for the rest of the month. Dang it.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Thanks for Paying Into the System, Suckas!
I compiled a list of things I do (in addition to looking for a job) all day while I am on unemployment. I compiled this list because a couple people commented that it seems like all I do is clean my house all day long, or at least, that's what I Twitter about all day long. So, here's what most of my week days consist of, in no particular order:
1. Facebook - Holy one-legged Jesus am I addicted to Facebook. You do not even know. I check this thing like 4,000 times a day. If one of my friends sneezes, I immediately know about it, and what's more, immediately comment about it.
2. Cleaning my house - if you read my Twitter, you know this one is a large chunk of my time. The problem has become that my house is now beyond what normal people call clean. Like, when you scrub the floor with a sponge on your hands and knees DAILY, you know you need a job pronto. And I need a job pronto.
3. Texting friends while they are at work/school - thank goodness for email texts, or I would be bankrupt right about now. And seriously, if you think MY LIFE is boring now, you should read some of these texts.
4. Pre-Making Dinner - I prep dinner at 9 a.m. NINE A.M. PEOPLE. That is just messed up.
5. Quilting - holy hell do you need a lap/throw/baby quilt? Because I am quite good at hand making them.
Skills I have acquired while being on unemployment:
-Smashing empty beer cans on my forehead. (Yes, I am slowly becoming a bro, I am aware.)
-Cleaning grout until it is WHITER THAN SNOW.
-Making perfect Creme Brulee.
-Making hats out of my morning newspaper. Why yes, I am Captain of the laundry basket, thank you for noticing.
-Making any sort of cake or dessert. For real. I'm like Betty Fricken Crocker over here.
Ok, that's it, sorry for the short post people, but Captain Enna of the laundry Basket needs to bake a cake and clean the house - because today is Eric's birthday!
1. Facebook - Holy one-legged Jesus am I addicted to Facebook. You do not even know. I check this thing like 4,000 times a day. If one of my friends sneezes, I immediately know about it, and what's more, immediately comment about it.
2. Cleaning my house - if you read my Twitter, you know this one is a large chunk of my time. The problem has become that my house is now beyond what normal people call clean. Like, when you scrub the floor with a sponge on your hands and knees DAILY, you know you need a job pronto. And I need a job pronto.
3. Texting friends while they are at work/school - thank goodness for email texts, or I would be bankrupt right about now. And seriously, if you think MY LIFE is boring now, you should read some of these texts.
4. Pre-Making Dinner - I prep dinner at 9 a.m. NINE A.M. PEOPLE. That is just messed up.
5. Quilting - holy hell do you need a lap/throw/baby quilt? Because I am quite good at hand making them.
Skills I have acquired while being on unemployment:
-Smashing empty beer cans on my forehead. (Yes, I am slowly becoming a bro, I am aware.)
-Cleaning grout until it is WHITER THAN SNOW.
-Making perfect Creme Brulee.
-Making hats out of my morning newspaper. Why yes, I am Captain of the laundry basket, thank you for noticing.
-Making any sort of cake or dessert. For real. I'm like Betty Fricken Crocker over here.
Ok, that's it, sorry for the short post people, but Captain Enna of the laundry Basket needs to bake a cake and clean the house - because today is Eric's birthday!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Public Urination
So, here's the thing with my family - whenever one of us calls another one of us, we instantly have to use the bathroom. It's like some weird reaction we all have. Well, at least the women in my family. My mother and sister have this weird reaction for me. They call - I pretty much head to the bathroom.
And I know what you're thinking - why am I peeing while talking to them on the phone - well, because we're just that kind of family. They go to the bathroom while on the phone with me, so hey, why not.
Today, my sister called me while she was at school and working in the school's newspaper's office. So, we're talking about things we did over the weekend (the wake, to be honest, which just makes this story that much worse) and I have to pee. So, I go to the bathroom. Julie stops talking while I am doing my business. Then I flush. Right about the time I start washing my hands, I hear people laughing.
"Enna" Julie says
"Yes" I reply
"You are on speaker phone, you know that, right?"
"No, I was not aware of that fact. How many other people are in the room?" I ask
"About 12" Julie replies, laughing.
"What, no applause?" I ask. Because really, what else could I have said?
On the plus side, it didn't make the front page of her newspaper, so for that I can be thankful. I guess.
And I know what you're thinking - why am I peeing while talking to them on the phone - well, because we're just that kind of family. They go to the bathroom while on the phone with me, so hey, why not.
Today, my sister called me while she was at school and working in the school's newspaper's office. So, we're talking about things we did over the weekend (the wake, to be honest, which just makes this story that much worse) and I have to pee. So, I go to the bathroom. Julie stops talking while I am doing my business. Then I flush. Right about the time I start washing my hands, I hear people laughing.
"Enna" Julie says
"Yes" I reply
"You are on speaker phone, you know that, right?"
"No, I was not aware of that fact. How many other people are in the room?" I ask
"About 12" Julie replies, laughing.
"What, no applause?" I ask. Because really, what else could I have said?
On the plus side, it didn't make the front page of her newspaper, so for that I can be thankful. I guess.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Conversations
Eric: So, if you want to quit swearing, maybe we should make a swear jar?
Me: Do you like eating?
Eric: What?
Me: Do you like eating?
Eric: Yeeeeeeeeah....why?
Me: Because if we made a swear jar, all your money would go into it and we wouldn't be eating, because we would have no money for food.
Eric: See? The swear jar is already working! You got through that whole sentence without swearing!
Me: (mumbles) Oh go %$#@%$ yourself.
____________________________________________________
Friend: We should get our men together, they can play cards, or you know go to the range and fire guns.
Me: YES! They should go fire guns!
Friend: Dude! Totally!
Me: Oh man we should not be this animated and excited about the prospect of our men firing weapons.
Friend: Damn, you are right on that one.
____________________________________________________
Eric: Dude, Bear is building a torch in Romania
Me: Is he trying to survive in Dracula's castle?
Eric: Are you even watching this?
Me: No, but I am blogging about it.
Eric: Newspapers everywhere, you are safe, because that statement right there pretty much shows why people shouldn't get their news from blogs.
____________________________________________________
Well folks, last week was a crappy week, let's hope this week is better. Happy Tuesday everyone!
Me: Do you like eating?
Eric: What?
Me: Do you like eating?
Eric: Yeeeeeeeeah....why?
Me: Because if we made a swear jar, all your money would go into it and we wouldn't be eating, because we would have no money for food.
Eric: See? The swear jar is already working! You got through that whole sentence without swearing!
Me: (mumbles) Oh go %$#@%$ yourself.
____________________________________________________
Friend: We should get our men together, they can play cards, or you know go to the range and fire guns.
Me: YES! They should go fire guns!
Friend: Dude! Totally!
Me: Oh man we should not be this animated and excited about the prospect of our men firing weapons.
Friend: Damn, you are right on that one.
____________________________________________________
Eric: Dude, Bear is building a torch in Romania
Me: Is he trying to survive in Dracula's castle?
Eric: Are you even watching this?
Me: No, but I am blogging about it.
Eric: Newspapers everywhere, you are safe, because that statement right there pretty much shows why people shouldn't get their news from blogs.
____________________________________________________
Well folks, last week was a crappy week, let's hope this week is better. Happy Tuesday everyone!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Life of the Party
So, for those of you who regularly follow this blog, you know I had a friend in the hospital. Well, she died. Sorry, I don't really know what else to say, or even how to say it.
So here's to you Sheryl, the life of any party.
And that is all I am going to write about that.
So here's to you Sheryl, the life of any party.
And that is all I am going to write about that.
Carrot Sticks and An Apology
Ok, first, I wanted to apologize to He Who Aint for my birthday story. For those of you who don't know, He Who Aint is my father. Both my parents comment and read my blog. Hootie is my mother, which, coincidentally enough, is the greatest name ever, because it is short for Hootie McBoob.
I want to apologize to He Who Aint because that post was not supposed to sound insulting, in any way shape or form. I had been thinking for the last week or so how to incorporate a story about him into this blog, and specifically my birthday post. I was trying to find a way to have him be the main character that the readers empathise with.
For those of you who do not know, or did not take an astronomically high amount of literature classes in high school like I did, every story has a protagonist that the readers are supposed to empathize with. He was supposed to be that main character. It's wasn't supposed to be a "Look what my dad did wrong" post, but more of a comedy of errors post, all while still being funny. Because that's the main point of this blog - to be funny. I genuinely hope he forgives me for this, because in retrospect, I could tell where he was coming from where he would think it was insulting. I never meant to say that he was a bad father - I actually meant quite the contrary. My whole family is exceedingly proud of him for his sacrifices and accomplishments.
And to be honest, my birth story is one of my favorite stories because I always thought it was funny, and more than that, it incorpoates my favorite people, all while we learn a lesson: things go haywire but in the end it all works out and you can laugh about it. Now I kind of realize I am the only one laughing. So once again, I am sorry dad.
So now, a story about my parents that is funny (and I ran this by a complete stranger and she laughed, so here's hoping it IS funny.)
My parents never gave us sweets as a children. My brother and my desserts usually consisted of raises. The only exception to this rule would be when my dad would bring home those Popsicles that were in those plastic tubes (I cannot for the life of me remember what the heck they were called.)
My parents called the Ice Cream truck the Music Truck. Whenever the Music Truck would come down the street, they told us to come inside and they would give us carrot sticks, and then we could dance on the front lawn to the music truck while we ate our carrot sticks.
One day, one of my parents friends was over and noticed what was going on, and called my parents sick bastards. He then gave us money and told us that they sold ICE CREAM out the side of the truck, and that it was, in fact, called an Ice Cream truck.
But even to this day, I still call it the Music Truck, because some old habits are hard to break. This little fact has caused great amusement for my friends and co-workers over the years.
I want to apologize to He Who Aint because that post was not supposed to sound insulting, in any way shape or form. I had been thinking for the last week or so how to incorporate a story about him into this blog, and specifically my birthday post. I was trying to find a way to have him be the main character that the readers empathise with.
For those of you who do not know, or did not take an astronomically high amount of literature classes in high school like I did, every story has a protagonist that the readers are supposed to empathize with. He was supposed to be that main character. It's wasn't supposed to be a "Look what my dad did wrong" post, but more of a comedy of errors post, all while still being funny. Because that's the main point of this blog - to be funny. I genuinely hope he forgives me for this, because in retrospect, I could tell where he was coming from where he would think it was insulting. I never meant to say that he was a bad father - I actually meant quite the contrary. My whole family is exceedingly proud of him for his sacrifices and accomplishments.
And to be honest, my birth story is one of my favorite stories because I always thought it was funny, and more than that, it incorpoates my favorite people, all while we learn a lesson: things go haywire but in the end it all works out and you can laugh about it. Now I kind of realize I am the only one laughing. So once again, I am sorry dad.
So now, a story about my parents that is funny (and I ran this by a complete stranger and she laughed, so here's hoping it IS funny.)
My parents never gave us sweets as a children. My brother and my desserts usually consisted of raises. The only exception to this rule would be when my dad would bring home those Popsicles that were in those plastic tubes (I cannot for the life of me remember what the heck they were called.)
My parents called the Ice Cream truck the Music Truck. Whenever the Music Truck would come down the street, they told us to come inside and they would give us carrot sticks, and then we could dance on the front lawn to the music truck while we ate our carrot sticks.
One day, one of my parents friends was over and noticed what was going on, and called my parents sick bastards. He then gave us money and told us that they sold ICE CREAM out the side of the truck, and that it was, in fact, called an Ice Cream truck.
But even to this day, I still call it the Music Truck, because some old habits are hard to break. This little fact has caused great amusement for my friends and co-workers over the years.
Super Busy
I am super busy today, and Julie is worn out from my birthday activities, so instead, enjoy this:
superpoop.com
superpoop.com
Hearing Problems
At various points in time, my family has had it's share of hearing problems. Not actual hearing problems, mind you, but there have been points in the time where one of us thought we heard something we didn't.
My parents were very big on teaching us from a very young age table placesettings. You know, where the forks, knives and napkins go when setting the table.
Julie and I were setting the table for Thansgiving one year while my mother was in the other room. Julie looks down and sees that we have to put out wine glasses and water glasses, and momentarily forgets which is which. So,
My parents were very big on teaching us from a very young age table placesettings. You know, where the forks, knives and napkins go when setting the table.
Julie and I were setting the table for Thansgiving one year while my mother was in the other room. Julie looks down and sees that we have to put out wine glasses and water glasses, and momentarily forgets which is which. So,
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Story of How My Father Has Not Won an Argument Since 1983
Also know as Enna's birth story. I am taking a break from my ...well, from my break from blogging to tell you about how I came about living on this earth 26 years ago today.
My parents, after having my brother, decided WHAT THE HECK let's have another one. So, they got pregnant with me.
My mother decides that she cannot sleep one night towards the very end of her pregnancy, and goes on downstairs to take a bath. Halfway through her bath, she realizes she is in labor. So she starts calling out to my father. Seeing as it is the middle of the night (and my brother probably ran him ragged all day), my father is asleep. He doesn't hear my mother screaming his name. So, she gets her pregnant butt out of the bath, and goes and wakes up my father.
You probably think this is where the title comes from, but no, it gets better (or worse, if you're my mother.)
So they drive to the hospital - Little Company of Mary in Evergreen Park, for those of you wondering.
They get to the hospital, and I am born. I am a 9 pound 3 ounce baby. And no, this still isn't where the title comes from.
My father, being very excited about having a daughter - the first girl on his side in 50 years (shout out to Aunt Micky! Hi Aunt Micky!) - runs out to tell his mother. (This has a double purpose - one, he is excited, and two, she owns a florist) and leaves my mother at the hospital, he assumes she is resting.
My grandmother, being so excited that she had a granddaughter, started kissing random people on the street.
In the meantime, the hospital won't let my mother see me unless my father was there, because they wanted someone else in the room with the mother and baby. (Keep in mind, this was the early 80's.)
So, my mother is just waiting, drugged up, and feeling very woozie in her hospital bed. She still hasn't really seen me.
My mother is getting woozier and woozier, and still, no one has come to check up on her. Finally, a nurse's aid (Nan Harris, in the event she googles herself) comes in to check on her. She puts her hand on the bed, and when she lifts it back up, the blood has soaked through where she put her hand. The whole time my mother is waiting there, she has been bleeding out on the bed. She is rushed into surgery, and obviously, based off of her comments on this blog, survived.
But seriously, can you imagine how every single argument between my parents went?
Dad: I cannot believe you didn't put gas in the car before you came home!
Mom: You left me in the hospital to die.
Dad: Damn.
Obviously, everything worked out, they even went on to have another kid, the wonderful Julie.
So here's to my parents, for having me, and giving me a great sense of exploration and independence.
My parents, after having my brother, decided WHAT THE HECK let's have another one. So, they got pregnant with me.
My mother decides that she cannot sleep one night towards the very end of her pregnancy, and goes on downstairs to take a bath. Halfway through her bath, she realizes she is in labor. So she starts calling out to my father. Seeing as it is the middle of the night (and my brother probably ran him ragged all day), my father is asleep. He doesn't hear my mother screaming his name. So, she gets her pregnant butt out of the bath, and goes and wakes up my father.
You probably think this is where the title comes from, but no, it gets better (or worse, if you're my mother.)
So they drive to the hospital - Little Company of Mary in Evergreen Park, for those of you wondering.
They get to the hospital, and I am born. I am a 9 pound 3 ounce baby. And no, this still isn't where the title comes from.
My father, being very excited about having a daughter - the first girl on his side in 50 years (shout out to Aunt Micky! Hi Aunt Micky!) - runs out to tell his mother. (This has a double purpose - one, he is excited, and two, she owns a florist) and leaves my mother at the hospital, he assumes she is resting.
My grandmother, being so excited that she had a granddaughter, started kissing random people on the street.
In the meantime, the hospital won't let my mother see me unless my father was there, because they wanted someone else in the room with the mother and baby. (Keep in mind, this was the early 80's.)
So, my mother is just waiting, drugged up, and feeling very woozie in her hospital bed. She still hasn't really seen me.
My mother is getting woozier and woozier, and still, no one has come to check up on her. Finally, a nurse's aid (Nan Harris, in the event she googles herself) comes in to check on her. She puts her hand on the bed, and when she lifts it back up, the blood has soaked through where she put her hand. The whole time my mother is waiting there, she has been bleeding out on the bed. She is rushed into surgery, and obviously, based off of her comments on this blog, survived.
But seriously, can you imagine how every single argument between my parents went?
Dad: I cannot believe you didn't put gas in the car before you came home!
Mom: You left me in the hospital to die.
Dad: Damn.
Obviously, everything worked out, they even went on to have another kid, the wonderful Julie.
So here's to my parents, for having me, and giving me a great sense of exploration and independence.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Penis Sweater
Since I am a student who's an absolute control freak when it comes to my grades, this may be a shorter entry. I'm sorry you guys. I was budgeting my time when I fell asleep on my rosary and woke up with Jesus' face scorched into my boobs.
I have a friend Lucretia who I chat with from time to time. Sometime I go to her basement and watch her smoke. Sometimes we go out for sushi and make snarky comments about everyone in the restaurant until we are universally glared at. All around, I think she's a pretty nice lady and my sister will agree.
I met Lucretia through a her boyfriend Mortimer who is often confused for a giant. Once The Boyfriend and I ran into them at the movie, only at first I thought Mort was alone. Lucretia popped out from behind him to say howdy and I was genuinely startled. It was as though he had an adorable pocket girlfriend. To this day, the thought of Mortimer carrying around Lucretia warms my heart. I think whenever someone tells you to picture what love would be, you should think of a small Hawai'ian lady in her boyfriend's hip pocket. It will bring a smile to your face, I know it.
The other day when I was chatting with her online, she mentioned that Mortimer still had the penis sweater I made for him. I had to stop in my tracks: I made what for who now? I've been having this problem lately. People tell me funny things I have said or done and damned if I don't remember them. My friend Trent mentioned how he wanted to castrate someone via deep frying and I laughed for four minutes before he reminded me that I gave him the idea when we were sixteen.
In any event, I did indeed make Mortimer a penis sweater, or as I like to call it "an Amish condom". I believe I was trying to make him mittens but got exceedingly lazy and just elongated the thumb. This is around the same time I made a friend a crocheted cock and balls so she could pin it on her uniform skirt and torment the deans.
Now Lucretia and I are left wondering if there really is a market for the penis sweater.
I have a friend Lucretia who I chat with from time to time. Sometime I go to her basement and watch her smoke. Sometimes we go out for sushi and make snarky comments about everyone in the restaurant until we are universally glared at. All around, I think she's a pretty nice lady and my sister will agree.
I met Lucretia through a her boyfriend Mortimer who is often confused for a giant. Once The Boyfriend and I ran into them at the movie, only at first I thought Mort was alone. Lucretia popped out from behind him to say howdy and I was genuinely startled. It was as though he had an adorable pocket girlfriend. To this day, the thought of Mortimer carrying around Lucretia warms my heart. I think whenever someone tells you to picture what love would be, you should think of a small Hawai'ian lady in her boyfriend's hip pocket. It will bring a smile to your face, I know it.
The other day when I was chatting with her online, she mentioned that Mortimer still had the penis sweater I made for him. I had to stop in my tracks: I made what for who now? I've been having this problem lately. People tell me funny things I have said or done and damned if I don't remember them. My friend Trent mentioned how he wanted to castrate someone via deep frying and I laughed for four minutes before he reminded me that I gave him the idea when we were sixteen.
In any event, I did indeed make Mortimer a penis sweater, or as I like to call it "an Amish condom". I believe I was trying to make him mittens but got exceedingly lazy and just elongated the thumb. This is around the same time I made a friend a crocheted cock and balls so she could pin it on her uniform skirt and torment the deans.
Now Lucretia and I are left wondering if there really is a market for the penis sweater.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
All These Friends I Have Known
I have had a lot of friends in my life, and looking back, it appears to me that most of them were pretty fucked up in the head. Now, I'm not saying that I am a perfect individual. In some cases I think there were cultural clashes, even with friends from the neighborhood I grew up in.
I had one friend who was a pretty alright person, except when it came to money. Now, at the time, I was a pretty big mooch. But I always repaid my debts and I would like to point out that I was fifteen and had no way to make money to begin with. She always made sure I paid her back, no matter if I had to scrub toilets to get the money. One day, when out to a dinner her mother had invited me to, I realized just where she got this tendency. My friend pulled me aside and told me her mother got really offended by me. I asked why, because I have a big, loud mouth and this is usually how I offend people. She looked me dead in the eye, and without any hint of embarrassment for her mother, said, "She's mad because we've taken you out to dinner twice now and you've never offered to foot the bill."
Let me remind you I was fifteen and had a small side job cleaning houses for sick elderly people. I literally made money scraping grease off of counters and washing soiled sheets, so naturally I should pay for a dinner I was invited to. Never mind that these jobs were infrequent. Never mind that I was a minor and she was a working professional. Never mind that I had already chipped in for fucking gas. But I realize that this is how my friend was raised and it was a cultural difference. Once I got a paycheck, I blew through it buying friends CDs and tacos because I liked their company. This wasn't the case with my friend's family.
I had another friend who only hung around with me because I had a lot of hot girlfriends who were dumb as a box of rocks and twice as talkative. He would date one friend and bemoan to me about how little they had to talk about, then he'd move on to the next one when he got bored. He may seem like a total asshat, and eventually I completely cut him out of my life. But his father was a huge womanizer who constantly complained that he got tied down to this poor guy's mom, and I realize the kid just wanted to avoid the same fate.
Some kids, however, are just plain old fucked up right in their damn heads. Take Sophie, for instance. Sophie and I were inseparable for a good chunk of high school. It was in Sophie's basement that I had my first drink: she wanted to make me a rum and coke, but could only find Sprite and extra dark Jamaican rum. She tried to lighten it up with lemon juice and cherry syrup from her snow cone machine, as well as a shot of Baileys for extra malice. At the time, she didn't tell me what I was drinking. I credit my first sip of this horrendous drink as the reason I did not drink for the rest of high school and most of college. It was just that horribly foul.
We shared common hatreds for our grammar school: she, the isolated new kid who was never replaced by a newer new kid, me the bookish kid with the flood pants who got rocks thrown at her (in my school mates' defense, I did smell pretty bad sometimes). One Halloween we gathered all her grandmother's extra large underwear and some truly outrageous 40s-era coned bras and decorated her grammar school's trees in a misguided, nerdy act of vengeance. I think the only person we were avenged against was her poor grandmother, who spent the rest of our friendship telling us the importance of proper breast support.
Sophie told me some ridiculous things from time to time. One was that she was the daughter of a wealthy Saudi prince. When she was born, her mother made her father angry (most likely by being totally independent and awesome, Sophie would beam). "Well then my mother went over there and took me right back!" she would conclude, adding that she and her mother were always best friends and she was glad she got to keep her clitoris. I didn't understand the mechanics of sex until I was a sophomore in high school, and the religion teacher begrudgingly told us every oh-Jesus-why-do-they-have-a-nun-teaching-this detail, so I wasn't quite sure what that meant. In any case, the story was pretty unbelievable so I just took it with a grain of salt. The next story she told me was not, however.
I had another friend, Mark, who was an unapologetic Himbo. One day, she pulled me aside and said, "Guess what! I gave Mark a hand job!" Not knowing quite what that meant (I think I assumed rubbing his nipples or something equally insane, looking back) I just said, "Oh, good for you then. Are you his girlfriend now?" Sophie chugged on a stolen cigarette and said, "Fuck that! Now that I know how to get a guy off, I want to play the field a little." I shrugged and went back to my French notes, pretending I was too busy to care instead of just being ignorant. As high school is with girls who give hand jobs, word got around FAST. The next thing I know, Mark is calling me saying, "Tell your friend Sophie that I would rather fuck a manhole than let her touch my dick." Had she offered, I'm sure he wouldn't have turned her down. This boy once failed a history test because it was a little drafty in the attractive teacher's classroom, if you catch my drift. But it was just one more lie to confuse the hell out of me. Why was she trying to impress me with all this nonsense? We were already friends.
Then one day, Sophie just stopped talking to me. Out of nowhere, told me to take my hoodie and leave her alone. And I noticed something else, too: everyone was glaring at me. Even some of the teachers furrowed their brows in my direction. When I passed her in the hallway, she acted as though she would break down and friends would support her to her next class. My French teacher, a sarcastic yet lovable woman who pummeled me back into the straight path an infinite number of times, once took me aside and said, "I'm sure whatever you did she'll forgive you eventually." But I had NO FUCKING CLUE what I could have done. I never said anything about the Mark thing. Or the underwear thing. Or the filched cigarettes that even I could see she didn't smoke properly.
No, none of these things were what killed our friendship. It seems she got sick of hanging out with me. I was bringing her down about our French project, I was allergic to cigarette smoke, I didn't want to date any of her skid-mark buddies and at sleepovers I never flashed my tits out the window: in general, I was a drag. So to get out of a friendship she made up a lie. Shocked? I was at the time, but now I'm really not. She told people that before her awesome mother had her, she had two older brothers who were mentally handicapped. She also claimed that they died when they we three and four, respectively. In her own words:
"They were just so retarded they stopped breathing."
Really, it was genius. Not only did everyone believe her, but when I asked my friends why she was angry at me, they would respond:
"Well, it has something to do with, you know, her... brothers. She said you didn't believe she had them."
And I would reply:
"What brothers?"
Which usually garnered:
"You're such a fucking monster, Julie! I can't believe you!"
Her mother had Sophie at fifteen, so I think anyone born before her was a bit of a stretch anyway. Sometimes there is just no excusing a bad friend's behavior. There is no way to defend a girl who pretended to have disabled brothers who died just so she can make new, sluttier friends. In the long run, I was much, MUCH better off without Sophie. My grades improved, I made better friends, and eventually everyone stops being a fourteen-year-old girl.
Though that was pretty fucked up, right? That's pretty much the most evil thing I've seen someone do. That takes a special kind of asshole.
This post was by Julie, who would have felt genuine empathy if Sophie really had deceased brothers.
I had one friend who was a pretty alright person, except when it came to money. Now, at the time, I was a pretty big mooch. But I always repaid my debts and I would like to point out that I was fifteen and had no way to make money to begin with. She always made sure I paid her back, no matter if I had to scrub toilets to get the money. One day, when out to a dinner her mother had invited me to, I realized just where she got this tendency. My friend pulled me aside and told me her mother got really offended by me. I asked why, because I have a big, loud mouth and this is usually how I offend people. She looked me dead in the eye, and without any hint of embarrassment for her mother, said, "She's mad because we've taken you out to dinner twice now and you've never offered to foot the bill."
Let me remind you I was fifteen and had a small side job cleaning houses for sick elderly people. I literally made money scraping grease off of counters and washing soiled sheets, so naturally I should pay for a dinner I was invited to. Never mind that these jobs were infrequent. Never mind that I was a minor and she was a working professional. Never mind that I had already chipped in for fucking gas. But I realize that this is how my friend was raised and it was a cultural difference. Once I got a paycheck, I blew through it buying friends CDs and tacos because I liked their company. This wasn't the case with my friend's family.
I had another friend who only hung around with me because I had a lot of hot girlfriends who were dumb as a box of rocks and twice as talkative. He would date one friend and bemoan to me about how little they had to talk about, then he'd move on to the next one when he got bored. He may seem like a total asshat, and eventually I completely cut him out of my life. But his father was a huge womanizer who constantly complained that he got tied down to this poor guy's mom, and I realize the kid just wanted to avoid the same fate.
Some kids, however, are just plain old fucked up right in their damn heads. Take Sophie, for instance. Sophie and I were inseparable for a good chunk of high school. It was in Sophie's basement that I had my first drink: she wanted to make me a rum and coke, but could only find Sprite and extra dark Jamaican rum. She tried to lighten it up with lemon juice and cherry syrup from her snow cone machine, as well as a shot of Baileys for extra malice. At the time, she didn't tell me what I was drinking. I credit my first sip of this horrendous drink as the reason I did not drink for the rest of high school and most of college. It was just that horribly foul.
We shared common hatreds for our grammar school: she, the isolated new kid who was never replaced by a newer new kid, me the bookish kid with the flood pants who got rocks thrown at her (in my school mates' defense, I did smell pretty bad sometimes). One Halloween we gathered all her grandmother's extra large underwear and some truly outrageous 40s-era coned bras and decorated her grammar school's trees in a misguided, nerdy act of vengeance. I think the only person we were avenged against was her poor grandmother, who spent the rest of our friendship telling us the importance of proper breast support.
Sophie told me some ridiculous things from time to time. One was that she was the daughter of a wealthy Saudi prince. When she was born, her mother made her father angry (most likely by being totally independent and awesome, Sophie would beam). "Well then my mother went over there and took me right back!" she would conclude, adding that she and her mother were always best friends and she was glad she got to keep her clitoris. I didn't understand the mechanics of sex until I was a sophomore in high school, and the religion teacher begrudgingly told us every oh-Jesus-why-do-they-have-a-nun-teaching-this detail, so I wasn't quite sure what that meant. In any case, the story was pretty unbelievable so I just took it with a grain of salt. The next story she told me was not, however.
I had another friend, Mark, who was an unapologetic Himbo. One day, she pulled me aside and said, "Guess what! I gave Mark a hand job!" Not knowing quite what that meant (I think I assumed rubbing his nipples or something equally insane, looking back) I just said, "Oh, good for you then. Are you his girlfriend now?" Sophie chugged on a stolen cigarette and said, "Fuck that! Now that I know how to get a guy off, I want to play the field a little." I shrugged and went back to my French notes, pretending I was too busy to care instead of just being ignorant. As high school is with girls who give hand jobs, word got around FAST. The next thing I know, Mark is calling me saying, "Tell your friend Sophie that I would rather fuck a manhole than let her touch my dick." Had she offered, I'm sure he wouldn't have turned her down. This boy once failed a history test because it was a little drafty in the attractive teacher's classroom, if you catch my drift. But it was just one more lie to confuse the hell out of me. Why was she trying to impress me with all this nonsense? We were already friends.
Then one day, Sophie just stopped talking to me. Out of nowhere, told me to take my hoodie and leave her alone. And I noticed something else, too: everyone was glaring at me. Even some of the teachers furrowed their brows in my direction. When I passed her in the hallway, she acted as though she would break down and friends would support her to her next class. My French teacher, a sarcastic yet lovable woman who pummeled me back into the straight path an infinite number of times, once took me aside and said, "I'm sure whatever you did she'll forgive you eventually." But I had NO FUCKING CLUE what I could have done. I never said anything about the Mark thing. Or the underwear thing. Or the filched cigarettes that even I could see she didn't smoke properly.
No, none of these things were what killed our friendship. It seems she got sick of hanging out with me. I was bringing her down about our French project, I was allergic to cigarette smoke, I didn't want to date any of her skid-mark buddies and at sleepovers I never flashed my tits out the window: in general, I was a drag. So to get out of a friendship she made up a lie. Shocked? I was at the time, but now I'm really not. She told people that before her awesome mother had her, she had two older brothers who were mentally handicapped. She also claimed that they died when they we three and four, respectively. In her own words:
"They were just so retarded they stopped breathing."
Really, it was genius. Not only did everyone believe her, but when I asked my friends why she was angry at me, they would respond:
"Well, it has something to do with, you know, her... brothers. She said you didn't believe she had them."
And I would reply:
"What brothers?"
Which usually garnered:
"You're such a fucking monster, Julie! I can't believe you!"
Her mother had Sophie at fifteen, so I think anyone born before her was a bit of a stretch anyway. Sometimes there is just no excusing a bad friend's behavior. There is no way to defend a girl who pretended to have disabled brothers who died just so she can make new, sluttier friends. In the long run, I was much, MUCH better off without Sophie. My grades improved, I made better friends, and eventually everyone stops being a fourteen-year-old girl.
Though that was pretty fucked up, right? That's pretty much the most evil thing I've seen someone do. That takes a special kind of asshole.
This post was by Julie, who would have felt genuine empathy if Sophie really had deceased brothers.
Brief Note
Please pray for my friend Sheryl. Two months ago (if that) she had a baby. She is now in the hospital (nothing baby related) and she only has a 45% chance of pulling through, so please pray for her and her family.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Other Life Skills I am Lacking
Once, my brother and I went out for the same job. We had back-to-back interviews, so we carpooled. Within the first twenty minutes of my brother's interview, he was cut. Then came my interview. I made it to the second round of interviews. I tried to comfort my brother by saying they were just cutting the smart people.
AND WOULDN'T YOU KNOW IT, I WAS RIGHT.
The job was a pyramid scheme, and they really were getting rid of all the smart people. I, apparently, looked like a sucker, or at least not that bright.
Upon realizing that it was a pyramid scheme (and it wasn't too far into the second interview) I promptly stood up and gave a little speech:
"This is a pyramid scheme! And I, for one, am pissed off that I came out here, got dressed up, and actually printed out my resume on fancy paper! I USED MY FANCY PAPER FOR YOU PEOPLE. YOU WERE NOT WORTH MY FANCY PAPER. You brought me out here under false pretenses! You brought me out here for an administrative position, and now you want me to sell your crap! AND IT'S CRAP! And I am no sucker, just because I skewered myself through the foot three times in my life DOES NOT MAKE ME A SUCKER. AND NOW I HAVE TO GO BECAUSE MY BROTHER IS WAITING IN THE CAR."
See, the problem with me is when I get angry, like really angry, I get really honest. Like that little speech right there? Where I admit that I have stepped on three nails in my life and managed to skewer myself three times? Yeah, that really didn't need to be said, but darned if it didn't come flying out my mouth.
The problem with me is that I do not learn from my mistakes, thus I continue to lack life skills. Because that is how people learn life skills, they learn from their mistakes.
But not me. I apparently also still look like a sucker, because I keep getting call backs from fricken pyramid schemes. But I am a lot wiser now, it doesn't even get to the second interview before I realize it's a pyramid scheme.
But seriously, I am tired of printing out my resume on fancy paper for douchebags. Douchebags who want me to sell Viagra knockoffs from Canada (Why Canada, I thought we were cool?!)
Either way, I am getting better on those life skills, now aren't I?
UPDATE:
I am walking out the door to a job interview. Wish me luck! This one looks promising!
AND WOULDN'T YOU KNOW IT, I WAS RIGHT.
The job was a pyramid scheme, and they really were getting rid of all the smart people. I, apparently, looked like a sucker, or at least not that bright.
Upon realizing that it was a pyramid scheme (and it wasn't too far into the second interview) I promptly stood up and gave a little speech:
"This is a pyramid scheme! And I, for one, am pissed off that I came out here, got dressed up, and actually printed out my resume on fancy paper! I USED MY FANCY PAPER FOR YOU PEOPLE. YOU WERE NOT WORTH MY FANCY PAPER. You brought me out here under false pretenses! You brought me out here for an administrative position, and now you want me to sell your crap! AND IT'S CRAP! And I am no sucker, just because I skewered myself through the foot three times in my life DOES NOT MAKE ME A SUCKER. AND NOW I HAVE TO GO BECAUSE MY BROTHER IS WAITING IN THE CAR."
See, the problem with me is when I get angry, like really angry, I get really honest. Like that little speech right there? Where I admit that I have stepped on three nails in my life and managed to skewer myself three times? Yeah, that really didn't need to be said, but darned if it didn't come flying out my mouth.
The problem with me is that I do not learn from my mistakes, thus I continue to lack life skills. Because that is how people learn life skills, they learn from their mistakes.
But not me. I apparently also still look like a sucker, because I keep getting call backs from fricken pyramid schemes. But I am a lot wiser now, it doesn't even get to the second interview before I realize it's a pyramid scheme.
But seriously, I am tired of printing out my resume on fancy paper for douchebags. Douchebags who want me to sell Viagra knockoffs from Canada (Why Canada, I thought we were cool?!)
Either way, I am getting better on those life skills, now aren't I?
UPDATE:
I am walking out the door to a job interview. Wish me luck! This one looks promising!
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
I am Behind the Learning Curve of Life
If there were a remedial class for life skills, I would be in it. I'll be darned if I don't like doing quadratic equations in my spare time, but really, they have never helped me in real life. I wish instead of learning advanced algebra, my math teacher sat me down and told me the following:
Do not wash your car in -9 degree weather.
I am unemployed, as you all know, which means that I have very little contact with the outside world that is not through my computer. The other day (the last day I was outside) it hit 36 degrees. This high was after a prolonged single digit chill that lasted about two weeks. I figured that it would continue to be relatively warm out. I was wrong.
I decide, at 6 a.m., after dropping Eric off at work, to do something nice for him. I decided to wash his car for him. The car looked almost gray from all the salt on it (it's naturally dark blue) and I thought to myself "Heck, that would be an awful nice thing to do for him."
And it was. Awful, that is. Because I learned something else in this little process - car washes are not heated. They do not use heated water. Or, at least, the one by me doesn't.
So now, the car is white. There's a layer of water, then a layer of soap, then another layer of water, then a layer of wax, then a layer of spot-free rinse on that car. And they all froze. It's like a soapy seven layer salad out there.
And when I got home, I was trapped in the car, because the door had frozen shut. It truly was the gift that kept on giving.
Saturday it is supposed to be 48 degrees in Chicagoland. So I guess I will be heading back and trying this all over again. You know, assuming I can open the doors of the car before then.
SURPRISE ERIC!
Do not wash your car in -9 degree weather.
I am unemployed, as you all know, which means that I have very little contact with the outside world that is not through my computer. The other day (the last day I was outside) it hit 36 degrees. This high was after a prolonged single digit chill that lasted about two weeks. I figured that it would continue to be relatively warm out. I was wrong.
I decide, at 6 a.m., after dropping Eric off at work, to do something nice for him. I decided to wash his car for him. The car looked almost gray from all the salt on it (it's naturally dark blue) and I thought to myself "Heck, that would be an awful nice thing to do for him."
And it was. Awful, that is. Because I learned something else in this little process - car washes are not heated. They do not use heated water. Or, at least, the one by me doesn't.
So now, the car is white. There's a layer of water, then a layer of soap, then another layer of water, then a layer of wax, then a layer of spot-free rinse on that car. And they all froze. It's like a soapy seven layer salad out there.
And when I got home, I was trapped in the car, because the door had frozen shut. It truly was the gift that kept on giving.
Saturday it is supposed to be 48 degrees in Chicagoland. So I guess I will be heading back and trying this all over again. You know, assuming I can open the doors of the car before then.
SURPRISE ERIC!
Monday, February 2, 2009
An Open Letter to my Cars
All this car talk has reminded me of a little fact: I have owned many cars in my day. Eric jokes that I like to drive around in his car, and find the crappiest car on the street with a 'For Sale' sign and buy that car. He's pretty close. Here are some things I have wanted to say to the various cars I have owned:
Dear Ford Escort:
Hey! You were my first car! You were the car that anyone with at least three fingers could break into. I especially appreciated the fact that the previous owner took out the whole heating system. Who needs it! Especially in Chicago! I also appreciated that the previous owner decided to put a sunroof in the car too. And that he didn't know what he was doing, and caulked around it with bathtub caulk. Remember how when it would start raining, I would close your ghetto sunroof around a Chicago Suntimes and I knew I had roughly half an hour to get where I was going before the paper would soak through and it would start pouring in the interior? Those were fun times. You always smelled of mildew and must. Anyone can get that fancy new car smell, but not you, you gave me dank basement every day I drove you. We named you Holden the Ghetto Hoopdie, because you were so picky. Then your trans started to fail, and that was the death of you.
Dear Buick Century:
We named you Eugene the Death Metal Machine because that is how you sounded - you sounded like the kind of car I could die in. Also, you had bad breaks when I got you, so you would screech like you were wailing on a guitar. You were hands down the best car I have ever owned. People were always surprised to see me driving you, since you were so very much an old man's car. I have never had so many old men say that my car was sexy as when I was driving you. Then your transmission died, and that was the end of you.
Dear Bessie the Pickup:
In fairness, your name wasn't Bessie. And you weren't my truck, you were Eric's, who was kind enough to let me drive it. You helped every single one of my friends move. Then my neighbor stole you, and that was the end of you.
Dear Firebird:
You were my nicest looking car. I bought you from George, and you lasted well over a year. People would pull up next to us and try to race us, and I would laugh and say no, because I wasn't 100% sure your seatbelts would work in an accident.
Remember when your window decided to fall down and I didn't know it, and then it snowed like 3 feet and I had to shovel out your interior? Remember how I duct taped your window up? Yeah, that was fun. Then your transmission started to go, and Eric and I traded you in for our current car, the Mitsubishi, which, just so you know, is holding up quite well, and has a great warranty on the transmission.
Seriously, I can totally see why the American car industry is failing. The Mitsubishi is fricken awesome. And, for the record, it's my first car that gets more than 25 miles to the gallon. And no one can break into it, no matter how many fingers they have.
Dear Ford Escort:
Hey! You were my first car! You were the car that anyone with at least three fingers could break into. I especially appreciated the fact that the previous owner took out the whole heating system. Who needs it! Especially in Chicago! I also appreciated that the previous owner decided to put a sunroof in the car too. And that he didn't know what he was doing, and caulked around it with bathtub caulk. Remember how when it would start raining, I would close your ghetto sunroof around a Chicago Suntimes and I knew I had roughly half an hour to get where I was going before the paper would soak through and it would start pouring in the interior? Those were fun times. You always smelled of mildew and must. Anyone can get that fancy new car smell, but not you, you gave me dank basement every day I drove you. We named you Holden the Ghetto Hoopdie, because you were so picky. Then your trans started to fail, and that was the death of you.
Dear Buick Century:
We named you Eugene the Death Metal Machine because that is how you sounded - you sounded like the kind of car I could die in. Also, you had bad breaks when I got you, so you would screech like you were wailing on a guitar. You were hands down the best car I have ever owned. People were always surprised to see me driving you, since you were so very much an old man's car. I have never had so many old men say that my car was sexy as when I was driving you. Then your transmission died, and that was the end of you.
Dear Bessie the Pickup:
In fairness, your name wasn't Bessie. And you weren't my truck, you were Eric's, who was kind enough to let me drive it. You helped every single one of my friends move. Then my neighbor stole you, and that was the end of you.
Dear Firebird:
You were my nicest looking car. I bought you from George, and you lasted well over a year. People would pull up next to us and try to race us, and I would laugh and say no, because I wasn't 100% sure your seatbelts would work in an accident.
Remember when your window decided to fall down and I didn't know it, and then it snowed like 3 feet and I had to shovel out your interior? Remember how I duct taped your window up? Yeah, that was fun. Then your transmission started to go, and Eric and I traded you in for our current car, the Mitsubishi, which, just so you know, is holding up quite well, and has a great warranty on the transmission.
Seriously, I can totally see why the American car industry is failing. The Mitsubishi is fricken awesome. And, for the record, it's my first car that gets more than 25 miles to the gallon. And no one can break into it, no matter how many fingers they have.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Lonely Days, Loney Nights
I once owned a car. I know, shocking, seeing as I am an American and all. It was a Pontiac Firebird, and it was AWESOME. It was the fastest, prettiest car I have ever owned.
It was so pretty, in fact, that once I came upon a man rubbing himself all over my car. Clothes on, but all the same, ewie.
The car, although pretty, was a piece of crap. The window would randomly fall down, and I would need to duct tape it back up, which was no easy task. But it also meant that I was always carrying at least one roll of industrial size duct tape in my purse. So, I walk down the block to my car, and see this drunk dude, Bud Light in hand, standing on my hood, grinding on my car. If it were Tawny Kitaen, it would have been hot. STILL WEIRD, but hot all the same. But no, it was some random dude in an Illinois hat, and he was very drunk.
"HEY!" I yelled.
Drunk Car-Molestor Guy turns around, "Wha?" he asks.
I don't exactly know what came over me, but instead of "talking it out," I just decide to whip my industrial roll of duct tape and hurl it at him. It hits him dead center in his face, and his face EXPLODES in this burst of blood.
"What the heck do you think you are doing?" I said, only, you know, laiden with more profanity than necessary.
"Sorry...I'm sorry. Is this your car? I'm sorry." He says as he falls off the hood of my car. He gets up, and runs away down the block.
"Fricken crazies," I say to myself as I walk up to the car.
It's about then that I realize - this is not my car. This is a Camero. A really, really nice Camero. Ah well, I just saved someone a really weird experience. Then I duct taped a smiley face to his driver's side window, and went on with my night.
It was so pretty, in fact, that once I came upon a man rubbing himself all over my car. Clothes on, but all the same, ewie.
The car, although pretty, was a piece of crap. The window would randomly fall down, and I would need to duct tape it back up, which was no easy task. But it also meant that I was always carrying at least one roll of industrial size duct tape in my purse. So, I walk down the block to my car, and see this drunk dude, Bud Light in hand, standing on my hood, grinding on my car. If it were Tawny Kitaen, it would have been hot. STILL WEIRD, but hot all the same. But no, it was some random dude in an Illinois hat, and he was very drunk.
"HEY!" I yelled.
Drunk Car-Molestor Guy turns around, "Wha?" he asks.
I don't exactly know what came over me, but instead of "talking it out," I just decide to whip my industrial roll of duct tape and hurl it at him. It hits him dead center in his face, and his face EXPLODES in this burst of blood.
"What the heck do you think you are doing?" I said, only, you know, laiden with more profanity than necessary.
"Sorry...I'm sorry. Is this your car? I'm sorry." He says as he falls off the hood of my car. He gets up, and runs away down the block.
"Fricken crazies," I say to myself as I walk up to the car.
It's about then that I realize - this is not my car. This is a Camero. A really, really nice Camero. Ah well, I just saved someone a really weird experience. Then I duct taped a smiley face to his driver's side window, and went on with my night.
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