It's going to be a big day here for the Lizzle. It's an interview day for a job that I actually really want. (Because if I'm going to be stuck in a place I don't want to be, I might as well be doing something I want to do!) Based on what I know about this job and the feedback I've already gotten so far, I've got a pretty good shot at this, but I'm sure as hell not going to try anything that might jinx me... Lord knows I have enough bad karma and whatnot from former lives working against me as it is!
It's either this, or I'm going to get stuck being a third shift secretary at the state hospital. (read: MY PUNK ASS WOULD BE DOING NIGHTS AT THE MACADAMIA RANCH!)
Christ I could use a break! Just a couple days when things just work. Just a week when I don't get a phone call from someone telling me that I'm up to my eyeballs in all kinds of debt. Just a month when I can go into a decent job, make some money and be able to afford to have some kind of fun again, and if I'm lucky, (which we all know I'm not,) then I'd hope for a year when I can go into my place of business, do my damndest, and have that be good enough for someone else for a change.
I'm just really tired of swimming upstream and getting nowhere. Oh, who am I kidding? I'm just really tired.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
Open letter to the celebrity culture (take 3)
You know how this operates by now... Let's jump right in, shall we?
Dear Angelina Jolie: Sorry to hear about your mom. That's a real bummer. It does not however get you off the hook. We get that you're all about your little UN delegate family and all. We see what you're doing. And in addition to adopting all the destitute wee children of the world you gave birth... And you know what? I am going to flat out call you a bad mother. Someone should call social services on your ass a la Britney Spears. Yeah you might not be driving with your kid in your lap, or dropping them and causing concussions, but let's face facts here, YOU MADE A PUBLIC STATEMENT SAYING THAT YOU DON'T LOVE YOUR NATURAL CHILD AS MUCH AS YOUR OTHER KIDS BECAUSE SHE DIDN'T HAVE TO STRUGGLE. THAT'S DESPICABLE. Poor little Shiloh's struggle will come when she realizes A) That she's named for a famous fictional dog, and B) That her mother doesn't love her as much as the other kids. You know what? Every kid struggles. Trying to get what you need without any means of directly indicating a necessity... That's a struggle. And your other kids? They're cute and all, but I'm betting that you got them while they were still young enough that by the time they are all grown up they don't remember all those struggles that made you love them so much more. I think I've made my point.
Dear Brad Pitt: We get it. You have a big square jaw. Congrats. And you left your wife because something "better" came along. That's nothing new. In fact it's predicatble and played out... however, the way you denied anything was going on when you and Angie were "working" together and then let it all play out the way it did publicly, and then so rapidly boarding the Jolie train straight to hell was COLD. For real.
Dear Sharon Stone: Bitch you are nine kinds of crazy. I wouldn't even know where to begin.
Dear Joe Francis: You're a TOTAL and complete sleazeball... Yep. That about covers it.
Dear Clay Aiken: You're gay. You know it. I know it. We all know it. Even the penguins in Antarctica know it. Just come out already so that the middle American white trash and soccer moms will shut the hell up about you being straight... We know you can sing. At least then you'd have a career on Broadway, because Broadway is full of queens that can sing!
Dear Ken Paves: First off, your last name is pronounced the same way it is pronounced when construction workers put new asphalt on a road... Say it with me now, "PAYYYYVES." Good! Now stop with that whole double syllabic pronunciation. And since I've got you stopping the senseless things you do, please stop producing yellow polyester hair. I mean you want people to have good looking hair when you're a hair stylist, right? Well what makes you think that adding yellow plastic will make anyone look better? I mean look at Britney Spears! Do you think that mess looks good? And while we're talking about hair don'ts, what about that mop on your head? Crimeny.
To anyone and everyone who calls themselves an actor: We get that you all like to congratulate yourselves CONSTANTLY. If I have to hear how it's an honor just to be nominated one more time I'm gonna choke a bitch. Seriously. I'm beyond congratulating you until one of you cures cancer, or AIDS, or ends world hunger... Oh, and if it's Oprah, Bono, or Angelina who somehow manages to do any of those, I might be glad on a global scale that you did it, but I STILL won't congratulate you.
Dear Jude Law: One word of advice - Keep it in your pants.
Dear Kanye West: I'm tired of you celebrating you... You don't deserve to win every award. Not every song you put out is the best song ever written. In fact, I don't think any of your songs are all that great. And here's a tip, I'm not alone. Oh and P.S. - You look more than a little bit like a chipmunk.
Dear Renee Zellweger: I've had it with the squinty thing. Open your damn eyes or I will come out there and staple your eyelids to your forehead.
Dear Police Force of England (Scotland Yard): This is just a quick and handy tip from me to you - If you see Pete Doherty out and about, he's probably high on something. And he's most likely got a hefty stash on him. And if you see someone slumped over in a car, it's probably George Michael. He's had too much, and he's probably got a stash on him as well. Either way, you need to start arresting both of those two on sight, and NOT releasing them on any kinds of terms, because clearly whatever your policy is now, it ain't working!
Dear Angelina Jolie: Sorry to hear about your mom. That's a real bummer. It does not however get you off the hook. We get that you're all about your little UN delegate family and all. We see what you're doing. And in addition to adopting all the destitute wee children of the world you gave birth... And you know what? I am going to flat out call you a bad mother. Someone should call social services on your ass a la Britney Spears. Yeah you might not be driving with your kid in your lap, or dropping them and causing concussions, but let's face facts here, YOU MADE A PUBLIC STATEMENT SAYING THAT YOU DON'T LOVE YOUR NATURAL CHILD AS MUCH AS YOUR OTHER KIDS BECAUSE SHE DIDN'T HAVE TO STRUGGLE. THAT'S DESPICABLE. Poor little Shiloh's struggle will come when she realizes A) That she's named for a famous fictional dog, and B) That her mother doesn't love her as much as the other kids. You know what? Every kid struggles. Trying to get what you need without any means of directly indicating a necessity... That's a struggle. And your other kids? They're cute and all, but I'm betting that you got them while they were still young enough that by the time they are all grown up they don't remember all those struggles that made you love them so much more. I think I've made my point.
Dear Brad Pitt: We get it. You have a big square jaw. Congrats. And you left your wife because something "better" came along. That's nothing new. In fact it's predicatble and played out... however, the way you denied anything was going on when you and Angie were "working" together and then let it all play out the way it did publicly, and then so rapidly boarding the Jolie train straight to hell was COLD. For real.
Dear Sharon Stone: Bitch you are nine kinds of crazy. I wouldn't even know where to begin.
Dear Joe Francis: You're a TOTAL and complete sleazeball... Yep. That about covers it.
Dear Clay Aiken: You're gay. You know it. I know it. We all know it. Even the penguins in Antarctica know it. Just come out already so that the middle American white trash and soccer moms will shut the hell up about you being straight... We know you can sing. At least then you'd have a career on Broadway, because Broadway is full of queens that can sing!
Dear Ken Paves: First off, your last name is pronounced the same way it is pronounced when construction workers put new asphalt on a road... Say it with me now, "PAYYYYVES." Good! Now stop with that whole double syllabic pronunciation. And since I've got you stopping the senseless things you do, please stop producing yellow polyester hair. I mean you want people to have good looking hair when you're a hair stylist, right? Well what makes you think that adding yellow plastic will make anyone look better? I mean look at Britney Spears! Do you think that mess looks good? And while we're talking about hair don'ts, what about that mop on your head? Crimeny.
To anyone and everyone who calls themselves an actor: We get that you all like to congratulate yourselves CONSTANTLY. If I have to hear how it's an honor just to be nominated one more time I'm gonna choke a bitch. Seriously. I'm beyond congratulating you until one of you cures cancer, or AIDS, or ends world hunger... Oh, and if it's Oprah, Bono, or Angelina who somehow manages to do any of those, I might be glad on a global scale that you did it, but I STILL won't congratulate you.
Dear Jude Law: One word of advice - Keep it in your pants.
Dear Kanye West: I'm tired of you celebrating you... You don't deserve to win every award. Not every song you put out is the best song ever written. In fact, I don't think any of your songs are all that great. And here's a tip, I'm not alone. Oh and P.S. - You look more than a little bit like a chipmunk.
Dear Renee Zellweger: I've had it with the squinty thing. Open your damn eyes or I will come out there and staple your eyelids to your forehead.
Dear Police Force of England (Scotland Yard): This is just a quick and handy tip from me to you - If you see Pete Doherty out and about, he's probably high on something. And he's most likely got a hefty stash on him. And if you see someone slumped over in a car, it's probably George Michael. He's had too much, and he's probably got a stash on him as well. Either way, you need to start arresting both of those two on sight, and NOT releasing them on any kinds of terms, because clearly whatever your policy is now, it ain't working!
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Jumping into the deep end of a shallow pool...
About ten minutes after the truck was unloaded the Lizzle placed a phone call. The person on the other end was one of my very good friends back in my younger days.
"Hey! What's up? Why are you calling me in the middle of the day?"
"Well, I wanted to let you know I was in town."
"Visiting?"
"Nope."
"What? You're in town but not visiting?"
"I moved. I'm back."
"Jesus! Who died?"
"Nobody died... Yet... I just had to come back for a job."
"Yeah this town is a black hole like that."
"Ok, well, I don't want to keep you if you're working. Just wanted to let you know I was around."
"Oh, we're going camping this weekend. You should come."
"Camping?"
"Yeah."
"It's January. It's fucking cold."
"Well there's a cabin involved."
"Well that's not camping."
"Yeah it is. Come along. You'll see."
Saturday afternoon, as snow flurries fell, we drove out to the cabin. The cabin was out in the heart of butt-fucking nowhere. To accurately paint the picturesque scene, it's a rustic little number, with a wrap-around porch, resting atop a little hill with a small lake at the bottom. There was a decent-sized campfire burning out front, and two antique wood burning stoves burning inside. Yeah. Wood burning stoves, like "Little House on the Prairie" style. Those were the only heat source in the cabin aside from all of us running our mouths... There were lights, but no running water, and keeping the beer cold meant just leaving it outside the door.
We sat around talking and drinking for a little while, we cooked up some beer brats on the stove, and then someone took them out to grill them up on the campfire. We drank some more. More people showed up. And then someone suggested out of boredom that we go to a "bar" that was in "town." I use those terms loosely, because the "bar" was really just one of those single-level pre-fabricated trailer style structures... Though admittedly larger than your standard double-wide. I don't know much about trailer sizing, but I'd call this a quadruple wide... And that's about it. And as for "town," well that consisted of about six similar structures nestled on the same stretch of road in what was otherwise just a forest in the middle of nowhere.
But saints be praised, it was karaoke night in the wee little hamlet! And before you ask, the Lizzle did NOT sing karaoke. Largely because I don't know any country western songs, and that genre constituted the bulk of the karaoke catalogue. (They didn't even have "Sweet Caroline" by Neil Diamond, which under normal karaoke standards is considered a requirement, and BEGS to be sung at the top of your lungs at any bar, EVEN IF IT'S NOT KARAOKE NIGHT!.)
It should be noted that being only two days removed from Chicago at this point, I was still quite used to REAL BARS. And though I'm far from being anyone's prize, I was still BY FAR the best looking person in the joint. (Don't get me wrong and think that I'm being boastful by saying that, because let me tell you, being the best looking one among that motley crew didn't require much more than the occasional bath and knowing that oral hygiene isn't something that you can pick up at the Carhart outlet.)
Long story short, we drank, we listened as some people pathetically warbled their favorite country tunes, I excitedly talked football around a campfire with some good ol' boys who were amazed that sports knowledge and a vagina could happily coexist in a single body, and when everyone else decided to go up to the loft to sleep, my punk ass parked it in an armchair next to one of the stoves... Because I'd rather sleep sitting up and be warm than sleep laying flat and shivering. It's really no contest when you think about it.
It might not be the most glamorous start to rekindling a social life, but at least I'm wasting no time jumping right back in there!
"Hey! What's up? Why are you calling me in the middle of the day?"
"Well, I wanted to let you know I was in town."
"Visiting?"
"Nope."
"What? You're in town but not visiting?"
"I moved. I'm back."
"Jesus! Who died?"
"Nobody died... Yet... I just had to come back for a job."
"Yeah this town is a black hole like that."
"Ok, well, I don't want to keep you if you're working. Just wanted to let you know I was around."
"Oh, we're going camping this weekend. You should come."
"Camping?"
"Yeah."
"It's January. It's fucking cold."
"Well there's a cabin involved."
"Well that's not camping."
"Yeah it is. Come along. You'll see."
Saturday afternoon, as snow flurries fell, we drove out to the cabin. The cabin was out in the heart of butt-fucking nowhere. To accurately paint the picturesque scene, it's a rustic little number, with a wrap-around porch, resting atop a little hill with a small lake at the bottom. There was a decent-sized campfire burning out front, and two antique wood burning stoves burning inside. Yeah. Wood burning stoves, like "Little House on the Prairie" style. Those were the only heat source in the cabin aside from all of us running our mouths... There were lights, but no running water, and keeping the beer cold meant just leaving it outside the door.
We sat around talking and drinking for a little while, we cooked up some beer brats on the stove, and then someone took them out to grill them up on the campfire. We drank some more. More people showed up. And then someone suggested out of boredom that we go to a "bar" that was in "town." I use those terms loosely, because the "bar" was really just one of those single-level pre-fabricated trailer style structures... Though admittedly larger than your standard double-wide. I don't know much about trailer sizing, but I'd call this a quadruple wide... And that's about it. And as for "town," well that consisted of about six similar structures nestled on the same stretch of road in what was otherwise just a forest in the middle of nowhere.
But saints be praised, it was karaoke night in the wee little hamlet! And before you ask, the Lizzle did NOT sing karaoke. Largely because I don't know any country western songs, and that genre constituted the bulk of the karaoke catalogue. (They didn't even have "Sweet Caroline" by Neil Diamond, which under normal karaoke standards is considered a requirement, and BEGS to be sung at the top of your lungs at any bar, EVEN IF IT'S NOT KARAOKE NIGHT!.)
It should be noted that being only two days removed from Chicago at this point, I was still quite used to REAL BARS. And though I'm far from being anyone's prize, I was still BY FAR the best looking person in the joint. (Don't get me wrong and think that I'm being boastful by saying that, because let me tell you, being the best looking one among that motley crew didn't require much more than the occasional bath and knowing that oral hygiene isn't something that you can pick up at the Carhart outlet.)
Long story short, we drank, we listened as some people pathetically warbled their favorite country tunes, I excitedly talked football around a campfire with some good ol' boys who were amazed that sports knowledge and a vagina could happily coexist in a single body, and when everyone else decided to go up to the loft to sleep, my punk ass parked it in an armchair next to one of the stoves... Because I'd rather sleep sitting up and be warm than sleep laying flat and shivering. It's really no contest when you think about it.
It might not be the most glamorous start to rekindling a social life, but at least I'm wasting no time jumping right back in there!
Friday, January 26, 2007
It's a LONG story... Really long... No, seriously...Get comfortable.
Ok, first off, let me just say that I had hoped that this past week would have gone a little smoother. I was hoping my internet service would not be turned off until I was actually OUT of the apartment, rather than three days before, (Especially that last night because before I passed out from exhaustion I was really bored, and really wanted to check my e-mails.) I had several things I wanted to document for you all along the way, but obviously I couldn't, and I wanted to do other things online too, (like having my mail forwarded, etc.) but I couldn't do those things either, because those cable Nazis over at Comcast aren't willing to give you a minute that you aren't going pay to receive. Bastards.
But in all honesty, it's probably better that I didn't have internet access in those final days, or I'd have gotten distracted and not gotten nearly as much of my packing done and the debacle I'm about to describe would probably have been a little worse... And really, this move was bad enough as it was.
So... My last weekend in the Windy City just happened to coincide with a visit from Ling Wong (AKA - Lady Fanny of Omaha, AKA - J-Dub) and Loni (AKA - Meljoy) and so the Lizzle was able to go out with a bit more of a bang that what would have otherwise been expected. (Pictures to be posted as soon as I locate the necessary wires and whatnot... Though I have NO CLUE when that will be.) And basically I spent my last Saturday evening drinking on their ticket, so I thank them! Sunday was spent doing a little napping, a little packing, making a few calls, you know, odds and ends stuff.
Monday was when things kicked into a higher gear. I spent the vast majority of the day packing up my kitchen (God help the person who helps me unwrap all my glasses and such, as they are wrapped up in pages of the Chicago Free Press. So basically, my kitchen wares are packed ever so delicately in newsprint and pictures of half-naked gay men... It makes me giggle a little.) I took a break on Monday night to watch Six Feet Under, and I was so tired I could barely make it through the third episode Bravo aired. (Don't ask me why Comcast turned off my internet, but left my cable on... I've yet to figure that one out. I'm grateful for it, but I haven't figured it out.)
When I woke up Tuesday morning panic really set in. I knew I still had A LOT to do... And not a lot of time in which to do it. To accurately paint this picture for you all, I should also note that I woke up to a 5 A.M. bout with some serious cramps. Those cramps, and all that comes with them made these last few days just that much more miserable. But unable to go back to sleep I figured it would be best to get an early start, so I packed up my bathroom, keeping only the essentials like my shampoo and some soap out for the cursory daily bathing. I packed up everything in my closet, everything in the linen closet in the hall, and all the papers I needed. It was a very busy day.
Ordinarily one would think that Tuesday's panic would simply transfer to Wednesday. Well it did. And then it compounded. And then it compunded a few more times. Basically Wednesday I was at DEF CON 5. (And when you're emotional over something this big, and you're hormonal for aforementioned reasons, DEF CON 5 is not where you want to be.) So as I am wrapping up knick knacks, the last of the kitchen wares, and dismantling my bed I get a call from Anthony. He informs me that he has to work and will be unable to help with loading the truck. He does want to see me before I go though, so he wants to take me to lunch. And as much as I LOVE Anthony, while at DEF CON 5, and while hormonal, and overly emotional, having a last lunch with my gay husband before leaving indefinitely was gut-wrenching on my already delicate balance. (Yes, I know I maintain a tough facade, and most of the time I take the knocks life abundantly issues to me with the best of them, but at that particular moment I was actually quite fragile.) We had lunch, he dropped me off at the u-haul place so that I could get my truck and he could get to work, and we had our shamefully tearful goodbye. So I picked up my truck, drove it to my apartment building, and I proceeded to curse profusely at an idiot Floridian who, with his corolla, proceeded to park stupidly and take up what was by city standards a gigantic spot where I had intended to put my truck. After much honking, INSANE amounts of cursing, and some illicit finger gesturing (I am going to hide behind the emotion and hormone veil as a shallow excuse for my road rage... But come on you can park a corolla anywhere, a u-haul truck? Not so much.) I moved on, because I really had no other choice short of bludgeoning him to the point of death or unconsciousness (whichever came first) with a wheeled cart, swiping his keys, and moving his car for him so that I might park in a place that was rightfully mine. I drove little while longer, using up a few more of those miles for which those u-haul bitches charge 40 cents apiece, doing laps around the block trying to find something reasonably close to my building and appropriately sized... Eventually I found one. But in the interim, with every successive lap around the block I cursed that corolla and suppressed the urge to get out and run my keys down the driver's side door.
(As for progress in this story we've got a good long while to go here, so you'd better go refresh your beverage now, and take a pee break.)
I proceeded to go into my apartment building to find that the building manager felt the sudden urge to repaint the laundry room and refinish the floors while he was at it, and so all of the washers and dryers had found a home in the lobby for the day. (These are the kinds of things that happen without notice in that building. You just walk in and BAM. You have to deal.) Luckily there was enough room to get by with stuff, so the move was not greatly encumbered. My moving help, (two of my WONDERFUL, DEAREST, MOST GLORIOUS, INCREDIBLY SWEET friends, who's praises I will sing for the ages) showed up around 5:45, and before I knew it a light snow was falling, the gears were in motion, and all my worldly possessions began moving out the door.
Roughly two hours later, as we were preparing to take down the last load, I started looking for the key to the truck so that I could put a few things in the cab of the truck for the trip down. UH-OH... We can't find the key. We look high and low for a key we have all seen fairly recently. We check every inch of real estate from the back of my apartment to the back of the truck. And then we check it all again. No sign of the key. We dread the two HIGHLY unpleasant scenarios we are faced with. Option A) the key is packed somewhere inside with everything else, and the only way to find it is to unpack everything in the snow and wind, leaving all my crap on the ground outside until it is found. Option B) I dropped the key somewhere along the line, and since there is clearly no trace of it, someone has the key and is merely waiting for us to finish packing it up so that they can drive off with all of my stuff. Great. Grand. Wonderful. Chende could luckily see the emergency number on my contract in the cab and calls it. I spend fifteen minutes giving my information to the guy who answers the call, and just as he's about to say something that sounds like it could be helpful the phone cuts out, the call is dropped, and I am forced to call back and repeat everything I've just gone through. I spend the next forty-five minutes repeating myself to a woman who sounded as though she was chewing her own face as she made me repeat answers again and again. After nearly an hour she had finally found someone who had found someone else who could authorize her to give me the code to go and have the key cut. Of course by that time it was well after 9 P.M. and just about every place that would have been able to custom cut that specific key had already closed for the evening. So we locked the padlock on the back of the truck, said a quick Hail Mary and went to get some grub, (and a MUCH NEEDED cocktail.) While we sat waiting for our meal, aching and tired from the exertion I vocalized that all I wanted was a hot bath and some sleep. We ate. We chatted. I drank. And as we wrapped things up I cried... AGAIN. (Because I'm lame, and hormonal.)
And so my moving buddies went home, I went upstairs to my essentially empty apartment and I ran a hot bath. And just as I got in and was starting to soak my tired bones, I hear a knock at my door. OF COURSE. And since everything that was once in my bathroom is now down in the truck I have nothing much to cover up with. And then I hear my landlady turn the key and come into my apartment. SHIIIIIIT.
Landlady (In her thick eastern European accent): Hello?
Liz: Umm, HI!?
Landlady: Oh, I'm sorry to bother you, but is the water all right?
Liz: Umm, the water is fine... Is there a problem?
Landlady: Yeah well, there is water coming down downstairs.
Liz: (Mentally: HOLY FUCKING CHRIST, It figures that I flood the place out on my last night here...) Audibly: Umm, well, I can't see any reason in here that would cause that to happen but if you want to check it out for yourself you're going to have to give me a few minutes, because clearly I am in a precarious state.
Landlady: Ok, I come back in ten minutes.
Liz: Well, I'll be here.
As she left, and my asshole unclenched a little, I surveyed the bathroom... Everything was as it should have been in my bathroom, I didn't think there was anything that could have flooded out anything or anyone else. And upon her return the landlady informed me that it wasn't my fault, she'd found a broken pipe that just ran under my apartment, and wasn't actually anything to do with me. She further informed me that someone had found and returned a u-haul key. (Mentally: OH PRAISE JESUS.) Audibly: YOU ARE KIDDING! OH MY GOD! THANK YOU!
And so I slept a little more soundly knowing that nobody was going to make off with my stuff in the night, and that I didn't have to seek out special key-cutting services in the morning.
And when I woke up, I proceeded to do the thorough cleaning which could only be done once everything was finally out, I hauled my bedding out to the truck, and I started on my way.
You'd think that with all I'd been through to this point that I'd finally catch a break now that I'd made the decisive move to get out of town. You'd think wrong.
What could possibly go awry at this point, right?
Well, the u-haul people only had 1/4 of a tank of gas in this bad boy, and I didn't have a clue as to the fuel efficiency, or how many gallons the tank was, and so I didn't know if I was going to be able to make it to the Indiana state line before needing gas. Not wanting to run out of gas, stall in the middle of the Chicago Skyway, and cause a 26 car pile-up ranks highly among the things I'd ideally like to avoid, so I go looking for a gas station. Not a problem, right? Ahh, but there is a hitch. My debit card expired at the end of December. So I've got to find a place that takes a check. SIX count them SIX gas stations later, (NONE of them taking checks,) I find a gas station across the street from a bank where I have an account. (The account has no money in it, but I have an account there.) And so I inform the gas station attendant what's going on so that he won't have me towed, I run across to the bank branch, I write myself a check from the account where money is present and cash it at the bank using the number of the account where the money is not present, and I run back across the street to pay the attendant in cash for gas. (If that sounded at all frustrating and/or entirely too unnecessarily complicated, I assure you, it was, and it was really just what I needed to send me over the edge at that point.) And then I got to drive for 6 hours. And then I got to unload the truck. So you understand that the Lizzle has had a harrowing couple of days, and that I'm not stretching it too far by calling this series of events a debacle. Or at the very least perhaps a comedy of errors... Only I stopped finding the comedy even remotely funny quite some time ago.
I know that some of you will understand all of this, and know the intensity and unpleasantness of every event I just noted, and that some of you will think I'm exaggerating. To the ones who understand, I love you. Thanks for being another person on this planet who gets just how bad all of this collectively SUCKED. To the ones who think I'm exaggerating, I'm not. Not at all. Every word is true, and the writing doesn't do the actual events any kind of justice.
Welcome to the hell that is my life. I should be used to this by now... Somehow, I'm not.
But in all honesty, it's probably better that I didn't have internet access in those final days, or I'd have gotten distracted and not gotten nearly as much of my packing done and the debacle I'm about to describe would probably have been a little worse... And really, this move was bad enough as it was.
So... My last weekend in the Windy City just happened to coincide with a visit from Ling Wong (AKA - Lady Fanny of Omaha, AKA - J-Dub) and Loni (AKA - Meljoy) and so the Lizzle was able to go out with a bit more of a bang that what would have otherwise been expected. (Pictures to be posted as soon as I locate the necessary wires and whatnot... Though I have NO CLUE when that will be.) And basically I spent my last Saturday evening drinking on their ticket, so I thank them! Sunday was spent doing a little napping, a little packing, making a few calls, you know, odds and ends stuff.
Monday was when things kicked into a higher gear. I spent the vast majority of the day packing up my kitchen (God help the person who helps me unwrap all my glasses and such, as they are wrapped up in pages of the Chicago Free Press. So basically, my kitchen wares are packed ever so delicately in newsprint and pictures of half-naked gay men... It makes me giggle a little.) I took a break on Monday night to watch Six Feet Under, and I was so tired I could barely make it through the third episode Bravo aired. (Don't ask me why Comcast turned off my internet, but left my cable on... I've yet to figure that one out. I'm grateful for it, but I haven't figured it out.)
When I woke up Tuesday morning panic really set in. I knew I still had A LOT to do... And not a lot of time in which to do it. To accurately paint this picture for you all, I should also note that I woke up to a 5 A.M. bout with some serious cramps. Those cramps, and all that comes with them made these last few days just that much more miserable. But unable to go back to sleep I figured it would be best to get an early start, so I packed up my bathroom, keeping only the essentials like my shampoo and some soap out for the cursory daily bathing. I packed up everything in my closet, everything in the linen closet in the hall, and all the papers I needed. It was a very busy day.
Ordinarily one would think that Tuesday's panic would simply transfer to Wednesday. Well it did. And then it compounded. And then it compunded a few more times. Basically Wednesday I was at DEF CON 5. (And when you're emotional over something this big, and you're hormonal for aforementioned reasons, DEF CON 5 is not where you want to be.) So as I am wrapping up knick knacks, the last of the kitchen wares, and dismantling my bed I get a call from Anthony. He informs me that he has to work and will be unable to help with loading the truck. He does want to see me before I go though, so he wants to take me to lunch. And as much as I LOVE Anthony, while at DEF CON 5, and while hormonal, and overly emotional, having a last lunch with my gay husband before leaving indefinitely was gut-wrenching on my already delicate balance. (Yes, I know I maintain a tough facade, and most of the time I take the knocks life abundantly issues to me with the best of them, but at that particular moment I was actually quite fragile.) We had lunch, he dropped me off at the u-haul place so that I could get my truck and he could get to work, and we had our shamefully tearful goodbye. So I picked up my truck, drove it to my apartment building, and I proceeded to curse profusely at an idiot Floridian who, with his corolla, proceeded to park stupidly and take up what was by city standards a gigantic spot where I had intended to put my truck. After much honking, INSANE amounts of cursing, and some illicit finger gesturing (I am going to hide behind the emotion and hormone veil as a shallow excuse for my road rage... But come on you can park a corolla anywhere, a u-haul truck? Not so much.) I moved on, because I really had no other choice short of bludgeoning him to the point of death or unconsciousness (whichever came first) with a wheeled cart, swiping his keys, and moving his car for him so that I might park in a place that was rightfully mine. I drove little while longer, using up a few more of those miles for which those u-haul bitches charge 40 cents apiece, doing laps around the block trying to find something reasonably close to my building and appropriately sized... Eventually I found one. But in the interim, with every successive lap around the block I cursed that corolla and suppressed the urge to get out and run my keys down the driver's side door.
(As for progress in this story we've got a good long while to go here, so you'd better go refresh your beverage now, and take a pee break.)
I proceeded to go into my apartment building to find that the building manager felt the sudden urge to repaint the laundry room and refinish the floors while he was at it, and so all of the washers and dryers had found a home in the lobby for the day. (These are the kinds of things that happen without notice in that building. You just walk in and BAM. You have to deal.) Luckily there was enough room to get by with stuff, so the move was not greatly encumbered. My moving help, (two of my WONDERFUL, DEAREST, MOST GLORIOUS, INCREDIBLY SWEET friends, who's praises I will sing for the ages) showed up around 5:45, and before I knew it a light snow was falling, the gears were in motion, and all my worldly possessions began moving out the door.
Roughly two hours later, as we were preparing to take down the last load, I started looking for the key to the truck so that I could put a few things in the cab of the truck for the trip down. UH-OH... We can't find the key. We look high and low for a key we have all seen fairly recently. We check every inch of real estate from the back of my apartment to the back of the truck. And then we check it all again. No sign of the key. We dread the two HIGHLY unpleasant scenarios we are faced with. Option A) the key is packed somewhere inside with everything else, and the only way to find it is to unpack everything in the snow and wind, leaving all my crap on the ground outside until it is found. Option B) I dropped the key somewhere along the line, and since there is clearly no trace of it, someone has the key and is merely waiting for us to finish packing it up so that they can drive off with all of my stuff. Great. Grand. Wonderful. Chende could luckily see the emergency number on my contract in the cab and calls it. I spend fifteen minutes giving my information to the guy who answers the call, and just as he's about to say something that sounds like it could be helpful the phone cuts out, the call is dropped, and I am forced to call back and repeat everything I've just gone through. I spend the next forty-five minutes repeating myself to a woman who sounded as though she was chewing her own face as she made me repeat answers again and again. After nearly an hour she had finally found someone who had found someone else who could authorize her to give me the code to go and have the key cut. Of course by that time it was well after 9 P.M. and just about every place that would have been able to custom cut that specific key had already closed for the evening. So we locked the padlock on the back of the truck, said a quick Hail Mary and went to get some grub, (and a MUCH NEEDED cocktail.) While we sat waiting for our meal, aching and tired from the exertion I vocalized that all I wanted was a hot bath and some sleep. We ate. We chatted. I drank. And as we wrapped things up I cried... AGAIN. (Because I'm lame, and hormonal.)
And so my moving buddies went home, I went upstairs to my essentially empty apartment and I ran a hot bath. And just as I got in and was starting to soak my tired bones, I hear a knock at my door. OF COURSE. And since everything that was once in my bathroom is now down in the truck I have nothing much to cover up with. And then I hear my landlady turn the key and come into my apartment. SHIIIIIIT.
Landlady (In her thick eastern European accent): Hello?
Liz: Umm, HI!?
Landlady: Oh, I'm sorry to bother you, but is the water all right?
Liz: Umm, the water is fine... Is there a problem?
Landlady: Yeah well, there is water coming down downstairs.
Liz: (Mentally: HOLY FUCKING CHRIST, It figures that I flood the place out on my last night here...) Audibly: Umm, well, I can't see any reason in here that would cause that to happen but if you want to check it out for yourself you're going to have to give me a few minutes, because clearly I am in a precarious state.
Landlady: Ok, I come back in ten minutes.
Liz: Well, I'll be here.
As she left, and my asshole unclenched a little, I surveyed the bathroom... Everything was as it should have been in my bathroom, I didn't think there was anything that could have flooded out anything or anyone else. And upon her return the landlady informed me that it wasn't my fault, she'd found a broken pipe that just ran under my apartment, and wasn't actually anything to do with me. She further informed me that someone had found and returned a u-haul key. (Mentally: OH PRAISE JESUS.) Audibly: YOU ARE KIDDING! OH MY GOD! THANK YOU!
And so I slept a little more soundly knowing that nobody was going to make off with my stuff in the night, and that I didn't have to seek out special key-cutting services in the morning.
And when I woke up, I proceeded to do the thorough cleaning which could only be done once everything was finally out, I hauled my bedding out to the truck, and I started on my way.
You'd think that with all I'd been through to this point that I'd finally catch a break now that I'd made the decisive move to get out of town. You'd think wrong.
What could possibly go awry at this point, right?
Well, the u-haul people only had 1/4 of a tank of gas in this bad boy, and I didn't have a clue as to the fuel efficiency, or how many gallons the tank was, and so I didn't know if I was going to be able to make it to the Indiana state line before needing gas. Not wanting to run out of gas, stall in the middle of the Chicago Skyway, and cause a 26 car pile-up ranks highly among the things I'd ideally like to avoid, so I go looking for a gas station. Not a problem, right? Ahh, but there is a hitch. My debit card expired at the end of December. So I've got to find a place that takes a check. SIX count them SIX gas stations later, (NONE of them taking checks,) I find a gas station across the street from a bank where I have an account. (The account has no money in it, but I have an account there.) And so I inform the gas station attendant what's going on so that he won't have me towed, I run across to the bank branch, I write myself a check from the account where money is present and cash it at the bank using the number of the account where the money is not present, and I run back across the street to pay the attendant in cash for gas. (If that sounded at all frustrating and/or entirely too unnecessarily complicated, I assure you, it was, and it was really just what I needed to send me over the edge at that point.) And then I got to drive for 6 hours. And then I got to unload the truck. So you understand that the Lizzle has had a harrowing couple of days, and that I'm not stretching it too far by calling this series of events a debacle. Or at the very least perhaps a comedy of errors... Only I stopped finding the comedy even remotely funny quite some time ago.
I know that some of you will understand all of this, and know the intensity and unpleasantness of every event I just noted, and that some of you will think I'm exaggerating. To the ones who understand, I love you. Thanks for being another person on this planet who gets just how bad all of this collectively SUCKED. To the ones who think I'm exaggerating, I'm not. Not at all. Every word is true, and the writing doesn't do the actual events any kind of justice.
Welcome to the hell that is my life. I should be used to this by now... Somehow, I'm not.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Just call me Captain Clusterfuck...
This move has been a total and complete debacle.
I will take the time to post about it in painstaking detail later.
At the moment I just wanted to let you all know that I got where I was going.
I also felt the need to note that momma didn't actually blog or post for me, she just left an informational comment. So back off. As for you two, Lozo and momma, if you kids can't play nice with each other you're going to have to sit in the corner, and you won't get a cookie. So be nice to each other! We're all friends here!
Ok, I'm off to unload this goddamn truck.
I will take the time to post about it in painstaking detail later.
At the moment I just wanted to let you all know that I got where I was going.
I also felt the need to note that momma didn't actually blog or post for me, she just left an informational comment. So back off. As for you two, Lozo and momma, if you kids can't play nice with each other you're going to have to sit in the corner, and you won't get a cookie. So be nice to each other! We're all friends here!
Ok, I'm off to unload this goddamn truck.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Linkage...
I have updated the sidebar.
This is something long overdue.
My D-listed link hasn't worked for quite some time, a few of the links were dead, and it's been quite a while since I've added anything new. If you see that I've missed something, or you know of something that I ABSOLUTELY MUST start reading on a regular basis, then by all means, let me know. Lord knows that once I get home even once I get a job I'll have all kinds of time to read new material.
(Oh, and by the way, I am very angry at Firefox. While I find that it is a superior browser, the last time I had to update all of my personal bookmark links were lost. I was not happy.)
This is something long overdue.
My D-listed link hasn't worked for quite some time, a few of the links were dead, and it's been quite a while since I've added anything new. If you see that I've missed something, or you know of something that I ABSOLUTELY MUST start reading on a regular basis, then by all means, let me know. Lord knows that once I get home even once I get a job I'll have all kinds of time to read new material.
(Oh, and by the way, I am very angry at Firefox. While I find that it is a superior browser, the last time I had to update all of my personal bookmark links were lost. I was not happy.)
Open letter to the celebrity culture (take 2)
My last edition of this was met with such approval that I've decided to renew my attack on those Hollywood Ho-bags and unleash the dogs of war with a renewed fervor. So here it is, it's time for round 2!
Dear Producers of CSI Miami: David Caruso can't act. I've seen better acting from a plank of wood. I don't know what kind of delusion led you to think that he could handle this job, (seriously, what evidence in his "body of work" led you to this conclusion, because I just don't see it,) but you were wrong. Very very VERY wrong.
Dear Tom Hanks: Ordinarily I like you a great deal. But here's the thing. You need to get yourself a good haircut. You are no longer shooting the DaVinci Code. There is no excuse, and this is not working for you or anyone else for that matter. (Oh, and P.S. - Try not to get bombed before making any speeches at award shows in the future. Yeah, it's great fun for the rest of us, but another couple of drunken ramblings like that and you're going to be Danny DeVito. And I think we can all agree that's no good.
Dear Donald Trump: I know you like your hair just as much as Mr. Hanks... The rest of the world disagrees. And let's look at the odds on this one, are the other 6 billion people on earth wrong, or are you? Like I said, let's go with the odds on this one. Oh, and your feud with Rosie... We don't care. We know you and Rosie both like listening to the sounds of your own voices, but both of you need to just move on.
Dear Rachel Zoe: Michael K is right. You are a straight-up Chupacabra. That's all there is to it.
Dear OJ Simpson: You're a murdering bastard. Nobody in their right mind believes your tale of woe and innocence. And that sick idea for a book really removed any and all doubt for the few delusionals you had left. You don't have any shot at even a sliver of redemption, but paying what you owe to the families of your victims is as close as you're going to get. Do it and then disappear forever.
Dear Oprah: You are a BILLIONAIRE. (Yeah, billionaire with a B.) You could definitely have afforded to have given the Lizzle a job. You didn't. I'm putting you on notice!
Dear Bill O'Reilly: You're a douche bag.
Dear Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert: Keep up the good work.
Dear Nicole Kidman: First off, PUT THE HAIR BLEACH DOWN. Your hair is currently as white as Estelle Getty's. And no matter what anyone else tells you, that's not a good thing. (My bet is that someone in your favorite salon is working on VERY high commission for all hair bleach used, thus why they are pushing it on you with such fervor.) I remember way back when you were a redhead. Those were the days. Oh, and another thing... I know how you've carefully cultivated this image of being Australian and all, but let's be real here. You were born in Hawaii. By definition that makes you American. And I'm pretty sure the baby-stealing variety of dingos are not the same variety that specialize in super-long-distance swimming.
Dear Natalie Portman: By all accounts everyone I've ever heard speak of you loves you. I don't know what compelled you to align yourself with those horrendous Star Wars movies, but I guess we all have our little missteps. I'll give you a mulligan on those.
Dear Joe Simpson: You're creepy. Your relationship with your daughters greatly oversteps weird and gross, and to be honest it borders on obscene, just kind of an FYI.
Dear Matt Knowles: You're about 2.3 seconds away from being Joe Simpson.
Dear Paula Abdul: It is blatantly obvious to everyone but you that you have some sort of substance abuse problem. The first step on the road to recovery is admitting that you do in fact have a problem. I have a pool going on when you issue a statement claiming "exhaustion." (If you could make the announcement a week from Tuesday, that would be great.)
Dear Olsen Twins: I can't tell you apart, nor am I interested in doing so. Both of you could use a GIANT hamburger, lord knows you can afford it. And speaking of things you can afford, you don't have to shop in the bag lady section of the thrift store anymore. Just a little tip from me to you.
That's all for now... don't make me tell you again!
Dear Producers of CSI Miami: David Caruso can't act. I've seen better acting from a plank of wood. I don't know what kind of delusion led you to think that he could handle this job, (seriously, what evidence in his "body of work" led you to this conclusion, because I just don't see it,) but you were wrong. Very very VERY wrong.
Dear Tom Hanks: Ordinarily I like you a great deal. But here's the thing. You need to get yourself a good haircut. You are no longer shooting the DaVinci Code. There is no excuse, and this is not working for you or anyone else for that matter. (Oh, and P.S. - Try not to get bombed before making any speeches at award shows in the future. Yeah, it's great fun for the rest of us, but another couple of drunken ramblings like that and you're going to be Danny DeVito. And I think we can all agree that's no good.
Dear Donald Trump: I know you like your hair just as much as Mr. Hanks... The rest of the world disagrees. And let's look at the odds on this one, are the other 6 billion people on earth wrong, or are you? Like I said, let's go with the odds on this one. Oh, and your feud with Rosie... We don't care. We know you and Rosie both like listening to the sounds of your own voices, but both of you need to just move on.
Dear Rachel Zoe: Michael K is right. You are a straight-up Chupacabra. That's all there is to it.
Dear OJ Simpson: You're a murdering bastard. Nobody in their right mind believes your tale of woe and innocence. And that sick idea for a book really removed any and all doubt for the few delusionals you had left. You don't have any shot at even a sliver of redemption, but paying what you owe to the families of your victims is as close as you're going to get. Do it and then disappear forever.
Dear Oprah: You are a BILLIONAIRE. (Yeah, billionaire with a B.) You could definitely have afforded to have given the Lizzle a job. You didn't. I'm putting you on notice!
Dear Bill O'Reilly: You're a douche bag.
Dear Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert: Keep up the good work.
Dear Nicole Kidman: First off, PUT THE HAIR BLEACH DOWN. Your hair is currently as white as Estelle Getty's. And no matter what anyone else tells you, that's not a good thing. (My bet is that someone in your favorite salon is working on VERY high commission for all hair bleach used, thus why they are pushing it on you with such fervor.) I remember way back when you were a redhead. Those were the days. Oh, and another thing... I know how you've carefully cultivated this image of being Australian and all, but let's be real here. You were born in Hawaii. By definition that makes you American. And I'm pretty sure the baby-stealing variety of dingos are not the same variety that specialize in super-long-distance swimming.
Dear Natalie Portman: By all accounts everyone I've ever heard speak of you loves you. I don't know what compelled you to align yourself with those horrendous Star Wars movies, but I guess we all have our little missteps. I'll give you a mulligan on those.
Dear Joe Simpson: You're creepy. Your relationship with your daughters greatly oversteps weird and gross, and to be honest it borders on obscene, just kind of an FYI.
Dear Matt Knowles: You're about 2.3 seconds away from being Joe Simpson.
Dear Paula Abdul: It is blatantly obvious to everyone but you that you have some sort of substance abuse problem. The first step on the road to recovery is admitting that you do in fact have a problem. I have a pool going on when you issue a statement claiming "exhaustion." (If you could make the announcement a week from Tuesday, that would be great.)
Dear Olsen Twins: I can't tell you apart, nor am I interested in doing so. Both of you could use a GIANT hamburger, lord knows you can afford it. And speaking of things you can afford, you don't have to shop in the bag lady section of the thrift store anymore. Just a little tip from me to you.
That's all for now... don't make me tell you again!
Dr. Pepper Jones...
When you know that moving day is rapidly approaching, and you also know your bank balance is hovering ever so slightly above $0.32, you find ways to get creative with your food budget. In my specific case, I relied on the care packages my family had sent a while back. Being the practical family that they are, they sent practical things like boxes of instant oatmeal. And as things have been going lately, I thank my lucky stars that they sent the variety packs! Three meals a day of maple & brown sugar oatmeal is lovely and all, but it's nice to be able to mix it up with a little apple and cinnamon. (The peaches and cream variety just flat-out SUCKS... I'm considering suing for false advertising, as it is neither peachy nor is it creamy.)
And then it hits you! The Dr. Pepper Jones.
It's unstoppable.
And all of a sudden you don't care about going somewhere and paying for a 12 pack of Dr. Pepper using nickles and dimes. The jones is that strong.
And when you're boxing up your worldly posesssions, you really need to be able to indulge the Dr. Pepper jones.
As for an update on the big move, I have nailed down the moving date. I will pick up the truck next Wednesday, a few of my friends will be coming over Wednesday night to load things up, and the actual move will take place on Thursday morning.
And then it hits you! The Dr. Pepper Jones.
It's unstoppable.
And all of a sudden you don't care about going somewhere and paying for a 12 pack of Dr. Pepper using nickles and dimes. The jones is that strong.
And when you're boxing up your worldly posesssions, you really need to be able to indulge the Dr. Pepper jones.
As for an update on the big move, I have nailed down the moving date. I will pick up the truck next Wednesday, a few of my friends will be coming over Wednesday night to load things up, and the actual move will take place on Thursday morning.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Celebrity Culture...
Ordinarily I am just an avid reader of D-listed.com Occasionally I will compete in a "caption this contest," though that is a rare occurrence indeed. But I feel the need to say a few things directly to the celebrity community.
Dear Gwen Stefani: Take that red lipstick, walk over to the nearest garbage receptacle. Now you have a choice; you can either drop that lipstick in the trash can or you can have it forcibly inserted into your butt. Either way, we don't want to see it anymore. The look is tired.
Dear Paris Hilton: Go away. Um... NOW.
Dear Jared Leto: I don't think your band is anything special. I also don't think that your life of privilege and sleazing around with every 20-something starlet in Hollywood gives you any kind of reason to be all angst-ridden, angry, or sad. Just because you were the pretty boy on "My So-Called Life" doesn't mean you still have some kind of street cred in the angst-y world anymore... The people who are oh-so-very-full-of-angst now don't remember "My So-Called Life." Sorry to burst your bubble. Oh, and just so we're clear, half the reason I maintain this blog is just to piss you off.
Dear Britney Spears: First off, fix that polyester hair you've got attached to your scalp. Put on some underwear. And don't EVER leave the house without them on EVER again. Since I've got you on the line, you know how you once had hopes of a comeback? Yeah, wave goodbye to them. They are circling the drain. Please save everyone the time, effort, and suspense, and just go ahead and move to a Louisiana trailer park now. Thanks.
Dear Nicole Richie: Eat something. (Actually that's for all of the Hollywood women.)
Dear Fergie: I didn't like you before you went solo, and I like you even less now. And for fuck's sake, if you're going to use the spelling of a word as part of a song, at least take a cue from Gwen and spell it right. Tasty DOES NOT have an "E" in it. Period.
Dear Lindsay Lohan: Your test results came back. You have herpes. This news shouldn't be a big shocker, though I will say that the case you've got is quite the scorcher.
Dear David Hasselhoff: You're much more popular in Germany. Please move there and spare the rest of us.
Dear Keanu Reeves: Rent some IQ points... You don't have to commit to buying them, just try a month to month plan.
Dear Madonna: You were born in Detroit. Own it.
Dear Tom Cruise: You've toned it down lately, but you don't have me fooled.
That's all for now... All those celebs who escaped my wrath this time, you're lucky. You are all pretty much borderline loonies.
Dear Gwen Stefani: Take that red lipstick, walk over to the nearest garbage receptacle. Now you have a choice; you can either drop that lipstick in the trash can or you can have it forcibly inserted into your butt. Either way, we don't want to see it anymore. The look is tired.
Dear Paris Hilton: Go away. Um... NOW.
Dear Jared Leto: I don't think your band is anything special. I also don't think that your life of privilege and sleazing around with every 20-something starlet in Hollywood gives you any kind of reason to be all angst-ridden, angry, or sad. Just because you were the pretty boy on "My So-Called Life" doesn't mean you still have some kind of street cred in the angst-y world anymore... The people who are oh-so-very-full-of-angst now don't remember "My So-Called Life." Sorry to burst your bubble. Oh, and just so we're clear, half the reason I maintain this blog is just to piss you off.
Dear Britney Spears: First off, fix that polyester hair you've got attached to your scalp. Put on some underwear. And don't EVER leave the house without them on EVER again. Since I've got you on the line, you know how you once had hopes of a comeback? Yeah, wave goodbye to them. They are circling the drain. Please save everyone the time, effort, and suspense, and just go ahead and move to a Louisiana trailer park now. Thanks.
Dear Nicole Richie: Eat something. (Actually that's for all of the Hollywood women.)
Dear Fergie: I didn't like you before you went solo, and I like you even less now. And for fuck's sake, if you're going to use the spelling of a word as part of a song, at least take a cue from Gwen and spell it right. Tasty DOES NOT have an "E" in it. Period.
Dear Lindsay Lohan: Your test results came back. You have herpes. This news shouldn't be a big shocker, though I will say that the case you've got is quite the scorcher.
Dear David Hasselhoff: You're much more popular in Germany. Please move there and spare the rest of us.
Dear Keanu Reeves: Rent some IQ points... You don't have to commit to buying them, just try a month to month plan.
Dear Madonna: You were born in Detroit. Own it.
Dear Tom Cruise: You've toned it down lately, but you don't have me fooled.
That's all for now... All those celebs who escaped my wrath this time, you're lucky. You are all pretty much borderline loonies.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Time to spare...
Some people just have too much time on their hands... and that's how and when things like this are created...
On a related note, I really ought to try working "Up your butt with a coconut" into my lexicon of comebacks.
On a related note, I really ought to try working "Up your butt with a coconut" into my lexicon of comebacks.
Words words words... [Edit]
As someone who writes a great deal, (the daily posting here is just the tip of the iceberg,) I have a love affair with words. I love it when I am talking to someone and they have a large enough vocabulary to effectively use the proverbial "three dollar word." And I hate it when I correctly use a word and someone with a less than expansive vocabulary tries to correct me... Here's a hint, I don't use a word unless I know what I'm talking about. An example of this situation is when I recently used the word "elicit" - as in, I engage in a certain activity to elicit a certain response. And someone tried to tell me that I was not using the word properly... They proceeded to try to give me a vocabulary lesson giving me a definition for the word "illicit" and saying that the word I was probably looking for was "solicit." Yeah, thanks for that one Webster, I think I've got this covered.
And so I present you with some of my favorite words which are so often neglected in today's dumbed-down linguistic lexicon.
1. Usurp
2. Morose - A word I probably should have been using to describe my own disposition lately... Even I neglect the vocab on occasion.
3. Denizen
4. Insipid - I love this word. I have found that I use it much more in conversation than I ever do in my writing... Must work on that.
5. Akimbo - This one is just fun to say, and I have found that on the rare occasion that someone does bust this one out, they don't use it correctly.
6. Blasé
7. Impugn
8. Obstreperous
9. Sesquipedalian - This is a really rarely used one, probably because it is not widely known, and for those to whom it is known, it doesn't roll off the tongue easily... But I love it nonetheless.
10. Anathema - Probably my favorite word. Should I happen to hear someone use it in a sentence my opinion of them instantly improves ten fold.
[EDIT]
I would also like to add:
11. Cantankerous - Incredibly underused!
12. Malaise
13. Codger - It might be an archaism, but I LOVE it.
14. Asshat - Hey, I didn't say that my love affair with words only extended to DIGNIFIED words.
15. Milieu
16. Scintillation
17. Paroxysm
18. Inexorable
19. Maraud - Really, it's a great word which implies a quest to pillage and plunder for booty! And who doesn't love pillaging and plundering for booty?
20. Gesticulate - It isn't at all dirty, but it makes me giggle like a 12 year old boy in health class during the VD chapters!
So those are some of my favorites. You kids are intelligent people who love words, otherwise, why would you be here? So what are some of your favorites?
And so I present you with some of my favorite words which are so often neglected in today's dumbed-down linguistic lexicon.
1. Usurp
2. Morose - A word I probably should have been using to describe my own disposition lately... Even I neglect the vocab on occasion.
3. Denizen
4. Insipid - I love this word. I have found that I use it much more in conversation than I ever do in my writing... Must work on that.
5. Akimbo - This one is just fun to say, and I have found that on the rare occasion that someone does bust this one out, they don't use it correctly.
6. Blasé
7. Impugn
8. Obstreperous
9. Sesquipedalian - This is a really rarely used one, probably because it is not widely known, and for those to whom it is known, it doesn't roll off the tongue easily... But I love it nonetheless.
10. Anathema - Probably my favorite word. Should I happen to hear someone use it in a sentence my opinion of them instantly improves ten fold.
[EDIT]
I would also like to add:
11. Cantankerous - Incredibly underused!
12. Malaise
13. Codger - It might be an archaism, but I LOVE it.
14. Asshat - Hey, I didn't say that my love affair with words only extended to DIGNIFIED words.
15. Milieu
16. Scintillation
17. Paroxysm
18. Inexorable
19. Maraud - Really, it's a great word which implies a quest to pillage and plunder for booty! And who doesn't love pillaging and plundering for booty?
20. Gesticulate - It isn't at all dirty, but it makes me giggle like a 12 year old boy in health class during the VD chapters!
So those are some of my favorites. You kids are intelligent people who love words, otherwise, why would you be here? So what are some of your favorites?
Monday, January 15, 2007
Sometimes I think it's ok to be redundant...
I'm pretty sure that I've posted these before, but when a girl needs a laugh, a girl needs a laugh. And the second clip always makes me giggle, but you can really only appreciate the second clip in all it's glory after having seen the first clip. In case you've forgotten, here you go!
Life is a lot like art...
Sometimes you look at your life and it just like some works of art, none of it makes any kind of sense, sometimes it's all pretty and romanticized, sometimes it's frenetic and intense, sometimes it's dark and a little scary, and sometimes it's surreal. I could go on with the comparison, but you get the idea... This is an old story from the surrealist genre.
Back during my first year of flower slinging I worked at a store with some people who were not only HIGHLY efficient, but also REALLY entertaining. Nate and I busied ourselves with the celebrity name game, Chris stayed busy with real work, and Chende and I just worked together on projects so that we could giggle and make wisecracks about the customers while we organized things. It was a good time.
One day while Chris and I were working at our usual store, (I think it was Chende's day off,) Nate dropped in to see how things were going. Of course, things were under control. Nate noted that things were looking so good that he wanted Chris and I to go to another store and make a dent in the mess that this particular store had become known for. Having only heard stories about this store in the past, we agreed, if only to gather some actual firsthand knowledge of the mythical beast.
So we headed out. And no sooner did we arrive and the heavens opened up and unleashed a torrential downpour of biblical proportions. And so, looking like drowned rats even before the work began, we met the "workers" responsible for this mess.
We'll start off with the introduction of Bob. Bob was a retired firefighter. All 300+ pounds of him. And I suppose when you spent the bulk of your career-oriented years dousing flames, that you think EVERYTHING ELSE needs to be soaked with the same fervor. Now it's true, flowers do need water, but really there is no reason at all that a shallow tray of bedding plants measuring no more than 12" x 24" should literally weigh fifteen pounds. (Even when well watered those trays should weigh about 5 pounds at most.) But Bob was all about shoving fifteen pounds of shit into a five pound bag... It was true for the plant trays, and it was true for his poor, grossly undersized, clinging-for-dear-life pants. Bob was the father of our next character. The dreaded Megan.
Megan was a short, dumpy, bespectacled, incredibly socially inept blob of a girl who rapidly became my worst nightmare. As a worker I came to resent her if only because I knew we drew the same amount of pay and yet put forth polar opposite amounts of work productivity. More about her in a moment.
Seeing the daunting mess of this store laid out before us, Chris and I set to work. (Mind you it is still absolutely pouring, and most of the work to be done is outside.) We tried to organize the products into a somewhat coherent order, positioning like product with like product, and moving the odd products out of the way to be dealt with later.
As I wrangled an 800 pound rolling steel cart up a steeply graded hill, I find Megan all up on top of me. This is not to imply that she was there to help me. Instead she merely stood there with a kind of bewildered curiosity. After moving a couple more carts in much the same manner, and finding Megan doing little more than staring at me in a way that made me a little uncomfortable, I asked her what she was doing. To which she replied, "You're very pretty."
If I hadn't been soaked to the bone, knowingly looking and probably smelling like a wet dog, working hard to make things resemble something vaguely organized only to be gawked at by someone else who should have been doing this job all along, I might have been nicer about the whole thing, but I think even being as agitated as I was it was all lost on Megan. I replied, "Yeah, I'm hot. But seriously, what the hell are you actually doing right now?" She didn't reply. She merely cocked her head to the side as though that was a necessary step to restore blood-flow to the brain gave me a look of shallow thought, and waddled off to do... Well... Nothing.
After a while I tracked down Chris. And when I found her I asked her, "Is there something wrong with Megan?"
"Not that I know of, why?"
"Because she's weirding me out... And it takes some serious effort for most people to weird me out. She does it with a remarkable ease, and I'm alarmed because it isn't at all forced, I think she's just genuinely ODD. And she's not doing anything. She's just staring at me."
"At least you don't have to deal with Bob. He's still watering stuff."
"Watering? Is he not aware that it's pouring?"
"I guess he figures if it doesn't come from a garden hose it doesn't count. And I'm pretty sure it's all he really knows how to do."
We went back to working independently, and after Chris wrapped up her task she came out to assist me, as it was clear I was getting no assistance from Megan. As Chris and I toiled reorganizing the products on the carts I just relocated, Megan lumbered around, doing little more than being an oxygen robber. I swear to you, if Megan were a cartoon character, she'd be a cross between Jabba the Hut and a knuckle-dragging Cromagnon man wearing glasses. I asked Megan once again what she was doing, hoping that the answer would be different from before considering someone else was now around to hear the answer. As it turns out I was a little too optimistic. She did that blood-flow-restoring cocking of the head, and looked at me as though I had six heads. Chris then suggested that she go over and fill a table with plants from a cart. She didn't seem to comprehend. So we tried to show her. And as Chris and I took to demonstrating the task we wanted her to do, Megan just kind of wandered off. Chris and I just looked at each other trying to figure out what the hell was going on. And as it continued to rain on us Megan came back and watched us work again. Suddenly she announced in my general direction, "You're really disinert."
I replied, "I'm what?"
"Disinert."
Chris and I, knowing it wasn't a real word looked at each other questioningly.
Chris inquired, "I'm not familliar with 'disintert' what does that mean?"
In a mistakenly self-assured way, Megan answered, "It means you're off in your own little world."
She then walked off in her unweildy way, and Chris and I stood still for a moment with disbelief.
"That's not a word is it?"
"I don't think so."
"And she thinks you're in your own little world?"
"If she knew what the hell she was talking about, she'd know that SHE is in HER own little world... But seriously, am I hallucinating, or is this the most bizzarre day?"
"I feel like I'm on drugs."
"I think she is probably on drugs... or if not, she needs to be."
Little did we know how right we were... But we'll get back to that.
Chris began working on something else and I began organizing another table. A few minutes into the job I get that weird feeling I was being watched. I turn to find Megan about 6 feet behind me with a pen and a piece of paper. She then approached. "Can I have your phone number?"
"Umm why?"
"I want to be your friend. We can go out sometime!"
"I'm busy the next couple weeks, so I tell you what, write down your number and I'll call you when I get a chance."
"OK!"
She enthusiastically gave me her number, genuinely believing that I was going to call her to hang out sometime... Yeah, not so much. She and Bob then took off for the day. And Chris and I again found each other and just stood in utter bewilderment.
"She wanted to be my friend. Wanted my phone number."
"Did you give it to her?"
"After today? Are you kidding? I told her I'd call her."
"You know she's going to be waiting by the phone."
"Well if she wonders why I didn't call I'll just hide behind the excuse of being 'disinert.'"
We later came to find out that she was being medicated for a few psychological problems... So much so that she literally wet her pants while at work one day later that summer. Yeah. Wet. Her. Pants. Now I don't know about you folks, but no matter how medicated, drunk, whatever I might be, I've not wet myself since the age of two and a half. I don't care what a doctor's got me taking, if I'm conscious, and I feel good enough to leave the privacy of my home to go out and earn a paycheck in a public place, and I know the physical location of a restroom, I'm not going to stand somewhere and piss all over myself. It's just a matter of responding to the physical needs and signals that the body sends. For real.
But that was a surreal day.
Just another day in the life.
Back during my first year of flower slinging I worked at a store with some people who were not only HIGHLY efficient, but also REALLY entertaining. Nate and I busied ourselves with the celebrity name game, Chris stayed busy with real work, and Chende and I just worked together on projects so that we could giggle and make wisecracks about the customers while we organized things. It was a good time.
One day while Chris and I were working at our usual store, (I think it was Chende's day off,) Nate dropped in to see how things were going. Of course, things were under control. Nate noted that things were looking so good that he wanted Chris and I to go to another store and make a dent in the mess that this particular store had become known for. Having only heard stories about this store in the past, we agreed, if only to gather some actual firsthand knowledge of the mythical beast.
So we headed out. And no sooner did we arrive and the heavens opened up and unleashed a torrential downpour of biblical proportions. And so, looking like drowned rats even before the work began, we met the "workers" responsible for this mess.
We'll start off with the introduction of Bob. Bob was a retired firefighter. All 300+ pounds of him. And I suppose when you spent the bulk of your career-oriented years dousing flames, that you think EVERYTHING ELSE needs to be soaked with the same fervor. Now it's true, flowers do need water, but really there is no reason at all that a shallow tray of bedding plants measuring no more than 12" x 24" should literally weigh fifteen pounds. (Even when well watered those trays should weigh about 5 pounds at most.) But Bob was all about shoving fifteen pounds of shit into a five pound bag... It was true for the plant trays, and it was true for his poor, grossly undersized, clinging-for-dear-life pants. Bob was the father of our next character. The dreaded Megan.
Megan was a short, dumpy, bespectacled, incredibly socially inept blob of a girl who rapidly became my worst nightmare. As a worker I came to resent her if only because I knew we drew the same amount of pay and yet put forth polar opposite amounts of work productivity. More about her in a moment.
Seeing the daunting mess of this store laid out before us, Chris and I set to work. (Mind you it is still absolutely pouring, and most of the work to be done is outside.) We tried to organize the products into a somewhat coherent order, positioning like product with like product, and moving the odd products out of the way to be dealt with later.
As I wrangled an 800 pound rolling steel cart up a steeply graded hill, I find Megan all up on top of me. This is not to imply that she was there to help me. Instead she merely stood there with a kind of bewildered curiosity. After moving a couple more carts in much the same manner, and finding Megan doing little more than staring at me in a way that made me a little uncomfortable, I asked her what she was doing. To which she replied, "You're very pretty."
If I hadn't been soaked to the bone, knowingly looking and probably smelling like a wet dog, working hard to make things resemble something vaguely organized only to be gawked at by someone else who should have been doing this job all along, I might have been nicer about the whole thing, but I think even being as agitated as I was it was all lost on Megan. I replied, "Yeah, I'm hot. But seriously, what the hell are you actually doing right now?" She didn't reply. She merely cocked her head to the side as though that was a necessary step to restore blood-flow to the brain gave me a look of shallow thought, and waddled off to do... Well... Nothing.
After a while I tracked down Chris. And when I found her I asked her, "Is there something wrong with Megan?"
"Not that I know of, why?"
"Because she's weirding me out... And it takes some serious effort for most people to weird me out. She does it with a remarkable ease, and I'm alarmed because it isn't at all forced, I think she's just genuinely ODD. And she's not doing anything. She's just staring at me."
"At least you don't have to deal with Bob. He's still watering stuff."
"Watering? Is he not aware that it's pouring?"
"I guess he figures if it doesn't come from a garden hose it doesn't count. And I'm pretty sure it's all he really knows how to do."
We went back to working independently, and after Chris wrapped up her task she came out to assist me, as it was clear I was getting no assistance from Megan. As Chris and I toiled reorganizing the products on the carts I just relocated, Megan lumbered around, doing little more than being an oxygen robber. I swear to you, if Megan were a cartoon character, she'd be a cross between Jabba the Hut and a knuckle-dragging Cromagnon man wearing glasses. I asked Megan once again what she was doing, hoping that the answer would be different from before considering someone else was now around to hear the answer. As it turns out I was a little too optimistic. She did that blood-flow-restoring cocking of the head, and looked at me as though I had six heads. Chris then suggested that she go over and fill a table with plants from a cart. She didn't seem to comprehend. So we tried to show her. And as Chris and I took to demonstrating the task we wanted her to do, Megan just kind of wandered off. Chris and I just looked at each other trying to figure out what the hell was going on. And as it continued to rain on us Megan came back and watched us work again. Suddenly she announced in my general direction, "You're really disinert."
I replied, "I'm what?"
"Disinert."
Chris and I, knowing it wasn't a real word looked at each other questioningly.
Chris inquired, "I'm not familliar with 'disintert' what does that mean?"
In a mistakenly self-assured way, Megan answered, "It means you're off in your own little world."
She then walked off in her unweildy way, and Chris and I stood still for a moment with disbelief.
"That's not a word is it?"
"I don't think so."
"And she thinks you're in your own little world?"
"If she knew what the hell she was talking about, she'd know that SHE is in HER own little world... But seriously, am I hallucinating, or is this the most bizzarre day?"
"I feel like I'm on drugs."
"I think she is probably on drugs... or if not, she needs to be."
Little did we know how right we were... But we'll get back to that.
Chris began working on something else and I began organizing another table. A few minutes into the job I get that weird feeling I was being watched. I turn to find Megan about 6 feet behind me with a pen and a piece of paper. She then approached. "Can I have your phone number?"
"Umm why?"
"I want to be your friend. We can go out sometime!"
"I'm busy the next couple weeks, so I tell you what, write down your number and I'll call you when I get a chance."
"OK!"
She enthusiastically gave me her number, genuinely believing that I was going to call her to hang out sometime... Yeah, not so much. She and Bob then took off for the day. And Chris and I again found each other and just stood in utter bewilderment.
"She wanted to be my friend. Wanted my phone number."
"Did you give it to her?"
"After today? Are you kidding? I told her I'd call her."
"You know she's going to be waiting by the phone."
"Well if she wonders why I didn't call I'll just hide behind the excuse of being 'disinert.'"
We later came to find out that she was being medicated for a few psychological problems... So much so that she literally wet her pants while at work one day later that summer. Yeah. Wet. Her. Pants. Now I don't know about you folks, but no matter how medicated, drunk, whatever I might be, I've not wet myself since the age of two and a half. I don't care what a doctor's got me taking, if I'm conscious, and I feel good enough to leave the privacy of my home to go out and earn a paycheck in a public place, and I know the physical location of a restroom, I'm not going to stand somewhere and piss all over myself. It's just a matter of responding to the physical needs and signals that the body sends. For real.
But that was a surreal day.
Just another day in the life.
It's setting in...
As I fill the boxes and tape them closed, it's really starting to set in that I'm leaving. Don't ask me why, but it wasn't until Saturday that I even told Anthony of my decision. I just really didn't want to disseminate the news to anybody, not even one of my best friends apparently. But once I blurted it out I wondered why I had waited to tell him. He was incredibly understanding, and assured me that I was making the right decision. (We're getting together Tuesday.)
The naked walls, the empty shelves, and the neatly folded drapes resting on top of a stack of boxes collectively scare me. (I hate naked walls. REALLY. A LOT. So much in fact that as soon as I move into a place and mentally figure out the placement of the large furnishings, I hang pictures... And then I unpack and assemble things. The walls come first. But I've begun taking the pictures down and it makes me uneasy.)
I don't know what else to report... It's a quiet little life I have going on right now. Other than hand wrapping the glasses and emptying the closets, there is nothing going on. Have a good day, eggs!
The naked walls, the empty shelves, and the neatly folded drapes resting on top of a stack of boxes collectively scare me. (I hate naked walls. REALLY. A LOT. So much in fact that as soon as I move into a place and mentally figure out the placement of the large furnishings, I hang pictures... And then I unpack and assemble things. The walls come first. But I've begun taking the pictures down and it makes me uneasy.)
I don't know what else to report... It's a quiet little life I have going on right now. Other than hand wrapping the glasses and emptying the closets, there is nothing going on. Have a good day, eggs!
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Infectious...
Ok, this is one of those things that you might not necessarily find funny the first time around, but if you give it a chance, you might find that it seeps into your subconscious, and you'll be mentally quoting it, if not quoting it aloud.
Just don't ask me where I found this thing, because I have no idea anymore...
[Editorial note: You are not going to want to listen to this at work unless you have earphones or a very permissive boss.]
(Those shoes are mine, BETCH!)
Just don't ask me where I found this thing, because I have no idea anymore...
[Editorial note: You are not going to want to listen to this at work unless you have earphones or a very permissive boss.]
(Those shoes are mine, BETCH!)
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Exhaustion.....
Ok, so in an effort to get my sleep cycle back on track I've been up since 4 AM. I've been busy ALLL day, organizing, washing dishes to get them ready for wrapping and packing, cleaning the bathroom and going through my closet trying to figure out what all I don't really need so that I don't have to move it, and so now I am TOTALLY dead tired. But there is good news. I HAVE BOXES! I also have bags, and the cleaning stuff I needed to get. BIG BIG BIG THANK YOU to Chende on the boxes though! (I love her, she is one of my favorites!)
Tomorrow I will begin my packing in earnest... I will also be making a number of trips to the dumpster, I'm sure. To clarify for those who are curious, I don't have a set moving date just yet. I will just do all of my packing, I will talk to a few friends about helping with the bigger stuff, and then I will call the fine folks at U-Haul to arrange for a truck. I'll let you all know when I have something more definite.
At this point I am just too tired to do much of anything... I'm going to call it a night, even though it's only 10 PM. Have a good one my chickadees!
Tomorrow I will begin my packing in earnest... I will also be making a number of trips to the dumpster, I'm sure. To clarify for those who are curious, I don't have a set moving date just yet. I will just do all of my packing, I will talk to a few friends about helping with the bigger stuff, and then I will call the fine folks at U-Haul to arrange for a truck. I'll let you all know when I have something more definite.
At this point I am just too tired to do much of anything... I'm going to call it a night, even though it's only 10 PM. Have a good one my chickadees!
(And yes, that's a chickadee!)
An open letter to my friends...
Dear friends and readers,
If you're looking for me today I'll be here in my apartment, organizing my belongings into categories of stuff I can put in storage until such time as I have financially recovered enough to be able to use them in a new apartment of my own... And the stuff that will be coming with me because they are utter necessities. (And then I will figure out how to wrap breakables that would ordinarily go into boxes using clothing and such that will be stuffed into garbage bags unless I find a place near my apartment willing to give me boxes, or a way to get boxes to the apartment from places where I am pretty sure they'd have a few handy.)
In other news, I am slowly coming to terms with moving home. Basically, I just have to keep telling myself that while there are certain disadvantages to living in that particular place, (i.e.- Nobody knows how to drive... or at least they don't do it well, the shopping is mediocre at best, the bars are utterly wretched, and with the exception of those few wretched bars the town pretty much shuts down at 9 PM... 7PM on Sunday.) The upswing is that I'll be able to afford living there, the job market is much more amenable to someone who doesn't necessarily have 10 years of experience doing whatever, and unlike Chicago, it isn't so congested with qualified individuals that people are unwilling to give a fresh face a fair shot. I'll also be closer to my family who I admittedly have missed quite a lot, and the big city and all the friends I have in it are just a phone call and a road trip away! (And we get WGN in my hometown, so I'll still catch a lot of my Cubs games!)
As for drunken Cubbies weekend, version 3.0, we're going to have to work something out... FOR REAL, because there is no way that we can end that tradition!
I'm still not entirely happy with it, but I am doing my best to take an optimistic approach to a bad situation. I've finally gotten to the point where I can utter the words without bursting into tears... And that's a step.
So that's what's going on, and you know where to find me!
Be good children!
~ Lizzle
If you're looking for me today I'll be here in my apartment, organizing my belongings into categories of stuff I can put in storage until such time as I have financially recovered enough to be able to use them in a new apartment of my own... And the stuff that will be coming with me because they are utter necessities. (And then I will figure out how to wrap breakables that would ordinarily go into boxes using clothing and such that will be stuffed into garbage bags unless I find a place near my apartment willing to give me boxes, or a way to get boxes to the apartment from places where I am pretty sure they'd have a few handy.)
In other news, I am slowly coming to terms with moving home. Basically, I just have to keep telling myself that while there are certain disadvantages to living in that particular place, (i.e.- Nobody knows how to drive... or at least they don't do it well, the shopping is mediocre at best, the bars are utterly wretched, and with the exception of those few wretched bars the town pretty much shuts down at 9 PM... 7PM on Sunday.) The upswing is that I'll be able to afford living there, the job market is much more amenable to someone who doesn't necessarily have 10 years of experience doing whatever, and unlike Chicago, it isn't so congested with qualified individuals that people are unwilling to give a fresh face a fair shot. I'll also be closer to my family who I admittedly have missed quite a lot, and the big city and all the friends I have in it are just a phone call and a road trip away! (And we get WGN in my hometown, so I'll still catch a lot of my Cubs games!)
As for drunken Cubbies weekend, version 3.0, we're going to have to work something out... FOR REAL, because there is no way that we can end that tradition!
I'm still not entirely happy with it, but I am doing my best to take an optimistic approach to a bad situation. I've finally gotten to the point where I can utter the words without bursting into tears... And that's a step.
So that's what's going on, and you know where to find me!
Be good children!
~ Lizzle
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
You think you're bored?
My sleep cycle is all outta whack again, (as it is known to get in times of stress). And as such, I have found myself awake and cooking eggs at 3 AM. (Not something I have done since my days as a collegiate booze hound.)
I don't think it's any secret that TV execs save their "best programming," (I use that term loosely, because TV these days is utter crap,) for the prime time hours, and not for the wee hours of the morning.
And since I have no boxes in which to pack anything, I can't get a jump on my packing. And so I am left to a myriad of bad infomercials, (though I do derive some pleasure from catching the old familliar infomercial on the spanish channel... Don't ask me why, I think spanish infomercials are hilarious,) the odd early 90's sitcom, and cable-in-the-classroom documentaries of long-dead presidents or an hour long documentary on how pork fat was a deciding factor in World War II or something equally odd. It's either that or watch re-airings of that pompous windbag Bill O'Reilly blabbing about whatever he thinks he has the franchise on today... Personally I'd rather watch the weather channel... At least the weather channel folks know something about what they are talking about and are backed up with actual facts!
Out of desperation, I even watched a little blip about Calvin Coolidge having an electric contraption to simulate the sensation of riding a horse... And now I know that if the mood struck him of an evening, he would ride in the evenings before bed wearing nothing but his underwear... Why this is something that needed to be documented and disseminated is beyond me... But now I know it, so that's that.
I don't think it's any secret that TV execs save their "best programming," (I use that term loosely, because TV these days is utter crap,) for the prime time hours, and not for the wee hours of the morning.
And since I have no boxes in which to pack anything, I can't get a jump on my packing. And so I am left to a myriad of bad infomercials, (though I do derive some pleasure from catching the old familliar infomercial on the spanish channel... Don't ask me why, I think spanish infomercials are hilarious,) the odd early 90's sitcom, and cable-in-the-classroom documentaries of long-dead presidents or an hour long documentary on how pork fat was a deciding factor in World War II or something equally odd. It's either that or watch re-airings of that pompous windbag Bill O'Reilly blabbing about whatever he thinks he has the franchise on today... Personally I'd rather watch the weather channel... At least the weather channel folks know something about what they are talking about and are backed up with actual facts!
Out of desperation, I even watched a little blip about Calvin Coolidge having an electric contraption to simulate the sensation of riding a horse... And now I know that if the mood struck him of an evening, he would ride in the evenings before bed wearing nothing but his underwear... Why this is something that needed to be documented and disseminated is beyond me... But now I know it, so that's that.
Picture Pages: Christmas Edition
Ok, so I know I am a little behind on this, but here are the pictures from my holiday vacation... We'll lead off with my sister Becky celebrating her divorce with hearty chuckle and a windex. (That blue cocktail.)
Seriously fellas, look at that sweet ass!
Well we caught this guy lookin' at that sweet ass... And if you must know, he voluntarily shoved his cell phone in his mouth... We have yet to figure out why.
But then again, I guess some chicks dig that kind of thing.
Like a lot...
Kimberly is totally uninterested.
And although he didn't join us on our evening adventure, Cole showed up the next morning to ... well, Cole can always be counted on for some kind of comic relief. (We here at the happy hour would like to say that we hope Cole feels better soon, and that he recovers quickly from his appendicitis.)
And now it's Christmas morning! (Cody is Santa's little helper!)
Tyler is all smiles when you are busy giving him presents.
Cody is damn near swallowed up with the wrapping paper and gift pile.
I LOVE this picture of Cody... He's having so much fun. (Oh and that's a Spiderman sticker on his forehead... Courtesy of his big brother.)
He loves playing with his grandpa!
Meanwhile Grandma is in the kitchen, looking like she's TOASTED. (This is totally next year's Christmas card when coupled with the caption, "This is what happens when you celebrate Christmas with a cheap bottle of White Zinfandel!")
Tyler got one of those fishing games that we all had as kids... And of course we had to try it out!
Cody would like it to be known that he thoroughly enjoys "moon peanuts" a.k.a. cashews.
Sorry that's all I've got for you kids... I'm too depressed to really write much as a direct result of a certain football game which shall never be spoken of again. EVER.
Seriously fellas, look at that sweet ass!
Well we caught this guy lookin' at that sweet ass... And if you must know, he voluntarily shoved his cell phone in his mouth... We have yet to figure out why.
But then again, I guess some chicks dig that kind of thing.
Like a lot...
Kimberly is totally uninterested.
And although he didn't join us on our evening adventure, Cole showed up the next morning to ... well, Cole can always be counted on for some kind of comic relief. (We here at the happy hour would like to say that we hope Cole feels better soon, and that he recovers quickly from his appendicitis.)
And now it's Christmas morning! (Cody is Santa's little helper!)
Tyler is all smiles when you are busy giving him presents.
Cody is damn near swallowed up with the wrapping paper and gift pile.
I LOVE this picture of Cody... He's having so much fun. (Oh and that's a Spiderman sticker on his forehead... Courtesy of his big brother.)
He loves playing with his grandpa!
Meanwhile Grandma is in the kitchen, looking like she's TOASTED. (This is totally next year's Christmas card when coupled with the caption, "This is what happens when you celebrate Christmas with a cheap bottle of White Zinfandel!")
Tyler got one of those fishing games that we all had as kids... And of course we had to try it out!
Cody would like it to be known that he thoroughly enjoys "moon peanuts" a.k.a. cashews.
Sorry that's all I've got for you kids... I'm too depressed to really write much as a direct result of a certain football game which shall never be spoken of again. EVER.
Monday, January 08, 2007
I KNEW IT!
Remember that last time when I mentioned that I was in a serious funk, and I ended up moving my bed? Well one of the things about moving your bed out to the middle of a room instead of having it shoved in the corner means that unless you're planning on putting an otherwise unnecessary dust ruffle on it, people could easily see what's underneath it... And since I was moving the bed in an effort to change my energy and thus change my fortunes, I threw away all the boxes I had saved from my previous moves. So now I have to think about packing up all my crap, and I have no boxes. DAMMIT.
I tried getting boxes from my local grocery store, but they apparently get money for recycling them or some shit so they don't give them away. CRAP. (And when I was taking those boxes down to the dumpster, something in the back of my mind said, "You're going to need these someday, and you won't have them!") My determination to stick around then has screwed me now.
I have nothing new or interesting to report, but I just remembered that I still haven't posted my pictures from my holiday trip... I'll do that later, so check back and be sure to refresh the page!!
I tried getting boxes from my local grocery store, but they apparently get money for recycling them or some shit so they don't give them away. CRAP. (And when I was taking those boxes down to the dumpster, something in the back of my mind said, "You're going to need these someday, and you won't have them!") My determination to stick around then has screwed me now.
I have nothing new or interesting to report, but I just remembered that I still haven't posted my pictures from my holiday trip... I'll do that later, so check back and be sure to refresh the page!!
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Thanks.
I want to start off this post by thanking all of you for your very very kind words and support. I don't mean this to come off the wrong way, but when I composed the last post I expected the comments to be superficially supportive, but somehow hollow. I couldn't have been more wrong. As it turns out, you people have a clearer knowledge of me than I thought, and you wrote some of the sweetest most substantive comments I could have ever hoped for. Between the tears I've shed over making the decision and the tears I've shed while acknowledging the support I have from people who don't even know me any further than the things I share on this blog, (albeit that this blog has been a very public home to some pretty private things as time has worn on,) my tear ducts are about 2.1 seconds from going on strike due to long working hours of overtime, and shoddy working conditions. You all, merely in saying the sweet things you said, have solidified that last thread of sanity that I have remaining. You and your kind thoughts and words have helped me in coming to terms with the decision, and ease the feelings of defeat that I've been particularly prone to at the moment.
Don't get me wrong, I am still struggling with the whole thing. And I do still feel pangs of defeat, and that has led me to do a lot of naysaying to those who I've had direct dialogue with lately. My mother keeps telling me that I gave it more than a fair shot, and that I went down swinging... My attitude of cynicism and naysaying has been more prone to noting that statistically a strike out is a strike out no matter whether you're swinging or not, and such a low batting average doesn't really encourage people to check the tape of the out. But like I said, I'm a total naysayer at the moment.
On a related note, it might surprise you to know that despite my defeat, and my piss-poor attitude, I have actually ventured out of my apartment in recent days, going to a friend's house, and a basketball game. And when I ran into people who didn't already know about the situation, upon explanation I was greeted with that really unpleasant and judgemental face when mentioning where I was headed. It would seem that a lot of people who have merely heard of my hometown dislike it as much as I do. (P.S. - Even more than my home town, I HATE that judgemental face... It only makes me feel worse about something I can't do much about.)
In all honesty, I am doing my best to get used to the idea of moving back home, and to try to find whatever bright side there is to the whole situation. I am trying to tell myself that there has to be a reason. I am trying to tell myself that it's a temporary setback. I am trying to tell myself that Brenda was right when she noted that I've maintained a degree of self-respect by making the move now before I resorted to turning tricks on the corner, or dealing drugs to all the scumbags... Lots of deep breaths... Lots of effort trying to shift the mindset... And some more deep breaths.
Thanks for sticking with me!
Don't get me wrong, I am still struggling with the whole thing. And I do still feel pangs of defeat, and that has led me to do a lot of naysaying to those who I've had direct dialogue with lately. My mother keeps telling me that I gave it more than a fair shot, and that I went down swinging... My attitude of cynicism and naysaying has been more prone to noting that statistically a strike out is a strike out no matter whether you're swinging or not, and such a low batting average doesn't really encourage people to check the tape of the out. But like I said, I'm a total naysayer at the moment.
On a related note, it might surprise you to know that despite my defeat, and my piss-poor attitude, I have actually ventured out of my apartment in recent days, going to a friend's house, and a basketball game. And when I ran into people who didn't already know about the situation, upon explanation I was greeted with that really unpleasant and judgemental face when mentioning where I was headed. It would seem that a lot of people who have merely heard of my hometown dislike it as much as I do. (P.S. - Even more than my home town, I HATE that judgemental face... It only makes me feel worse about something I can't do much about.)
In all honesty, I am doing my best to get used to the idea of moving back home, and to try to find whatever bright side there is to the whole situation. I am trying to tell myself that there has to be a reason. I am trying to tell myself that it's a temporary setback. I am trying to tell myself that Brenda was right when she noted that I've maintained a degree of self-respect by making the move now before I resorted to turning tricks on the corner, or dealing drugs to all the scumbags... Lots of deep breaths... Lots of effort trying to shift the mindset... And some more deep breaths.
Thanks for sticking with me!
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
I have had a few...
Ok. Here goes nothing.
As the title would indicate, I've had a few drinks, because I knew I would need them in order to say what I am about to say.
I hope you are all sitting down.
Last night I came to the conclusion that I have long pondered and dreaded. That conclusion being that you have to admit that no matter how much you might want something, there comes a certain point where too much persistence becomes more than a little stupid. And so I am moving home. Along with my rent this month I have submitted my 30 days notice to my landlord. I have given it more thought than you can possibly imagine. I have considered every angle possible, and I have studied it from all possible sides. And I have come to the conclusion that I have gone all in, and I have lost. The fact is that I have done all I can do, and including my own stubbornness and fortitude, there is nothing left for me to bank on.
My main rationale is that I have done my best to give myself a fair shot here, but nobody else has seen the potential, and while it might be a loss to all the places that didn't take the chance on me, it is also my own loss. I can't keep trying to force myself into a place that doesn't fit or doesn't want me. Not only is it exhausting, it would always end up being wrong. Due to my financial situation I have not been able to enjoy ANY of the perks of living where I wanted so desperately to live. I have stretched every last dime well beyond the standard limitations and then some, in order to prolong the possibility or improve my odds over time. And as a result I have essentially existed solely in my apartment, and I have been miserable, and I figure if I am going to be miserable, I might as well be miserable in a place where I can slowly rebuild as opposed to slowly digging myself in deeper. If I can't go out to the places I want to go, or do the things I want to do, then I am better off being somewhere where I have a shot at a modicum of happiness (that being time with my family) as opposed to total and utter failure coupled with a feeling of intense loneliness.
In case you can't tell, I write this post with a feeling of total defeat. I feel like the city has beaten me. And I do feel like while it might be the smart move, leaving is tantamount to running away shamefully with my tail between my legs.
My mom tells me that coming to this conclusion has taken a lot of courage. But courage is the last thing I feel. I feel shame. I feel defeat. I feel lost. I feel intensely sad. I do not feel courageous.
Could I have taken a job at blockbuster video, or bagging groceries, or waiting tables, sure. But the fact is that I would have been busting my ass at a shitty job or two, and still living hand to mouth and only delaying the inevitable while waiting for something better to come along. Because let's face it, while working sixty hours a week at two crappy, low-paying jobs, you might make the rent, and be able to eat that month, but there isn't much time left for interviewing for something better, or having any fun.
And so my thought process goes like this: I will go home. I will work a reasonable job befitting my degree, and my intelligence, somewhere where I will be at least moderately appreciated. I will rebuild. I will recharge. I will take this loss in stride. I am used to taking life's knocks. This is just the latest. And when all is said and done, I am going to laugh about this one day... At least that's what I have to tell myself right now. That laughter will return. That this is not all there is for me. That there might be a lesson worth learning in this beyond the humility I've already achieved. That the bawling I've done and the tears that have fallen are worth something more. That I might lose this battle, but I will win the war. I have to tell myself this... I have to.
At present, I have been reduced to a snivelling idiotic shell of my former self. I have lost so much of what I once was that now I scarcely recognize the person I see in the mirror anymore. I have lost all of my self assurance. I have lost all of my pride. I have lost a fair chunk of my dignity. I have lost all that was once fun and beautiful. I have come dangerously close to a point of no return. I have nothing left to give. I'm empty. And I know without a doubt that I can't keep living this way. And if all my former hard knocks have taught me only one thing, it's this: if something isn't working for you anymore, no matter how much you might want it to, then you have to change it up and try something new.
And so I am closing this chapter. I have to try a new approach. I have to find a new route because this one is clearly impassable. I can't be the person I want to be here and now, and so I will find something else that fits the person I want to be. I will tell myself that my faith is not wasted and that the god I believe in has some other plan for me. And that no matter how painful the road getting there might be, that the end result will ultimately be worth the sacrifice and the effort put in, and that there is some unforeseen reason for all of this.
I want to find the place in my life where I can dance again. I want to find my spark again, and I want to know that I mattered somehow to someone. And if it takes me losing everything I've done to this point to find the missing part of myself, then so be it. That's how it has to be.
And so I will try to take this loss and defeat with all the grace and eloquence- in -the -face -of -defeat that I have been known for in the face of all my other defeats. I will bow out humbly and speak only too kindly of the experience. I will be grateful for the time that I've had and the people I've met and loved, and for those who loved me. I will maintain the facade that I am still intact. I'll get up in the morning and I'll breathe in and out all day long and go on like things are going just as they should. And I will wait for the day when I feel like I am whole again.
I'll leave you all with two quotes from one of my favorite movies...
As the title would indicate, I've had a few drinks, because I knew I would need them in order to say what I am about to say.
I hope you are all sitting down.
Last night I came to the conclusion that I have long pondered and dreaded. That conclusion being that you have to admit that no matter how much you might want something, there comes a certain point where too much persistence becomes more than a little stupid. And so I am moving home. Along with my rent this month I have submitted my 30 days notice to my landlord. I have given it more thought than you can possibly imagine. I have considered every angle possible, and I have studied it from all possible sides. And I have come to the conclusion that I have gone all in, and I have lost. The fact is that I have done all I can do, and including my own stubbornness and fortitude, there is nothing left for me to bank on.
My main rationale is that I have done my best to give myself a fair shot here, but nobody else has seen the potential, and while it might be a loss to all the places that didn't take the chance on me, it is also my own loss. I can't keep trying to force myself into a place that doesn't fit or doesn't want me. Not only is it exhausting, it would always end up being wrong. Due to my financial situation I have not been able to enjoy ANY of the perks of living where I wanted so desperately to live. I have stretched every last dime well beyond the standard limitations and then some, in order to prolong the possibility or improve my odds over time. And as a result I have essentially existed solely in my apartment, and I have been miserable, and I figure if I am going to be miserable, I might as well be miserable in a place where I can slowly rebuild as opposed to slowly digging myself in deeper. If I can't go out to the places I want to go, or do the things I want to do, then I am better off being somewhere where I have a shot at a modicum of happiness (that being time with my family) as opposed to total and utter failure coupled with a feeling of intense loneliness.
In case you can't tell, I write this post with a feeling of total defeat. I feel like the city has beaten me. And I do feel like while it might be the smart move, leaving is tantamount to running away shamefully with my tail between my legs.
My mom tells me that coming to this conclusion has taken a lot of courage. But courage is the last thing I feel. I feel shame. I feel defeat. I feel lost. I feel intensely sad. I do not feel courageous.
Could I have taken a job at blockbuster video, or bagging groceries, or waiting tables, sure. But the fact is that I would have been busting my ass at a shitty job or two, and still living hand to mouth and only delaying the inevitable while waiting for something better to come along. Because let's face it, while working sixty hours a week at two crappy, low-paying jobs, you might make the rent, and be able to eat that month, but there isn't much time left for interviewing for something better, or having any fun.
And so my thought process goes like this: I will go home. I will work a reasonable job befitting my degree, and my intelligence, somewhere where I will be at least moderately appreciated. I will rebuild. I will recharge. I will take this loss in stride. I am used to taking life's knocks. This is just the latest. And when all is said and done, I am going to laugh about this one day... At least that's what I have to tell myself right now. That laughter will return. That this is not all there is for me. That there might be a lesson worth learning in this beyond the humility I've already achieved. That the bawling I've done and the tears that have fallen are worth something more. That I might lose this battle, but I will win the war. I have to tell myself this... I have to.
At present, I have been reduced to a snivelling idiotic shell of my former self. I have lost so much of what I once was that now I scarcely recognize the person I see in the mirror anymore. I have lost all of my self assurance. I have lost all of my pride. I have lost a fair chunk of my dignity. I have lost all that was once fun and beautiful. I have come dangerously close to a point of no return. I have nothing left to give. I'm empty. And I know without a doubt that I can't keep living this way. And if all my former hard knocks have taught me only one thing, it's this: if something isn't working for you anymore, no matter how much you might want it to, then you have to change it up and try something new.
And so I am closing this chapter. I have to try a new approach. I have to find a new route because this one is clearly impassable. I can't be the person I want to be here and now, and so I will find something else that fits the person I want to be. I will tell myself that my faith is not wasted and that the god I believe in has some other plan for me. And that no matter how painful the road getting there might be, that the end result will ultimately be worth the sacrifice and the effort put in, and that there is some unforeseen reason for all of this.
I want to find the place in my life where I can dance again. I want to find my spark again, and I want to know that I mattered somehow to someone. And if it takes me losing everything I've done to this point to find the missing part of myself, then so be it. That's how it has to be.
And so I will try to take this loss and defeat with all the grace and eloquence- in -the -face -of -defeat that I have been known for in the face of all my other defeats. I will bow out humbly and speak only too kindly of the experience. I will be grateful for the time that I've had and the people I've met and loved, and for those who loved me. I will maintain the facade that I am still intact. I'll get up in the morning and I'll breathe in and out all day long and go on like things are going just as they should. And I will wait for the day when I feel like I am whole again.
I'll leave you all with two quotes from one of my favorite movies...
"Sometimes you're flush and sometimes you're bust, and when you're up, it's never as good as it seems, and when you're down, you never think you'll be up again, but life goes on."And a quote from one of my favorite books,
"So in the end, was it worth it? Jesus Christ. How irreparably changed my life has become. It's always the last days of summer and I've been left out in the cold with no door to get back in. I'll grant you I've had more than my share of poignant moments. Life passes most people by when they're busy making grand plans for it. Throughout my lifetime I've left pieces of my heart here and there. And now, there's almost barely enough to stay alive. But I force a smile, knowing that my ambition far exceeded my talent. There are no more white horses or pretty ladies at my door."
" It doesn't matter how fast you get there, if you're headed in the wrong direction."
Monday, January 01, 2007
Hey 2006, I've got two words for you...
"ADIOS, BITCH!"
We all know that 2006 was NOT the year of the Lizzle. CLEARLY.
It didn't finish well either. My trip home from my holiday down south was a delayed and then seriously turbulent flight, and an absolutely ridiculous wait down at baggage services while it took literally an hour and a half for the luggage from my flight to hit a baggage carousel. Nevermind that my luggage was temporarily "misplaced" (read: the dumbasses lost my bag) on my flight down there in the first place... And how that happens on a direct flight is beyond me.
I didn't do anything fancy to celebrate the new year. Largely because the old year has pretty much broken my will in addition to my bank account. Other than having an excuse to drink and see my friends, I had no real desire to do much of anything other than flipping the last page on my calendar and saying 2006 can kiss my f-ing grits. And so I rang in 2007 by doing the dishes, a couple of loads of laundry, changing the sheets on my bed, and drinking a chocolate martini while sitting in a bubble bath.
All I can say is that I hope you hot bitches know what you're talking about when you say that this is going to be the year of the lizzle, because although I don't know that things could get a whole lot worse, I have learned not to tempt the fates by saying it's an impossibility. (Usually as soon as you make that statement, the other shoe drops and you find yourself in an even lower circle of hell... Speaking only from my experience here... If this past year has taught me anything then chief among the lessons amassed is to never rule out the worst case scenario, lest you find yourself there in a big hurry.)
In any case, stay hot and I promise to continue to love you all in the new year.
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