Saturday, March 29, 2008
Pretty Beeping Irritating
Like many people, I have a security system in my home that I've never bothered activating or learning how to use. I tend to feel that A) I don't really have that much that anyone would want to steal, unless they're very much interested in Nintendo and vinyl, and B) chances are I'd end up setting it off accidentally and having the police at my front door. But in the past few days, I have read the manual for that system cover to cover five or six times, as though it were some wonderful Danielle Steele novel. You see, my inactive security system has commenced to beeping loudly every three of four minutes. This is especially great in the middle of the night, when it causes me to awake fearing that I've stumbled into a Pachinko parlor. So we have tried everything to silence this wonderful machine, from pressing every possible sequence of buttons as though we're playing Simon to calling the resolutely unhelpful people at the service to switching on and off every circuit breaker in my house. Apparently this thing derives its power directly from the sun, because nothing has worked. It does make me feel extra safe though. Any burglar who broke in here would go crazy in ten minutes.
Like many people, I have a security system in my home that I've never bothered activating or learning how to use. I tend to feel that A) I don't really have that much that anyone would want to steal, unless they're very much interested in Nintendo and vinyl, and B) chances are I'd end up setting it off accidentally and having the police at my front door. But in the past few days, I have read the manual for that system cover to cover five or six times, as though it were some wonderful Danielle Steele novel. You see, my inactive security system has commenced to beeping loudly every three of four minutes. This is especially great in the middle of the night, when it causes me to awake fearing that I've stumbled into a Pachinko parlor. So we have tried everything to silence this wonderful machine, from pressing every possible sequence of buttons as though we're playing Simon to calling the resolutely unhelpful people at the service to switching on and off every circuit breaker in my house. Apparently this thing derives its power directly from the sun, because nothing has worked. It does make me feel extra safe though. Any burglar who broke in here would go crazy in ten minutes.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Personnel Changes
After two and a half months of temps, I finally have a new permanent secretary. And let me tell you, it is a relief. There's nothing more horrible (nothing, I tell you, nothing!) than that feeling of dread each morning as you wonder what sort of creature will be leering from your secretary's cube. I've had child molesters, ex-cons, and five kinds of drug addicts. I've had kleptomaniacs, narcoleptics, and schizophrenics. I even had one who sort of looked like Rick Astley. So it's nice just to know that the same person will be abusing me each day. Isn't that why people get married?
Anyway, her name is Lisa, and she's a brassy, sassy lady. She likes to make fun of me for constantly foraging for snacks and filling my water bottle, and she second guesses the restaurants at which I request reservations. Additionally, she is competent. I had her do a letter for me the other day and I didn't even have to explain what a letter is!
I have also lost my beloved trainer. She was so much fun for the way she would make me jump rope in the center of a crowded cardio room and tell me involved stories about her many romantic travails. But she decided to give up training to focus on an "acting career" I did not even realize she had. I guess that's why it needs the focus.
But I have a new trainer now. His name is Gabe. He's kind of boring. Mainly he just likes to cause me pain. It may be working, though. The other day I thought I saw an ab.
After two and a half months of temps, I finally have a new permanent secretary. And let me tell you, it is a relief. There's nothing more horrible (nothing, I tell you, nothing!) than that feeling of dread each morning as you wonder what sort of creature will be leering from your secretary's cube. I've had child molesters, ex-cons, and five kinds of drug addicts. I've had kleptomaniacs, narcoleptics, and schizophrenics. I even had one who sort of looked like Rick Astley. So it's nice just to know that the same person will be abusing me each day. Isn't that why people get married?
Anyway, her name is Lisa, and she's a brassy, sassy lady. She likes to make fun of me for constantly foraging for snacks and filling my water bottle, and she second guesses the restaurants at which I request reservations. Additionally, she is competent. I had her do a letter for me the other day and I didn't even have to explain what a letter is!
I have also lost my beloved trainer. She was so much fun for the way she would make me jump rope in the center of a crowded cardio room and tell me involved stories about her many romantic travails. But she decided to give up training to focus on an "acting career" I did not even realize she had. I guess that's why it needs the focus.
But I have a new trainer now. His name is Gabe. He's kind of boring. Mainly he just likes to cause me pain. It may be working, though. The other day I thought I saw an ab.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The Hills Have Eyes
So I probably don't have to tell you how glad I am to have The Hills back with us for a while. I don't have to, but I will. I mean, I don't have to tell you about my conjunctivitis or my obsessive Top Model habit, either, but I always do. We share, you and I. By which I mean that you never really get to say anything at all.
Anyway, The Hills started up again last night with a premiere event so ridiculous even Mariah Carey looked somewhat embarrassed to be involved. The non-alcoholic champagne flowed freely and there were wholly unnecessary interviews with Lauren, Whitney and the gang. The show itself centered around Lauren's trip to Paris, which apparently lasted for all of four days, but was presented as though it was the most life changing event in the history of time. Our girl road a vespa in the rain with a creepy French guitar player and picked up shoes for a fashion show. She works hard for the money!
The real action, of course, was with Heidi, Heidi's new nose, and Spencer, who showed up uninvited at her parents' house in Colorado. There were lots of obviously staged awkward silences. And a lot of eyeliner. It's so good to care about stupid things again!
So I probably don't have to tell you how glad I am to have The Hills back with us for a while. I don't have to, but I will. I mean, I don't have to tell you about my conjunctivitis or my obsessive Top Model habit, either, but I always do. We share, you and I. By which I mean that you never really get to say anything at all.
Anyway, The Hills started up again last night with a premiere event so ridiculous even Mariah Carey looked somewhat embarrassed to be involved. The non-alcoholic champagne flowed freely and there were wholly unnecessary interviews with Lauren, Whitney and the gang. The show itself centered around Lauren's trip to Paris, which apparently lasted for all of four days, but was presented as though it was the most life changing event in the history of time. Our girl road a vespa in the rain with a creepy French guitar player and picked up shoes for a fashion show. She works hard for the money!
The real action, of course, was with Heidi, Heidi's new nose, and Spencer, who showed up uninvited at her parents' house in Colorado. There were lots of obviously staged awkward silences. And a lot of eyeliner. It's so good to care about stupid things again!
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Easter Parade
Today I phoned my grandmother to give her some Easter (or as I call it, Lapsed Catholic Sunday) greetings, and the subject turned, as it often does, to my sister (or as I call her, The One Grandmother Likes). She noted that Meg is in New York this week, and wondered aloud if she would be attending the Easter Parade. She thought it likely that Meg would be able just to look out her window and see the parade in all its grandeur. I must admit that I had a suspicion that this parade in fact existed only in my grandmother's head -- brought on, no doubt, by memories of the 1940s feature -- but I simply agreed that it certainly must be a wonderful affair.
It turns out that the ole lady is right about this one, though, at least in part. According to my internet research (which has never been wrong), there is an Easter Parade in New York each year for five or six hours on 5th Avenue. It appears to consist primarily of people walking around in their dress clothes and carrying their pets, though, so I somehow doubt it would be apparent from my sister's hotel. I do feel certain that it beats being jammed into a pew between a sleeping elderly lady and a gentleman who appears never to have showered for an hour and a half, though, so it's got my holiday beat.
Today I phoned my grandmother to give her some Easter (or as I call it, Lapsed Catholic Sunday) greetings, and the subject turned, as it often does, to my sister (or as I call her, The One Grandmother Likes). She noted that Meg is in New York this week, and wondered aloud if she would be attending the Easter Parade. She thought it likely that Meg would be able just to look out her window and see the parade in all its grandeur. I must admit that I had a suspicion that this parade in fact existed only in my grandmother's head -- brought on, no doubt, by memories of the 1940s feature -- but I simply agreed that it certainly must be a wonderful affair.
It turns out that the ole lady is right about this one, though, at least in part. According to my internet research (which has never been wrong), there is an Easter Parade in New York each year for five or six hours on 5th Avenue. It appears to consist primarily of people walking around in their dress clothes and carrying their pets, though, so I somehow doubt it would be apparent from my sister's hotel. I do feel certain that it beats being jammed into a pew between a sleeping elderly lady and a gentleman who appears never to have showered for an hour and a half, though, so it's got my holiday beat.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
How Are We Celebrating Easter This Year?
-- Regretting the Value Sized box of Peeps we just ate.
-- Listening to our mix tapes of favorite Latin masses.
-- Finally legitimizing our furry fetishes with a life-size Easter bunny costume.
-- Dying, rising from dead.
-- Vacuuming up stray plastic grass for three weeks.
-- Baking a ham, and anything else that will hold still long enough for us to shove it in the oven.
-- Proving the literal truth of the Bible by impregnating a virgin.
-- Playing with our The Passion of the Christ action figures.
-- Dipping our wangs in the egg dye.
-- Filling our childrens' Easter baskets with healthy snacks to they'll have a lifetime habit of eating well and hating their parents.
-- Honoring the Lord by watching college basketball.
-- Regretting the Value Sized box of Peeps we just ate.
-- Listening to our mix tapes of favorite Latin masses.
-- Finally legitimizing our furry fetishes with a life-size Easter bunny costume.
-- Dying, rising from dead.
-- Vacuuming up stray plastic grass for three weeks.
-- Baking a ham, and anything else that will hold still long enough for us to shove it in the oven.
-- Proving the literal truth of the Bible by impregnating a virgin.
-- Playing with our The Passion of the Christ action figures.
-- Dipping our wangs in the egg dye.
-- Filling our childrens' Easter baskets with healthy snacks to they'll have a lifetime habit of eating well and hating their parents.
-- Honoring the Lord by watching college basketball.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Handicapping the Remaining America's Next Top Model Contenders
Not literally. Although if I did take a baseball bat to someone's kneecaps, it would probably only help their chances. But for those of you who have money on the outcome (which I assume is most of you, obviously), here's my view of the nine gals who are left:
Lauren -- Kind of creepy and generally looks like she's about to fall asleep, which translates to "edgy" in Tyra world. But the lack of any heartrendering backstory to speak of will cost her.
Claire -- Looks a little bit like somebody beat up Julia Styles. Also a four-time Covergirl of the Week, which never bodes well. Oh, and she wore legwarmers for her promo photo, despite not being Sienna Miller.
Anya -- Possibly the weirdest looking of the bunch, and not helped by Tyra's decision to give her Jessica Tandy's hair color. Also has an unidentifiable accent, possibly fake.
Katarzyna -- On the plus side, I enjoy listening to Tyra stumble over her name. On the minus side, Tyra seems to enjoy it as well.
Aimee -- Who?
Dominique -- Sorry, Jaslene already did the whole "mannish" thing. And the whole "kneejerk accusation of racism" thing is so Real World.
Fatima -- Immediately became the frontrunner when she shared her personal tragedy of female genital mutilation within the first fifteen minutes of the casting special. Sorry, Marvita, FGM trumps molestation!
Stacy Ann -- Actually sort of pretty, which is pretty much an immediate disqualifier.
Whitney -- Plus sized. Accordingly, she will be booted off around week seven for mysterious reasons that obviously have nothing to do with her size.
Not literally. Although if I did take a baseball bat to someone's kneecaps, it would probably only help their chances. But for those of you who have money on the outcome (which I assume is most of you, obviously), here's my view of the nine gals who are left:
Lauren -- Kind of creepy and generally looks like she's about to fall asleep, which translates to "edgy" in Tyra world. But the lack of any heartrendering backstory to speak of will cost her.
Claire -- Looks a little bit like somebody beat up Julia Styles. Also a four-time Covergirl of the Week, which never bodes well. Oh, and she wore legwarmers for her promo photo, despite not being Sienna Miller.
Anya -- Possibly the weirdest looking of the bunch, and not helped by Tyra's decision to give her Jessica Tandy's hair color. Also has an unidentifiable accent, possibly fake.
Katarzyna -- On the plus side, I enjoy listening to Tyra stumble over her name. On the minus side, Tyra seems to enjoy it as well.
Aimee -- Who?
Dominique -- Sorry, Jaslene already did the whole "mannish" thing. And the whole "kneejerk accusation of racism" thing is so Real World.
Fatima -- Immediately became the frontrunner when she shared her personal tragedy of female genital mutilation within the first fifteen minutes of the casting special. Sorry, Marvita, FGM trumps molestation!
Stacy Ann -- Actually sort of pretty, which is pretty much an immediate disqualifier.
Whitney -- Plus sized. Accordingly, she will be booted off around week seven for mysterious reasons that obviously have nothing to do with her size.
Monday, March 17, 2008
A Celebration of Culture
This year we actually did something for St. Patrick's Day. Or, rather, for the Saturday immediately preceding St. Patrick's Day, as I have to work today. But we were certainly not alone in our decision to move the holiday to a more convenient day and time. Wrigleyville was, as they say, fucking insane on Saturday.
Here Meg and Colleen play foosball, the traditional Irish game of skill and chance. From the looks of this picture, it requires a lot of discussion.
This year we actually did something for St. Patrick's Day. Or, rather, for the Saturday immediately preceding St. Patrick's Day, as I have to work today. But we were certainly not alone in our decision to move the holiday to a more convenient day and time. Wrigleyville was, as they say, fucking insane on Saturday.
Here Meg and Colleen play foosball, the traditional Irish game of skill and chance. From the looks of this picture, it requires a lot of discussion.
Talk about your crossover appeal: O'bama is an Irishman at heart.
St. Patrick's Day is one of the few good excuses I get each year to bust out the lime green track suit. Not that I need excuses.
The highlight of the day, and possibly my life, was playing Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas Is You" on the Jukebox to a packed bar in the middle of March.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Three Letters that Strike Terror Into the Hearts of Brave Men
I had to go to the DMV to renew my license the other day. Now, this is not a fun trip under the best of circumstances. But when you've failed to update your address with the Secretary of State, causing your renewal paperwork to be sent into the Heart of Darkness, and then not noticed that your license was expired until informed of that fact by a sassy lady at an airport, the process becomes even more daunting. So I went in fully prepared to be alternately bored and terrorized; I even brought a snack and a magazine to fill my downtime.
But if the truth be told, my DMV experience was not nearly as bad as it had every right to be. I did have to cool my heels in a poorly appointed waiting room for nearly an hour, watching the "now serving" numbers crawl slowly upward, but everyone was actually pretty helpful, if relatively indifferent to my presence. I just had to pay $10 for a new license (cash, because in a move that has to be unique in the entirety of the US, the only credit card they take is Discover) and sit for a new picture. Of course, my eyes are half closed in that picture and I look like I'm about to sneeze, but I wasn't exactly expecting Glamour Shots. Really I'm just glad to be back on the road, and that I didn't have to take the written test. The one thing I didn't bring was a number two pencil.
I had to go to the DMV to renew my license the other day. Now, this is not a fun trip under the best of circumstances. But when you've failed to update your address with the Secretary of State, causing your renewal paperwork to be sent into the Heart of Darkness, and then not noticed that your license was expired until informed of that fact by a sassy lady at an airport, the process becomes even more daunting. So I went in fully prepared to be alternately bored and terrorized; I even brought a snack and a magazine to fill my downtime.
But if the truth be told, my DMV experience was not nearly as bad as it had every right to be. I did have to cool my heels in a poorly appointed waiting room for nearly an hour, watching the "now serving" numbers crawl slowly upward, but everyone was actually pretty helpful, if relatively indifferent to my presence. I just had to pay $10 for a new license (cash, because in a move that has to be unique in the entirety of the US, the only credit card they take is Discover) and sit for a new picture. Of course, my eyes are half closed in that picture and I look like I'm about to sneeze, but I wasn't exactly expecting Glamour Shots. Really I'm just glad to be back on the road, and that I didn't have to take the written test. The one thing I didn't bring was a number two pencil.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Don't Worry, I Have Everything Under Control
There I was at the airport Sunday afternoon, minding my own business, worrying about whether my facial cleanser was in a small enough bottle, when a sassy lady with a metal detecting want led me to a shocking discovery: my driver's license had expired. That's right, since February 4 of this year I have joined the ranks of illegal immigrants and the conscientious elderly as an unlicensed individual. Though I immediately turned beet red and began wondering how I would explain missing a deposition because I failed to notify the Secretary of State of my address change, I was in fact allowed to fly despite my status as a second hand citizen. I just had to go through extra security, because of course 95% of all terrorists show up with expired Illinois drivers licenses where they have bowl cuts in their identification photos.
But anyway, combined with my recent bout with conjunctivitis (less glamorously known as pinkeye) and my habit of late of watching American Idol, I'm beginning to wonder if I might be turning into white trash. None of my teeth have fallen out yet, but I did have to have a root canal last year. And I've found myself missing Wal-Mart lately. If I start to feel the urge to go to a Larry the Cable Guy movie, I think I'm done for.
There I was at the airport Sunday afternoon, minding my own business, worrying about whether my facial cleanser was in a small enough bottle, when a sassy lady with a metal detecting want led me to a shocking discovery: my driver's license had expired. That's right, since February 4 of this year I have joined the ranks of illegal immigrants and the conscientious elderly as an unlicensed individual. Though I immediately turned beet red and began wondering how I would explain missing a deposition because I failed to notify the Secretary of State of my address change, I was in fact allowed to fly despite my status as a second hand citizen. I just had to go through extra security, because of course 95% of all terrorists show up with expired Illinois drivers licenses where they have bowl cuts in their identification photos.
But anyway, combined with my recent bout with conjunctivitis (less glamorously known as pinkeye) and my habit of late of watching American Idol, I'm beginning to wonder if I might be turning into white trash. None of my teeth have fallen out yet, but I did have to have a root canal last year. And I've found myself missing Wal-Mart lately. If I start to feel the urge to go to a Larry the Cable Guy movie, I think I'm done for.
Monday, March 10, 2008
I'm Back...
So what can I tell you? My hotel was kind of weird. I had a full kitchen but a shower stall so small my shoulders were touching the walls on both sides. And two closets, one of which had a safe that I promptly hit my head on. I could envision myself going into a coma all alone in a hotel room.
Of the three meals I had while traveling, two of them were prepackaged sandwiches in an airport that had been sitting there since God knows when. The other one was a black and white cookie and a Diet Coke from the convenience store next to my hotel.
The work part of things went fine. We actually wrapped up early so I caught an earlier flight back. Did I mention that I was twice selected for "additional screening?" Nothing like a good pat down to make you feel at home.
So now I'm completely exhausted. I'm just hoping to make it through Flavor of Love before falling asleep...
So what can I tell you? My hotel was kind of weird. I had a full kitchen but a shower stall so small my shoulders were touching the walls on both sides. And two closets, one of which had a safe that I promptly hit my head on. I could envision myself going into a coma all alone in a hotel room.
Of the three meals I had while traveling, two of them were prepackaged sandwiches in an airport that had been sitting there since God knows when. The other one was a black and white cookie and a Diet Coke from the convenience store next to my hotel.
The work part of things went fine. We actually wrapped up early so I caught an earlier flight back. Did I mention that I was twice selected for "additional screening?" Nothing like a good pat down to make you feel at home.
So now I'm completely exhausted. I'm just hoping to make it through Flavor of Love before falling asleep...
Sunday, March 09, 2008
World Traveler
I am supposed to be flying to New York in a few hours. I am a little skeptical that this will actually happen, given my last experience with air travel, but today's snow has been limited just to occasional flurries, so I figure there's some chance of me actually departing. Regardless, I am heading out to O'Hare momentarily. If nothing else, I guess I can stop by the O'Hare Chili's, a social hot spot if there ever was one. I feel a Megarita coming on.
I am not the world's best traveler. I suffer anxiety about the smallest things, such as whether the airline is actually going to place my carry on bag in the storage area and whether the girl in the seat in front of me might be a terrorist. Taking off my shoes as I go through security makes me feel violated in a most profound way. I constantly worry that I'm sitting at the wrong gate. Oh, and I can't pack at all. I pretty much bring six outfits for every place I go.
But I am leaving nonetheless. I am going for less than 24 hours, so I doubt I will have anything interesting to report, but I will get back to you with hotel and conference room details that will be sure to stir your soul.
I am supposed to be flying to New York in a few hours. I am a little skeptical that this will actually happen, given my last experience with air travel, but today's snow has been limited just to occasional flurries, so I figure there's some chance of me actually departing. Regardless, I am heading out to O'Hare momentarily. If nothing else, I guess I can stop by the O'Hare Chili's, a social hot spot if there ever was one. I feel a Megarita coming on.
I am not the world's best traveler. I suffer anxiety about the smallest things, such as whether the airline is actually going to place my carry on bag in the storage area and whether the girl in the seat in front of me might be a terrorist. Taking off my shoes as I go through security makes me feel violated in a most profound way. I constantly worry that I'm sitting at the wrong gate. Oh, and I can't pack at all. I pretty much bring six outfits for every place I go.
But I am leaving nonetheless. I am going for less than 24 hours, so I doubt I will have anything interesting to report, but I will get back to you with hotel and conference room details that will be sure to stir your soul.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Great News!
Did I mention that I have a Degrassi Jr. High: The Next Generation t-shirt?
It commemorates the death (or rather the life) of beloved Degrassi student (and school mascot) J.T. Yorke, who was tragically stabbed by a ne'er-do-well from rival Lakehurst Junior High. In real life the actor who played J.T. wanted to go to college, so they had to write him off. His character was always kind of irritating anyway.
Did I mention that I have a Degrassi Jr. High: The Next Generation t-shirt?
It commemorates the death (or rather the life) of beloved Degrassi student (and school mascot) J.T. Yorke, who was tragically stabbed by a ne'er-do-well from rival Lakehurst Junior High. In real life the actor who played J.T. wanted to go to college, so they had to write him off. His character was always kind of irritating anyway.He makes a great t-shirt, though.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Sicko
Yesterday when I woke up my right eye was about three sizes too large and I looked like Quasimodo (admittedly the cuter Disney version, but still no looker). The saga had actually begun the night before when a failed attempt at wearing my contacts led to an evening full of burning and itching in which I eventually just put on sunglasses and pretended I was Stevie Wonder. But I followed my traditional medical plan of just ignoring it to see if it would go away, and simply went to bed looking like I had suffered an ocular burst. When the Hunchback climbed out of my bed the next morning, I figured it was time to see a doctor.
Of course, no eye doctor in the history of time has ever worked a Sunday morning, so I ended up in the ER, sitting on a gurney next to a man with a huge slice of glass in his hand. (And if you think I was angry about the three and a half hour wait, you should have seen him.) After being poked and prodded and stared at by a whole cavalcade of doctors, as well as having a veritable periodic table of chemicals poured into my eyes, I was told I have conjunctivitis. All I need to do is use some eye drops for a week and it will go away.
Kind of an uneventful end to my day of squinting and crying, but certainly enough to convince me to never, ever get sick again. Or at least if I do to instead consult my neighborhood Shaman.
Yesterday when I woke up my right eye was about three sizes too large and I looked like Quasimodo (admittedly the cuter Disney version, but still no looker). The saga had actually begun the night before when a failed attempt at wearing my contacts led to an evening full of burning and itching in which I eventually just put on sunglasses and pretended I was Stevie Wonder. But I followed my traditional medical plan of just ignoring it to see if it would go away, and simply went to bed looking like I had suffered an ocular burst. When the Hunchback climbed out of my bed the next morning, I figured it was time to see a doctor.
Of course, no eye doctor in the history of time has ever worked a Sunday morning, so I ended up in the ER, sitting on a gurney next to a man with a huge slice of glass in his hand. (And if you think I was angry about the three and a half hour wait, you should have seen him.) After being poked and prodded and stared at by a whole cavalcade of doctors, as well as having a veritable periodic table of chemicals poured into my eyes, I was told I have conjunctivitis. All I need to do is use some eye drops for a week and it will go away.
Kind of an uneventful end to my day of squinting and crying, but certainly enough to convince me to never, ever get sick again. Or at least if I do to instead consult my neighborhood Shaman.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Icecapades
Yesterday on my way home from the gym I had a little bit of a mishap. Let me set the stage for this by saying that I was wearing blue and orange U of I gym shorts and a sweat-drenched t-shirt for the Jimmy Dean/True Value Country Showdown. But anyway, I was driving down the alley towards my house when another car came barrelling towards me, and I swerved into a neighbor's driveway to avoid it. At which point my car slid all the way down the driveway on the ice and nestled against the garage door, a point from which no amount of engine revving could apparently budge it. After about ten minutes of me cranking the wheel back and forth, hitting the gas, and screaming obscenities, one of my neighbors appeared.
"What are you doing in my driveway?" he asked, somewhat reasonably.
"Um yeah, I'm really sorry, but I'm kind of stuck. I can't get any traction with all this ice."
"Yeah, I know, but what are you doing in my driveway in the first place?"
Being a fan of the blame game myself, I gave the best explanation I could, trying to avoid painting myself as a crazy person as much as possible.
"Okay. Well, here's what I'm going to do. I'll open the garage door, you can pull in, and then you use that space to build up as much momentum as possible. Then you just shoot all the way up the driveway and out into the alley."
Realizing that this plan might well result in my untimely death or that of any number of innocent passersby, I considered passing, but decided that perching in this driveway for the rest of my life was likely the greater evil. We did a countdown and everything, I slammed on the accelerator Dukes of Hazzard style, and there were in fact no casualties. I just may never leave my own driveway again.
Yesterday on my way home from the gym I had a little bit of a mishap. Let me set the stage for this by saying that I was wearing blue and orange U of I gym shorts and a sweat-drenched t-shirt for the Jimmy Dean/True Value Country Showdown. But anyway, I was driving down the alley towards my house when another car came barrelling towards me, and I swerved into a neighbor's driveway to avoid it. At which point my car slid all the way down the driveway on the ice and nestled against the garage door, a point from which no amount of engine revving could apparently budge it. After about ten minutes of me cranking the wheel back and forth, hitting the gas, and screaming obscenities, one of my neighbors appeared.
"What are you doing in my driveway?" he asked, somewhat reasonably.
"Um yeah, I'm really sorry, but I'm kind of stuck. I can't get any traction with all this ice."
"Yeah, I know, but what are you doing in my driveway in the first place?"
Being a fan of the blame game myself, I gave the best explanation I could, trying to avoid painting myself as a crazy person as much as possible.
"Okay. Well, here's what I'm going to do. I'll open the garage door, you can pull in, and then you use that space to build up as much momentum as possible. Then you just shoot all the way up the driveway and out into the alley."
Realizing that this plan might well result in my untimely death or that of any number of innocent passersby, I considered passing, but decided that perching in this driveway for the rest of my life was likely the greater evil. We did a countdown and everything, I slammed on the accelerator Dukes of Hazzard style, and there were in fact no casualties. I just may never leave my own driveway again.
