Saturday, April 29, 2006
File Under Exits, Graceful
Today I went back to our old apartment to pick up some things. My lease runs until April 30, so I planned to spend the next few days cleaning the moldy pickles out of the fridge and collecting lost treasures from under the couch. The problem was, when I arrived, all of our belongings had already been removed. Yes, like a petulant ex-girlfriend who has discovered her man has a bit of a waitress-fucking habit, our landlord put all of our things out on the lawn. Or in the "laundry room" (which is actually a tool shed with some coin-ops in it), to be exact.
Now, my landlord was never exactly the greatest. He didn't so much care for fixing things and I probably saw him in person four times the whole three years I lived in his building. For the last year, in fact, he didn't even bother to write up a lease; I just sent him checks and he looked the other way when people vomited off my roof. But I never expected I'd have to explain to him that vandalizing and/or stealing a tenant's property isn't exactly a model way of doing business. And yet now I find myself in full-on nasty voicemail and sternly worded letter mode. I mean, did he just think the microwave and coffee table were gifts? Did he think the enormous dust ball in the corner was my way of saying thank you? And, most importantly, did he think it was May 1?
The worst part in all of this is that they junked Roommate Liz's rocking chair, which has been in her family for ages. It's sitting in pieces on the floor of our new living room right now. That's right, today Roommate Liz was digging through a dumpster. The downward spiral continues.
Today I went back to our old apartment to pick up some things. My lease runs until April 30, so I planned to spend the next few days cleaning the moldy pickles out of the fridge and collecting lost treasures from under the couch. The problem was, when I arrived, all of our belongings had already been removed. Yes, like a petulant ex-girlfriend who has discovered her man has a bit of a waitress-fucking habit, our landlord put all of our things out on the lawn. Or in the "laundry room" (which is actually a tool shed with some coin-ops in it), to be exact.
Now, my landlord was never exactly the greatest. He didn't so much care for fixing things and I probably saw him in person four times the whole three years I lived in his building. For the last year, in fact, he didn't even bother to write up a lease; I just sent him checks and he looked the other way when people vomited off my roof. But I never expected I'd have to explain to him that vandalizing and/or stealing a tenant's property isn't exactly a model way of doing business. And yet now I find myself in full-on nasty voicemail and sternly worded letter mode. I mean, did he just think the microwave and coffee table were gifts? Did he think the enormous dust ball in the corner was my way of saying thank you? And, most importantly, did he think it was May 1?
The worst part in all of this is that they junked Roommate Liz's rocking chair, which has been in her family for ages. It's sitting in pieces on the floor of our new living room right now. That's right, today Roommate Liz was digging through a dumpster. The downward spiral continues.
Friday, April 28, 2006
The Class Struggle Continues
Roommate Liz has fleas.
We can't be precisely sure how she contracted them, as she isn't a stray collie, but my bet is that it was from one of her many unsavory sexual encounters. No, in truth we believe they stemmed from the less-adorable-in-retrospect canine who lived in my condo before us. (Not by himself, although that would make an amazing Disney movie, likely starring Tim Allen.) But certainly it's a sobering development; rather than a Friday night on the town, we'll be having a Bug Bomb in my living room. I hope at least I get a decent contact high.
Of course, since it's us, we've decided to make an event out of this. We're going to wear camouflage pants and paint our faces for full-on combat with the encroaching enemy. There will also be a head-to-head viewing of Platoon and Arachnaphobia. And of course a box of wine. You know it's the good stuff when it tastes like Kool-Aid.
I have been scratching ever since I found out the diagnosis, however. And just when I thought I was out of ways to make strangers on the train think I'm crazy! Good times.
Roommate Liz has fleas.
We can't be precisely sure how she contracted them, as she isn't a stray collie, but my bet is that it was from one of her many unsavory sexual encounters. No, in truth we believe they stemmed from the less-adorable-in-retrospect canine who lived in my condo before us. (Not by himself, although that would make an amazing Disney movie, likely starring Tim Allen.) But certainly it's a sobering development; rather than a Friday night on the town, we'll be having a Bug Bomb in my living room. I hope at least I get a decent contact high.
Of course, since it's us, we've decided to make an event out of this. We're going to wear camouflage pants and paint our faces for full-on combat with the encroaching enemy. There will also be a head-to-head viewing of Platoon and Arachnaphobia. And of course a box of wine. You know it's the good stuff when it tastes like Kool-Aid.
I have been scratching ever since I found out the diagnosis, however. And just when I thought I was out of ways to make strangers on the train think I'm crazy! Good times.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Poverty Sucks
For the second year in a row, I have attended a Cubs game on a day so cold that even the slutty teenagers from the suburbs are forsaking tube tops and cutoffs for snowsuits and earmuffs. It was a great game, but I seriously feared I might leave without the use of some limb of which I am rather fond. It was actually so cold that I didn't even feel like drinking. Now that's cold.
But the highlight of the night was when Roommate Liz got mistaken for a homeless person in our neighborhood liquor store and accordingly followed all over the shop. I believe this image will explain why:
I mean, sure, the purposefully insane glare is probably overkill, but the multiple unmatched layers really make a statement. And the firmly clenched paper bag with a wine bottle fully completes the ensemble.
Now remember, I live with this person.
For the second year in a row, I have attended a Cubs game on a day so cold that even the slutty teenagers from the suburbs are forsaking tube tops and cutoffs for snowsuits and earmuffs. It was a great game, but I seriously feared I might leave without the use of some limb of which I am rather fond. It was actually so cold that I didn't even feel like drinking. Now that's cold.
But the highlight of the night was when Roommate Liz got mistaken for a homeless person in our neighborhood liquor store and accordingly followed all over the shop. I believe this image will explain why:
I mean, sure, the purposefully insane glare is probably overkill, but the multiple unmatched layers really make a statement. And the firmly clenched paper bag with a wine bottle fully completes the ensemble.Now remember, I live with this person.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Weekend Wrap-Up
-- High Society. I went to my friend's work formal with her last night. Because spending Saturday night in a tuxedo is totally worth it when you get some free chicken and a band doing Marc Anthony covers complete with hand gestures out of the deal.
-- Archeology. Approximately six months after losing the remote control for my TV, today I found in buried in one of the cracks of the couch. I also found forty-seven cents and a ham sandwich.
-- Bargains. Yesterday I went to an awesome secondhand store, where I learned that $3 is still too much for a used O-Town CD and that I will never, ever feel comfortable buying previously-owned bedding.
-- The Depths of Madness. I have now seen every single episode of So NoTORIous. I think the last time I watched this much VH1 I was hoping to catch the latest Boys II Men video.
-- Automotive Care. I've been driving around with the "check engine" light on for about a week now. If smoke starts pouring out of the hood, I will definitely take it in, though.
-- High Society. I went to my friend's work formal with her last night. Because spending Saturday night in a tuxedo is totally worth it when you get some free chicken and a band doing Marc Anthony covers complete with hand gestures out of the deal.
-- Archeology. Approximately six months after losing the remote control for my TV, today I found in buried in one of the cracks of the couch. I also found forty-seven cents and a ham sandwich.
-- Bargains. Yesterday I went to an awesome secondhand store, where I learned that $3 is still too much for a used O-Town CD and that I will never, ever feel comfortable buying previously-owned bedding.
-- The Depths of Madness. I have now seen every single episode of So NoTORIous. I think the last time I watched this much VH1 I was hoping to catch the latest Boys II Men video.
-- Automotive Care. I've been driving around with the "check engine" light on for about a week now. If smoke starts pouring out of the hood, I will definitely take it in, though.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
The Most Terrible Tragedy of Our Time
I found out yesterday that I may be changing offices. From the 43rd floor on the East side to the 37th floor on the "not sure" side, which is clearly code for West. Although it is official policy to pretend that all the offices are equally good, everyone secretly knows that the East side is awesome, because you can see the river and the lake and the parks and museums, and all of the other stuff you can't ever actually visit in person because you're working instead. The West side essentially has a view of the people's condos in the building across the street. And we're not talking attractive, naked people, either.
Plus, on the 37th floor I'll be stuck in among intellectual property people, who will probably want to talk about patents all the time, instead of who made out with who, which is what God intended. And I'll have to go up ten floors to talk to most of the people I work with, which is like a half an hour trip the way people abuse the elevators in my building. And they have weird lighting fixtures down there and everything is too close together.
They tried to cheer me up by pointing out how my floor will be the first stop for the elevator now. But obviously that's just something they say to people who have bad offices.
I found out yesterday that I may be changing offices. From the 43rd floor on the East side to the 37th floor on the "not sure" side, which is clearly code for West. Although it is official policy to pretend that all the offices are equally good, everyone secretly knows that the East side is awesome, because you can see the river and the lake and the parks and museums, and all of the other stuff you can't ever actually visit in person because you're working instead. The West side essentially has a view of the people's condos in the building across the street. And we're not talking attractive, naked people, either.
Plus, on the 37th floor I'll be stuck in among intellectual property people, who will probably want to talk about patents all the time, instead of who made out with who, which is what God intended. And I'll have to go up ten floors to talk to most of the people I work with, which is like a half an hour trip the way people abuse the elevators in my building. And they have weird lighting fixtures down there and everything is too close together.
They tried to cheer me up by pointing out how my floor will be the first stop for the elevator now. But obviously that's just something they say to people who have bad offices.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Writer's Market
I've always been a little bit of a writer. Since I have also always been a whole lot of a reader, I've seen enough great literature to know that, quite frankly, my own work isn't really all that great. I can turn a phrase from time to time, and I write a Delta Burke joke like you wouldn't believe, but let's just say that anecdotes about lazy-eyed coworkers and pun-filled lists centered on major holidays aren't exactly intellectual content on a Dostoevsky level. I'm pretty much okay with that; if David Sedaris can sell the New Yorker an essay about lancing a boil and still sleep soundly on his giant pile of money, I don't feel too bad about giving my inanities away for free on The Internets. There's something to be said for pleasant distraction.
But part of being a writer, at least if you do it in any structured way, is sitting through writing classes and seminars where people give you "advice" about your writing that serves largely to demonstrate that A) they haven't actually read your writing and B) they know a lot of big words, shaky though they may be on their preferred usage. Colleagues will intone vague pleasantries like "I liked your use of words" or "it kind of reminded me of the Batman movies," or simply catalogue other pieces you could potentially have written, as by saying "I kind of wanted there to be a car chase" or "this whole bit with Cancer is kind of a downer." Collaboration can be a bit of a bear.
I mention all of this because I am currently in such a class, and last night it made me, for the first time in my life, want to punch an old lady. An old lady who habitually shows up twenty minutes late, wearing a Ron-and-Sheila-Albertson-style track suit, and interrupts other speakers to tell them they need to speak up or that they're not making sense. An old lady who actually audibly scoffs at other people's constructive feedback. An old lady who essentially writes romance novels without all the good dirty parts.
Did I mention that writing is also great therapy?
I've always been a little bit of a writer. Since I have also always been a whole lot of a reader, I've seen enough great literature to know that, quite frankly, my own work isn't really all that great. I can turn a phrase from time to time, and I write a Delta Burke joke like you wouldn't believe, but let's just say that anecdotes about lazy-eyed coworkers and pun-filled lists centered on major holidays aren't exactly intellectual content on a Dostoevsky level. I'm pretty much okay with that; if David Sedaris can sell the New Yorker an essay about lancing a boil and still sleep soundly on his giant pile of money, I don't feel too bad about giving my inanities away for free on The Internets. There's something to be said for pleasant distraction.
But part of being a writer, at least if you do it in any structured way, is sitting through writing classes and seminars where people give you "advice" about your writing that serves largely to demonstrate that A) they haven't actually read your writing and B) they know a lot of big words, shaky though they may be on their preferred usage. Colleagues will intone vague pleasantries like "I liked your use of words" or "it kind of reminded me of the Batman movies," or simply catalogue other pieces you could potentially have written, as by saying "I kind of wanted there to be a car chase" or "this whole bit with Cancer is kind of a downer." Collaboration can be a bit of a bear.
I mention all of this because I am currently in such a class, and last night it made me, for the first time in my life, want to punch an old lady. An old lady who habitually shows up twenty minutes late, wearing a Ron-and-Sheila-Albertson-style track suit, and interrupts other speakers to tell them they need to speak up or that they're not making sense. An old lady who actually audibly scoffs at other people's constructive feedback. An old lady who essentially writes romance novels without all the good dirty parts.
Did I mention that writing is also great therapy?
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
The Latest in Christ
So I didn't go home for Easter this year. Usually there's nowhere I'd rather be for the Big R than in the middle of Ruby Tuesday's with my 94-year-old grandmother scream-whispering about the fat lady at the salad bar, but due to my inordinately busy schedule of studying legal documents with an intensity generally reserved for Joyce's Ulysses and unpacking items I didn't even realize I owned in the first place, I had to miss out this year. But don't worry, there was still an observance, of the most solemn and profound kind.
First, I went to church. I didn't even wear my track pants this week. But I did decide to sneak out rather than get my snack-sized portion of the Body of Christ, because there was a huge traffic jam leading up to the altar. I think an SUV overturned or something. But I figured, hey, I eat Jesus every week, so I might as well give other people a chance. Besides, the communion him was "Taste and See," which everyone knows is like one of the worst God Jams ever. Although the Jay-Z mashup is pretty hott.
Then I went to the gym. I figure Jesus likes good abs as much as the rest of us. Anyone who spent that much time wearing a sheet had to have been body conscious.
And Roommate Liz and I had Easter Dinner! She made a ham, cheesy potatoes, asparagus, and a delicious blondie brownie treat! I made a box of wine. It tasted kind of like Kool-Aid. Come to think of it, it may be the same stuff they use at my church. See, I'm the most awesomely pious person ever!
So I didn't go home for Easter this year. Usually there's nowhere I'd rather be for the Big R than in the middle of Ruby Tuesday's with my 94-year-old grandmother scream-whispering about the fat lady at the salad bar, but due to my inordinately busy schedule of studying legal documents with an intensity generally reserved for Joyce's Ulysses and unpacking items I didn't even realize I owned in the first place, I had to miss out this year. But don't worry, there was still an observance, of the most solemn and profound kind.
First, I went to church. I didn't even wear my track pants this week. But I did decide to sneak out rather than get my snack-sized portion of the Body of Christ, because there was a huge traffic jam leading up to the altar. I think an SUV overturned or something. But I figured, hey, I eat Jesus every week, so I might as well give other people a chance. Besides, the communion him was "Taste and See," which everyone knows is like one of the worst God Jams ever. Although the Jay-Z mashup is pretty hott.
Then I went to the gym. I figure Jesus likes good abs as much as the rest of us. Anyone who spent that much time wearing a sheet had to have been body conscious.
And Roommate Liz and I had Easter Dinner! She made a ham, cheesy potatoes, asparagus, and a delicious blondie brownie treat! I made a box of wine. It tasted kind of like Kool-Aid. Come to think of it, it may be the same stuff they use at my church. See, I'm the most awesomely pious person ever!
Monday, April 17, 2006
File Under "Associate Development"
A handy list of my daily non-billable activities:
-- Questioning the existence of God.
-- Returning mail guy's cheerful banter; hating self.
-- Reading and rereading spam to find out what "Kristi Morrow" thinks of "my news."
-- Gently weeping.
-- Staring out window; realizing there are never going to be any naked people in the office building down the street.
-- Composing evocative ballads about maritime disasters.
-- Completing online Ph.D. from the University of Phoenix.
-- Checking to see if maybe the New Yorker posted new online content twice this week.
-- Eating Reese's Puffs cereal that has been in my office cabinet for over two months now.
-- Trying to guess which coworkers have actual social phobias and which are just assholes.
-- Quietly plotting revenge.
-- Wondering if that homeless lady I saw on the train was really Sharon Stone.
-- Dying on the inside.
A handy list of my daily non-billable activities:
-- Questioning the existence of God.
-- Returning mail guy's cheerful banter; hating self.
-- Reading and rereading spam to find out what "Kristi Morrow" thinks of "my news."
-- Gently weeping.
-- Staring out window; realizing there are never going to be any naked people in the office building down the street.
-- Composing evocative ballads about maritime disasters.
-- Completing online Ph.D. from the University of Phoenix.
-- Checking to see if maybe the New Yorker posted new online content twice this week.
-- Eating Reese's Puffs cereal that has been in my office cabinet for over two months now.
-- Trying to guess which coworkers have actual social phobias and which are just assholes.
-- Quietly plotting revenge.
-- Wondering if that homeless lady I saw on the train was really Sharon Stone.
-- Dying on the inside.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Police Blotter
I have become the victim of a crime. Not an interesting crime, mind you, but a crime nonetheless. Someone smashed in one of the rear windows on my car and stole, of all things, a box of wine glasses out of the back seat. Perhaps some wino wanted to class things up a bit? That whole bottle clasped in paper bag thing is so last season.
The truly strange part, though, is the number of my belongings that the thief apparently deemed not good enough to steal. Apparently, my Walgreen's sunglasses are too cheap-looking even for those who rob for a living. My taste in cutlery was apparently not thought as strong as that for stemware, and while the big bag of health and beauty aids in the back seat was worthy of perusal (maybe he cut himself smashing the window? awww.), it did not merit actual pilfering. I mean, seriously, my Nytol Caplets aren't good enough for you? I'm a little bit offended.
And today I then got to drive my newly-ventilated vehicle to an autoglass shop for repairs. Since I unsurprisingly know nothing of autoglass, I chose a place out of the phone book based on quality of ad. This turned out to be somewhat problematic, as the shop I randomly selected was miles away and predominately Spanish-speaking. Luckily, it turns out that a credit card is the universal language. I'm making a lot of friends, one vandalism at a time.
I have become the victim of a crime. Not an interesting crime, mind you, but a crime nonetheless. Someone smashed in one of the rear windows on my car and stole, of all things, a box of wine glasses out of the back seat. Perhaps some wino wanted to class things up a bit? That whole bottle clasped in paper bag thing is so last season.
The truly strange part, though, is the number of my belongings that the thief apparently deemed not good enough to steal. Apparently, my Walgreen's sunglasses are too cheap-looking even for those who rob for a living. My taste in cutlery was apparently not thought as strong as that for stemware, and while the big bag of health and beauty aids in the back seat was worthy of perusal (maybe he cut himself smashing the window? awww.), it did not merit actual pilfering. I mean, seriously, my Nytol Caplets aren't good enough for you? I'm a little bit offended.
And today I then got to drive my newly-ventilated vehicle to an autoglass shop for repairs. Since I unsurprisingly know nothing of autoglass, I chose a place out of the phone book based on quality of ad. This turned out to be somewhat problematic, as the shop I randomly selected was miles away and predominately Spanish-speaking. Luckily, it turns out that a credit card is the universal language. I'm making a lot of friends, one vandalism at a time.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
The Haunting
Last night Roommate Liz informed me that she believes our (now) old apartment was haunted. Apparently, objects have been moved around without either one of us doing it (or our adorable Korean orphan named Ming) and there have been mysterious noises that cannot just be attributed to the carnally adventurous couple living beneath us. Plus, there was a strange incident whereby I threw away my copy of Learning How to Use the Internet: Instructions and Examples before moving and yet somehow found it in a box when we arrived at the new place. I also now think the ghost may have been to blame for setting up season passes for Girlfriends and Eve on my DVR. Clearly, it is a very evil creature.
So admittedly the evidence supporting this ghost theory is slim, but I am all in favor of it. I like to think that someone died of cholera or multiple stab wounds in my former home and just decided to stay and promote computer literacy and good organization. Or maybe the building was put up on some ancient Indian burial ground and the Illini just happen to be big fans of the UPN. I don't need a huge body count, just enough to make things interesting.
But now I'm kind of nervous to go back there lest I encounter this restless spirit. I mean, what do you talk about with an apparition from the turn of the century? Scurvy? Spats? I may just have to write off the towels and bag of pretzels I left over there and move on with my life.
Last night Roommate Liz informed me that she believes our (now) old apartment was haunted. Apparently, objects have been moved around without either one of us doing it (or our adorable Korean orphan named Ming) and there have been mysterious noises that cannot just be attributed to the carnally adventurous couple living beneath us. Plus, there was a strange incident whereby I threw away my copy of Learning How to Use the Internet: Instructions and Examples before moving and yet somehow found it in a box when we arrived at the new place. I also now think the ghost may have been to blame for setting up season passes for Girlfriends and Eve on my DVR. Clearly, it is a very evil creature.
So admittedly the evidence supporting this ghost theory is slim, but I am all in favor of it. I like to think that someone died of cholera or multiple stab wounds in my former home and just decided to stay and promote computer literacy and good organization. Or maybe the building was put up on some ancient Indian burial ground and the Illini just happen to be big fans of the UPN. I don't need a huge body count, just enough to make things interesting.
But now I'm kind of nervous to go back there lest I encounter this restless spirit. I mean, what do you talk about with an apparition from the turn of the century? Scurvy? Spats? I may just have to write off the towels and bag of pretzels I left over there and move on with my life.
Monday, April 10, 2006
From the World of Technology
So I hate Sprint. Though the phone I bought from them last summer was blue and cute and tiny, it failed to actually ever receive calls, and I sort of viewed this as a drawback, since my telegraph machine was also simultaneously on the fritz. So I took it after a few months, and they "updated my software," which I think gave me unlimited lives on Zelda, but tragically failed to give me any calling power beyond your average hot pink plastic bubble-gum-filled "cell phone." So I took the thing in again last week, and after being told to "come back in an hour, hour and a half" on three separate occasions (I love how they just assume that no one who owns a cell phone has a job or, for that matter anywhere to be -- hence the need for a "mobile" phone.) met with the Surliest Sprint Employee in Human History:
"Yeah, your phone don't work," he intuited.
"Uh huh," I replied, somehow hoping for more.
"We gonna give you this new phone, maybe, but I got to talk to the technician, and he just went to lunch. Come back in an hour, hour and a half."
"Okay, well, I kind of have to be somewhere, so I probably won't be back until tomorrow, is that okay?"
"No, it's really not. But if that's the best you can do..."
Isn't it nice to finally have someone inject the moral dimension back into cell phone repair? The Catholic Church better watch out, because I've got a whole new source of guilt and recrimination from which to draw. And just in time for Easter!
So I hate Sprint. Though the phone I bought from them last summer was blue and cute and tiny, it failed to actually ever receive calls, and I sort of viewed this as a drawback, since my telegraph machine was also simultaneously on the fritz. So I took it after a few months, and they "updated my software," which I think gave me unlimited lives on Zelda, but tragically failed to give me any calling power beyond your average hot pink plastic bubble-gum-filled "cell phone." So I took the thing in again last week, and after being told to "come back in an hour, hour and a half" on three separate occasions (I love how they just assume that no one who owns a cell phone has a job or, for that matter anywhere to be -- hence the need for a "mobile" phone.) met with the Surliest Sprint Employee in Human History:
"Yeah, your phone don't work," he intuited.
"Uh huh," I replied, somehow hoping for more.
"We gonna give you this new phone, maybe, but I got to talk to the technician, and he just went to lunch. Come back in an hour, hour and a half."
"Okay, well, I kind of have to be somewhere, so I probably won't be back until tomorrow, is that okay?"
"No, it's really not. But if that's the best you can do..."
Isn't it nice to finally have someone inject the moral dimension back into cell phone repair? The Catholic Church better watch out, because I've got a whole new source of guilt and recrimination from which to draw. And just in time for Easter!
Saturday, April 08, 2006
The Return of Random Pictures
We had the final performance for the show I wrote part of last night. I have to admit that, after five weeks of devoting Fridays to watching the same sketches I've seen approximately ten thousand times since October, I was not too tragically sad to have it end. I was, however, pleased to host an impromptu cast party, featuring beer bought by other people and left in my fridge. (I'm doubly excited at the prospect of moving with beer later this week.)
Have you ever noticed how I love to make weird faces in pictures? Here, I was going for "alarmed," but I think I just came up with "crazy." This is shortly before Sherman, Brian, and I did shots of bourbon, which would have hilarious consequences.
Megan also enjoys challenging the boundaries of how we think people ought to look in photographs. Note how Roommate Liz and I have placed the photo of our law school graduation on our bar, which we consider the center of our home.
We were the writers who actually got along, and Laura and Caitlin are STILL trying to strangle me and Brett. Anything for more stage time, I suppose.
We had the final performance for the show I wrote part of last night. I have to admit that, after five weeks of devoting Fridays to watching the same sketches I've seen approximately ten thousand times since October, I was not too tragically sad to have it end. I was, however, pleased to host an impromptu cast party, featuring beer bought by other people and left in my fridge. (I'm doubly excited at the prospect of moving with beer later this week.)
Have you ever noticed how I love to make weird faces in pictures? Here, I was going for "alarmed," but I think I just came up with "crazy." This is shortly before Sherman, Brian, and I did shots of bourbon, which would have hilarious consequences.
Megan also enjoys challenging the boundaries of how we think people ought to look in photographs. Note how Roommate Liz and I have placed the photo of our law school graduation on our bar, which we consider the center of our home.
We were the writers who actually got along, and Laura and Caitlin are STILL trying to strangle me and Brett. Anything for more stage time, I suppose.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Closure
Had the closing on my condo purchase today. This was fun for several reasons. First, I got to take a good portion of the day off of work, although this meant a similarly-sized portion of the evening was spent at work. It felt like opposite day. Then, I got to carry around an exceedingly large check for twelve hours. (When I say large, I mean large in amount, not large in physical size. Although that would have been a lot more fun, now that I think about it. That's why I always wanted to be on The Price is Right. Also because of the skinny microphone.) Plus, everyone kept congratulating me, as though I had discovered some new element or written a wonderfully catchy pop song rather than simply dumping a ton of money on something that will essentially benefit only me. I think people should congratulate me every time I buy something. It would make Walgreen's such a treat!
Oh, and I got to go to Oak Brook for the closing, since the seller's attorney was from the suburbs. Road Trip! I wish I'd had time to look up tourist information on Oak Brook. As it was, I pretty much only saw the tollway and the title company. They were both fairly breathtaking, though.
So I guess it's official that I am part of the landed gentry. Of course, until my next payday I'm going to have to panhandle friends just to keep myself in groceries. Who wants to buy me a box of Ho Hos?
Had the closing on my condo purchase today. This was fun for several reasons. First, I got to take a good portion of the day off of work, although this meant a similarly-sized portion of the evening was spent at work. It felt like opposite day. Then, I got to carry around an exceedingly large check for twelve hours. (When I say large, I mean large in amount, not large in physical size. Although that would have been a lot more fun, now that I think about it. That's why I always wanted to be on The Price is Right. Also because of the skinny microphone.) Plus, everyone kept congratulating me, as though I had discovered some new element or written a wonderfully catchy pop song rather than simply dumping a ton of money on something that will essentially benefit only me. I think people should congratulate me every time I buy something. It would make Walgreen's such a treat!
Oh, and I got to go to Oak Brook for the closing, since the seller's attorney was from the suburbs. Road Trip! I wish I'd had time to look up tourist information on Oak Brook. As it was, I pretty much only saw the tollway and the title company. They were both fairly breathtaking, though.
So I guess it's official that I am part of the landed gentry. Of course, until my next payday I'm going to have to panhandle friends just to keep myself in groceries. Who wants to buy me a box of Ho Hos?
Monday, April 03, 2006
Around the Dial
So I made the mistake of watching a couple of episodes of 8th & Ocean yesterday. I say "mistake" not out of any sense of snobbishness, since, after all, I watch Lizzie Maguire reruns with alarming frequency, but only because getting hooked on another set of psuedo-reality characters I love to hate is about the last thing I need. Why must you consistently taunt me with such addictive yet substance-free programming, MTV? I swore I was done after Real World Paris, I swore!
But anyway, if you haven't seen 8th & Ocean, you're missing some truly compelling drama. Like Teddy's tragic dilemma over which stunning underage model he should bone first. Or Tracie's noble struggle to gain five pounds so casting directors will stop posing her in Castle Grayskull. Or Britt's staggering realization that a job that involves getting photographed with your bra off may not exactly be the biggest hit at your next Lutheran Teen Lock-In. It's like Chekhov as directed by McG.
Other things I loved? The gratuitous misspelling of "Model's For Christ" sign. Vinci's incredibly coherent musings on fidelity in the new millennium. And, of course, Irene's completely immobile face. Now THAT'S television.
So I made the mistake of watching a couple of episodes of 8th & Ocean yesterday. I say "mistake" not out of any sense of snobbishness, since, after all, I watch Lizzie Maguire reruns with alarming frequency, but only because getting hooked on another set of psuedo-reality characters I love to hate is about the last thing I need. Why must you consistently taunt me with such addictive yet substance-free programming, MTV? I swore I was done after Real World Paris, I swore!
But anyway, if you haven't seen 8th & Ocean, you're missing some truly compelling drama. Like Teddy's tragic dilemma over which stunning underage model he should bone first. Or Tracie's noble struggle to gain five pounds so casting directors will stop posing her in Castle Grayskull. Or Britt's staggering realization that a job that involves getting photographed with your bra off may not exactly be the biggest hit at your next Lutheran Teen Lock-In. It's like Chekhov as directed by McG.
Other things I loved? The gratuitous misspelling of "Model's For Christ" sign. Vinci's incredibly coherent musings on fidelity in the new millennium. And, of course, Irene's completely immobile face. Now THAT'S television.
