the ocean

In Which I Ramble About Project Runway

After two seasons of really only mild interest in Project Runway, I have to admit that I have become full-blown obsessed. It is the only show that I currently tape every week, and even though I do tape it every week I still plan my social life around it so I can watch it live as well. I have made at least four different friends watch it with me, which they don't actually mind, since they're all obsessed, too. And I have to disclose that I in fact watch most episodes more then once, since you miss a lot when people feel the need to make their funny little "comments" while they're watching. I once even put Michael saying he doesn't want to be "Captain Save-a-Ho" on continuous repeat. Clearly, this is a sickness.

But I have so very many things to say about it. For instance, it was so brutally unfair that cute little Allison got booted because she had a "zaftig" model when Vincent essentially wrapped his model in butcher paper and glued trash to her. And it also sucked that good old reliable Robert got kicked off for wrapping an older lady in what was admittedly a red sack while Angry Neck Tattoo Man survived to suck the fun out of everything for yet another week. I hate Vincent and Jeffrey with a passion beyond anything I have ever experienced in the realm of reality television. I would sooner marry Omarosa than say hello to either of them on the street.

I do, on the other hand, love Michael and Laura. Every week Michael designs something I would want to wear, if I were an unrealistically thin woman. And he said that Save-a-Ho thing. And Laura regularly demonstrates the correct way to be a bitch -- with nastily funny one-liners and fake concern for your fellow contestants. The should totally get Nicole Kidman to play her in the Project Runway movie.

I cannot guarantee that I've gotten all of this out of my system.

Occupations Other than My Own that I am Currently Considering

-- charismatic cult leader
-- Delta Burke wrangler
-- speed bump
-- world's first supermodel
-- Nicole Richie's breastplate
-- overly friendly el driver
-- sarcastic computer technician
-- sassy best friend
-- Ashlee Simpson's old nose
-- oompah loompah
-- children's television star with questionable past
-- district attorney for Boulder, CO

The Biggest Night in Television

Did anyone see Flavor of Love tonight? I'm certainly not going to claim that they managed to top the "poorly planned bowel movement" incident of a few weeks back, but they did come close. Most of this episode centered on an interesting semantic debate over the exact meaning of the term "porn." For while two of the aspiring Flav-daters admitted to taking "adult pictures," one was eventually cast out when careful Internet research (presumably by the show's crack research staff) revealed that her pictures were actually somewhat more, er, interactive. It turns out that in the world of Flav, appearing in pornography is fine, but understating the nature of the pornography in which you appeared is an unpardonable offense. It's all about standards, you see.

I guess the Emmy awards were tonight as well, although they barely registered on my radar. I did catch a portion of the Aaron Spelling tribute, which looked more like an extreme plastic surgery contest from where I was sitting, but I missed the majority of the awards. I have to admit I find it a little hard to view the Emmys as credible when they continually laud the acting abilities of folks like the blinking-impaired Charlie Sheen and the long-term-punchline William Shatner, but leave most of the cast of Arrested Development emptyhanded. I've got the E! postshow on right now, though, mainly because I'm hoping that someone will finally punch that Giuliana woman in the face. She and Seacrest make Jules Asner look like Edward R. Murrow.

There and Back

So my business travel this week began with me locking myself out of the house in the pouring rain at five in the morning. Because I couldn't really get across the state without my car keys and wallet, I had to repeatedly ring the buzzer until Roommate Liz woke up and rescued me, no doubt wondering if the Rapture had indeed come. After successfully getting a wetter version of myself into my car, I found that 290 had been blessed not just with a driving rainstorm but also a jacknifed semi. The bottom line was that a two hour trip became a four hour trip, and no matter how much caffeine I ingested or how many favorites of the seventies, eighties, and nineties I located on the radio dial, that sort of sucked. Plus the McDonald's I drove through gave me some sort of frightening "steak and egg" monstrosity instead of what I ordered. Not the most auspicious beginning.

Everything ended up going pretty well, though. I got into a couple of shouting matches with opposing counsel, but that's pretty much expected at this stage of the case, and no punches were thrown. My client kept his composure and didn't accidentally confess to murdering Jon Benet Ramsey or anything, which is more than I can say for some people. And I became great friends with the court reporter, who occasionally travels to Chicago and enjoys concerts at the Metro but finds the Days Inn across from Lincoln Park to be "sketchy." Overall, I would have to say I am the greatest attorney of all time. Or at the very least I've earned my Celebrity Fit Club today.

Secretarial Services

Can I just say that my new secretary is totally awesome? She does tables of contents and tables of authorities without any serious slip-ups, she totally gives me all the gossip on the other secretaries, and she even knows which calls I want her to screen out for me without me even telling her! Plus, she always acts as though the things I ask her to do make complete sense and are important even when they don't and they aren't. It's so nice to be treated with respect! Weird, but nice.

But this now calls into question my long held plan for escape from the dungeons of the 37th floor. If I succeed in nagging office services until they finally move me to a higher floor, they will undoubtedly force me to break this newfound bond. And I could end up with the secretary who spends the whole day reading John Grisham novels (ironic, no?) and glaring at anyone who suggests she do work. Or the secretary who sells a never-ending array of junior high band fundraising products from her desk. Or the one who bites. The options are not attractive.

Information Center

For some reason, I am frequently stopped by people on the street and asked for directions. When I first moved to Chicago, I of course had very little idea of what to tell people, unless they really needed to know how to get to my office or the nearest Taco Bell, so I would simply smile haplessly and explain that I was a bit new to the area myself. I was sometimes tempted to make up elaborate lies simply for the pleasure of directing tourists to Te Jay's Adult Book Store in lieu of The Cheesecake Factory, but I largely controlled those impulses.

Now I've got a better idea of where things are, but I find it's not always easy to get the message across. For one thing, the minute I start talking about heading North or West, people get a blank look on their faces as though there aren't directional indicators on every single street sign in this city and a big ole lake doesn't occupy the entire Eastern perimeter. For another, I tend to tell directions by landmarks rather than street names, which leads me to give instructions like "turn right at the big white building" and "if you see the White Hen Pantry, you've gone too far." Typically, things devolve into a lot of pointing and waiving, before the frustrated information seeker simply thanks me and moves on, hoping the cashier at the Walgreen's will have slightly better spatial sense.

No one ever said that living to help others would be easy.

We Are the Whirled

My whole body is so sore and stiff I don't know if I'll be able to bend it to get into bed. Although I can't say it with complete certainty, I'm fairly certain my condition has something to do with the rather contentious game of whirlyball I was involved in yesterday. For those of you who don't know, whirlyball basically involves traveling around a court in a bumper car and trying to throw a wiffle ball through a hoop with a long plastic scoop. When the players are inexperienced or drunk (or both), however, it essentially boils down to repeatedly slamming into each other's cars at high speed. So yesterday I got hit more times than a parked car on Billy Joel's street and ended up with a huge purple bruise on my left thigh that slightly resembles Jimmy Carter. It was all worth it, though, for our final score of zero to zero.

I took a long hot bath tonight to try to alleviate some of the suffering, but I'm still walking like Michael Jackson in Thriller (although without the jaunty jacket) and taking more painkillers than season-three-of-Friends scary-thin Matthew Perry. I tried to go downstairs earlier and I had to give up halfway down. Then getting back up hurt even worse, to the point that I thought I might have to set up a base camp somewhere in the middle. Now I'm back and I've somehow managed to sit, but I think I may have to sleep here tonight. I guess it's the price you pay to be a world class athlete.

A Trip Back in Time

My ten-year high school reunion is coming up over Labor Day weekend. Since I'm from a small town, this is an event that will include both standing around in a park for several hours pretending to be interested in other people's kids and getting shitcanned at the "trendiest" of the approximately five bars in town. Many of my friends will probably not be there, since most people I actually hung out with have either moved far away, gotten incarcerated, or really screwed themselves up on drugs. I'm sure I will get to chat at length with the girl who played Mrs. Washington when I was George in the third grade production of "All About Our Presidents," though, so it will definitely be a worthwhile trip.

Looking back on high school does make me a little bit sad, though, because it reminds me of how much more fun life was before I had, you know, an actual job and responsibilities. Back then worrying about who would ask you to the Sadie Hawkins dance and whether you would get to sing "What I Did for Love" in the Spring Talent Show was about as intense as it got. I recall having a very intense German project to complete once (we translated and refilmed an entire episode of Baywatch), but generally I stood around in the hallways talking bad about people behind their backs and trading quotes from Seinfeld. It was a kinder, gentler era.

Don't get me wrong, I'm perfectly content with my life now, and particularly happy to have cast aside the flannel shirts and angsty music, but man do teenagers have it good. They won't even let me within 100 feet of the set of TRL.

And Early Middle Age Sets In

I have, it appears, become the kind of person I hate.

Now that I own a condo, I find myself constantly worrying about how my activities in my home will impact the paint or the floors. I refuse to have more than ten people over at a time for fear they'll start spilling and scuffing at random. After they leave, I go around with a towel and wipe up any marks their shoes may have left on the floor. I ask people to use coasters. Last month some of my friends threw a head of lettuce off the roof and, instead of finding it hilarious, I just got straight to work cleaning it up. It is, to be fair, not a very flightworthy green.

What's more, I now spend a good deal of time shopping for cleaning products, fixtures, and furniture to adorn my better home/garden. Last weekend I nearly had a breakdown in the Home Depot because I couldn't find the right kind of light bulb for my kitchen, and then I spent four hours crisscrossing the city unsuccessfully looking for suitable rugs. In the past two days I have endlessly debated the merits of various dining tables, despite the fact that 1) I can probably count the number of times I've cooked in my place on one hand and 2) I have literally never eaten at my current dining table. Something is clearly wrong with me.

On the other hand, I do still have a framed Simpsons poster in my possession, so I haven't classed myself up too awful much.

The Best Random Block Party Ever!

Although I had no idea it was coming, I was thrilled to find that my street was hosting a block party yesterday. I discovered this was so when a beer truck pulled up in front of my house, which has always been a dream of mine.

I'm not entirely sure why they call it the Reggae Roast. Mainly it was white people standing around in the street eating chicken. Plastic banners never lie, though, so the Reggae Roast it is.

Here we are all sitting on my stoop, 227 style. I get to be Marla Gibbs.

They even got a bounce house for our block party. But they only let the children use it. I learned this the hard way.
Oh, and they had that game where you hit the thing with the hammer to show how strong you are. It was right outside our house, and boy did that noise get old. But it was worth it for the classic combination of drunk people and swinging heavy objects.

A Typical Weekend Morning

I started off my day today by peeing in a cup and having a blood sample taken in my kitchen. I had to have a physical for my life insurance, and apparently they now do these things at your home. So at 9:15 this morning a brisk, efficient woman carrying a huge travel case rang my buzzer and asked me a ton of questions about my medical history. I mean, at least I hope this was the lady from my insurance company. If my urine turns up on E-bay I'm going to be pissed.

It would, in fact, have been nice to sleep past 9 today, because last night we went to this awesome bar in my neighborhood where they have a ton of board games and ended up playing Scrabble and drinking PBRs until 1:30. I always love playing Scrabble because of the strange arguments about the English language it engenders, especially when there is no dictionary at hand. For instance, we determined by majority rule that "IQ" was a word but "ex" was not. I had to draw the line at "pirater," however, simply because I do not believe that there are degrees of sea terrorizing.

We also played the game of Life, in an edition far more complicated than that which I remembered from my childhood. Before, I just remembered that everyone ended up with like twelve kids and being an astronaut was a surefire source of income. But now there's stocks, real estate investments, summer jobs -- it's actually more involved than my actual life. At least I won, though. The jury's still out on the real thing.

My Totally Awesome Legal Road Trip

Monday and Tuesday I got to hit small town America again for one of my cases. It was the kind of place where the Wal-Mart is the hottest spot in the county, and it's not even a Super Wal-Mart yet. It was the kind of place where they have restaurants that serve "famous" chicken and are named after people you've never heard of. It was the kind of place where there are essentially only five different family names in town, and everyone knows everyone. In short, it was much like the city of my upbringing, and I felt right at home.

The best part of the trip was probably that they randomly upgraded my hotel room for free so I was in a "whirlpool suite." This really just meant that there was a hot tub right in the middle of my bedroom. Of course, my coworker ruined my leisurely dip by suggesting that "you wouldn't want to bring a black light near that whirlpool for fear of what you might see," but it was still a plus. And I don't have crabs yet, so I'm assuming I'll be fine.

Another fun thing was the fact that opposing counsel felt the need to scream ten-minute-long objections during the deposition. Many of them appeared to be drawn from episodes of Matlock; still others came from the Don King school of rhetoric. He also announced that one of the questions was "like that old trick -- when did you stop beating your wife?" We had to "strongly disagree" on the record, but deep down our hearts were full almost to bursting.

Oh, and I had to make copies for about half an hour because all the secretaries had gone home. The sad part of that was that it was way better than how I spend most of my days.

The World of Amusement

Sunday I went to Six Flags with some friends. I discovered, interestingly enough, that I am now somewhat afraid of heights. And by "somewhat," I mean that I was screaming "No, no, God no, it's too much, it's just unnecessary," as a roller coaster suspended me face down hundreds of feet above the ground. I mean, forgive me, but I don't like it when the only thing standing between me and certain death is a safety harness fastened by a disinterested-looking 14-year-old. It's also not too reassuring when the ride suffers three independent "malfunctions" during the time you're waiting to get on it alone. I wouldn't ride to the store in a car that breaks down every five minutes; I'm not really sure I should be riding over a cliff on one.

By and large the trip was amazing, however. It provided an excuse to eat multiple churros, a food that exists in enormous numbers at Six Flags and barely at all in the outside world. It allowed us to utterly ignore a world of wholesome entertainment where people in white pants sing about loving America in favor of yet another spin on the Raging Bull. And it even gave us the chance to win a gorgeous pink cowboy hat simply by dint of stumping an unenthusiastic park employee as to our weights. We live in a land of opportunity indeed.

Wrongs Redressed

Several years ago, my sister and I suffered a grave injustice. We were turned away at the door of a Dave & Busters because my sister was not yet 21 and I was only 24, and could not therefore be considered her "supervisor." As streams of 8-year-olds streamed past us into the bar, accompanied by single miserable-looking soccer moms, we were told there was simply no help for us. Apparently, too many people were using skeeball as a cover for their hardcore underage drinking binges. We trudged dejectedly away, and as I recall watched Gosford Park with our parents instead. Clearly, a tragic night.

Last night, however, we righted that wrong, at least to some extent, with an exceedingly productive trip to the house of overpriced chicken wings and pop-a-shot. Now nearly 25 and 28, respectively, my sister and I were welcomed with open arms, and soon filled those arms with shoddy merchandise won at the shooting gallery. It turns out that, though I abhor violence in real life, I happen to have a great eye for virtually shooting up an old-timey saloon. And my sister tosses basketballs with the speed and precision of some member of the WNBA whose name I of course don't know. We topped out at 729 tickets, enough to "purchase" a Homer Simpson doll and a plastic back scratcher that says Dave & Busters on it.

I also instantly won a copy of Destiny's Child's "Soldier" on a game that only required you to hit a large button marked stop when two flashing lights lined up with each other.

The only downside is that it appears I am still not very good at House of the Dead 3.

News and Notes

Friend Amy and I went to the Cubs game that got rained out last night. It was interesting to watch the hour and a half long cycle of denial, despair, and resentment the fans went through as they waited for some sort of decision to be made. It sort of mirrored the experience of being a Cubs fan in general. The truly great thing, though, was that they still sold beer and cotton candy (a winning combination) and stuff even though there was no game going on. Nothing like sitting back with a cold one and watching a monsoon. I have now been to Cubs games in 100+ degree heat, sub-freezing temperatures, heavy rains, and delicate snowfalls. I'm just waiting for the frogs and locusts, frankly.

I met with a financial planner today, which was sort of absurd for a person of my age and maturity. I mean, most of my money is tied up in Little Debbie's Snack Cakes. And I doubt he'll approve of any monthly budget where malt liquor is a line item. His best hope for making me save is quite frankly to steal my wallet while I'm in the bathroom.

There are three old-timey boats parked in the river outside my window right now. They have multiple sales, riggings, I'm betting event mizzenmasts! My guess is that it's all a big promotion for Long John Silvers. I bet they're powered entirely by popcorn shrimp.

Good times.

Footnotes

-- Fidel Castro. Word on the street is he's very sick. See, kids, that's why we warn you that smoking kills! Bullying and oppressing your people is still fine, though.

-- Sexy Coincidence. Roommate Liz accidentally walked into the kitchen in her underwear while the cleaning lady was there yesterday. And, oddly enough, the cleaning lady was also changing her clothes at that point. I feel a Penthouse Letter coming on here.

-- Mel Gibson. How shocking to imagine that a man who gets his kicks by beating up Christ for two hours might have some issues.

-- The Heat Wave. Finally, a new dull topic of conversation for your morning elevator ride! Because "how was your weekend?" is really only good through Tuesday.

-- Project Runway. The sight of Tim Gunn with a dozen puppies may well be the most surreal image on television this year. Although David Hasselhof sobbing at the American Idol finale is still right up there.