Tuesday, January 17, 2012

25 Things Women Should Know About Men...An Article Originally Designed for Someone Else.



So, I was asked to write an article for a site last week.

I did, and the author of said site decided to, in an ultimate dick move, post it, and tear it apart in examples of how I'm not getting laid. Or something like that, I kind of stopped reading. What can I say, random capitalization and bolding make Baby Jesus cry.

Since I was smart enough to retain the rights to my work (yay me!), I'm just going to go ahead and post it here for y'all.

Enjoy!

Here’s 25 things women really ought to know about men.

1. Guys will never understand why we wear 5 inch heels that pinch our toes, make us crabby and give us blisters that are so violent we have to wear flipflops for a week.
The vast majority of men have five pairs of shoes or less. Gym shoes, dress shoes, sneakers, sandals and a pair of boots. Now there are some variations on the above list, but they tend to keep it pretty simple. They will never understand why we need four pairs of black patent leather hidden platform pumps. Yes, I am aware that there is a huge difference between the black leather hidden platforms with the 3 ½ inch heel and the pair with the 4 inch heel and peep toe. They never will. Men think it’s stupid that we would pay hundreds of dollars on shoes we can barely walk in. Men think it’s stupid that we talk about shoes. Men think it’s stupid that I’m even explaining this right now. If I had to put money on it, 95% of the men who have read this far have stopped paying attention to this paragraph and are now daydreaming about sandwiches.

2. Your boyfriend hates your friends.
Well, that’s a little unfair. He doesn’t hate all of your friends, just an overwhelming majority of them. It’s not because your friends are bad people. It’s because you fight with your friends all the time, and then you bitch to him about it. You have a friend or two that you don’t get into petty arguments with and remembers to bring a case of beer when she stops by to chill. He likes that friend. He does not like the friend that constantly picks fights with you and blames her consistent bitchiness on her period. He doesn’t like your friend that has decided anything with a penis is bad. He doesn’t like your friend that blows every tiny thing he’s ever done out of proportion and glares at him every time he enters a room like he’s got a hooker on each arm and an ounce of blow in his pocket. He would never tell you outright that if he didn’t know otherwise, he’d think your choice in friends made you just shy of mentally handicapped because he’d like to see your boobs again sometime before the day he dies.

3. Your boyfriend does not understand your relationship with your mother.
Women have a complex at best relationship with their mothers. Few of us are lucky enough to not have constant mom drama. I consider myself lucky that my mom and I have never had an argument once in my adult life. Every other female I know goes back and forth with her mother. Horrible words are exchanged, phones are slammed down, and there are hours of crying. He’s smart enough to not outright say that your mother is acting like a bitch, but secretly he can’t understand why you can’t see that. The reason guys are so quiet when you fight with your mom? They know they can’t win and they are secretly trying to gauge whether or not they are staring at you in twenty years.

4. It’s acceptable to have different interests than he does. He won’t love you any less.
Part of what makes people awesome are their differences. Unless you are in 7th grade, it shouldn’t be a deal breaker that he has interests that don’t involve you. If you want to be a part of them, go ahead and ask. Most guys are more than happy to include their chick in something they are passionate about. Consequently, if it’s not your thing, it’s not your thing. One of the guys I love most in the world (although I would never admit it and he can shut up if he’s reading this) has taken to skydiving. Absolutely loves it. I have tried on numerous occasions to try to figure out why in pluperfect hell someone would jump out of a perfectly good airplane just to do it, and it completely escapes me. But he loves it, and goes frequently. He’s asked me to go, and I’ve said no. Mostly because I’m pretty sure it would embarrass him in front of his friends when I proceeded to cling inside of the plane like a spider monkey while bargaining with God. And guess what? He still talks to me.

5. It’s not acceptable to dismiss his interests just because you think they’re childish, stupid or a waste of time.
Do I give my friend a significant amount of shit for jumping out of perfectly good airplanes? Of course I do. Do I dismiss it as stupid and meaningless? No. For a few reasons. First and foremost, I’m not a cunt. Here’s the thing. Guys are going to like things we don’t. It might be video games, heavy metal, skydiving, football, shooting, fishing or internet porn. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t tell you that Grey’s Anatomy is a vapid waste of time (it is, by the way), so learn to keep it shut. And if you want to really impress him? Next time he’s playing that “stupid X-box” ask him if you can play with him. If it’s a single player game you’re shit out of luck, but a lot of games have a co-op setting. The worst that could happen is you now have a valid reason to dislike it. Who knows though, you could find out you really do enjoy stabbing zombies in the face. You don’t know unless you try. And even if you hate it? Shut up about it. No one wants to hear that their interests are stupid.

6. Guys are dicks to their friends.
Some things in life just defy explanation. This is one of them. Guys are assholes to their guy friends. They do this for sport. Don’t believe me? Go ask him, right now. I’ll wait. There’s not a guy on the planet that doesn’t have at least one story about something his best friend did to him that was horrible and hilarious. My friend Ben once called me to tell me that his best friend Ray had just punched him in the face out of the blue. When Ben demanded to know why, all Ray said was “You know why”. Ben didn’t know why. 3 weeks later, Ray finally admitted the reason he punched him was because, and this is a direct quote “I felt like it”. Shitty? Yes. Hilarious? Absolutely.

7. Guys think that you look cute in sweatpants…sometimes.
And for those of you who think you’re clever, I’m going to go ahead and categorize yoga pants as sweat pants. The reason guys think girls in sweat pants and a tank top is hot is because that’s not how they usually see us. There’s something adorable about a girl in comfy clothes when you’re used to seeing her dressed up that says “ I’m comfy and cozy and would be comfier and cozier in bed with you”. However, there is a limit. Ask yourself this: When is the last time you wore real pants at home? When is the last time you had a bra on? If you can’t remember, you’re abusing the privilege. I’m all for being comfy, but never wearing anything other than your jammies is going to leave your poor confused boyfriend wondering exactly what happened to his hot girlfriend.

8. Stop asking guys what they’re thinking about if you’re not going to accept the answer.
Ever asked a guy what he’s thinking about and gotten the answer “Nothing”? Sure you have. Because chances are you then blew it out of proportion and convinced yourself that he was mad at you. Perhaps there’s another girl. It’s probably that slut that runs the self-checkout lane at the store. Why doesn’t he love me? How dare he throw away everything we have? Meanwhile, and I promise you this is true, your boyfriend is sitting on the other side of the couch thinking things like “I’m hungry” or “I think the transmission is making a funny noise” or “Man, I really like pie”.

9. Our diets exhaust them.
When men diet? They all do it the same way. It’s always some variation of “Man, I’m getting fat. Time to cut back on the crap and work out”. They don’t make a big scene out of it, they just do it. Women on the other hand? It’s a production. The first thing we do is cry to our girlfriends before spending the rest of the night on the internet looking up ridiculous and dangerous diets to starve ourselves thin. We then purge everything that even resembles food from our kitchens while waiting for the tapeworm we ordered from Bosnia to arrive. Then we cry some more, drink lemonade that’s been infused with pepper, syrup and something else that makes it taste like rancid ass and call it dinner. Every time he dares to put anything with flavor or saturated fat near his mouth, he can feel your white hot glare from across the house. They watch us do this for about 3 days before we collapse face first into a pizza because we haven’t actually eaten anything in 72 hours. Then they have to deal with the inevitable “I’ll never be thin!” crying. They’d rather punch themselves in the testicles.

10. They will tolerate the stupid crap we do to promote health to a point.
Men have an amazing ability to tolerate crap if they think it will end with you touching their penis, and most will sit quietly while you go to yoga, choke down 17 different vitamins and herbs and water board yourself with a netipot. You might even get an adventurous man to try tantric sex, if only because there’s sex involved, even if he doesn’t get to blow his wad. But there is a line. They will not take a “Guided Vortex Hike”, they will not sit in an “Oxygen Steam Cabin” and they will not agree to “Colon Hydrotherapy”. Especially that last one. There is no man on the planet that is going to pay someone $120 to shoot a stream of water up his butt.

11. They don’t know why you’re mad and no they don’t know what they did.
Now before you rip me one, stick with me. Every single time I have ever been legitimately mad at a man in my life, he has known exactly what he did. There was no confusion. I didn’t wake up one day and decide that today was the day I couldn’t deal with him leaving his boxers in the middle of the floor any more. Every single time they knew why because it was a legitimate reason to be angry. So if your boyfriend is asking why you’re mad at him, there is a very good chance he is asking because he doesn’t have the slightest clue why you are so pissed off at him. Men are amazing at a lot of things, but they are not mind readers. If you’re pissed because he passed out drunk on the floor of his friend’s house when he said he’d watch The Notebook with you, tell him. If you keep getting mad at him for no good reason, don’t act surprised when he doesn’t give a shit when you have a legitimate complaint. You’re like the little girl who cried whiny bitch, and no one wants to pay attention to you.

12. If he actually wants to talk about what’s going on, don’t give him the silent treatment to be a bitch.
There is a difference between not talking because you’re not ready to talk, and not talking because you’re acting like a seven year old. Personally, I am one of those people that says god awful horrible things when I’m hurt. If I feel like I’m backed into a corner, I will come out swinging every time. Consequently, I’ve taught myself to be very quiet until I am sure that I will say exactly what I want to say, and not the streams of profane, soul crushing insults that are running through my head. This bothers one of my friends who claims that when I do this, I radiate anger. Which is kind of a neat super power, but I digress. What it comes down to is that I’m doing it for a reason. It’s perfectly acceptable to say “I am not ready to talk to you about this right now” if you know that you aren’t capable of contributing anything constructive to the conversation. It’s ok to take time to get your emotions under control. It’s not acceptable to be very obvious about giving your boyfriend the silent treatment while he begs, pleads and whines for you to speak to him just because you like the attention. If you’re that type of girl, I think we’d much prefer you to keep your cock garage shut anyway.

13. Your constant need for validation makes them want to kill themselves and everyone around them.
Most men assume that if they tell you they love you, that’s the status quo unless something significant happens to change that. They will tell you once or twice a day, and assume that everything is fine. Most men won’t get jealous every time you talk to a person with a penis. They won’t uproot their entire lives to show you in grandiose ways just how much they love you. Because in their head? This is taken care of. Men have a certain amount of willpower that keeps them from slipping into a murderous rage because of our crap. The more you call them crying about how you don’t feel that they love you enough, or they don’t show it enough, the more you chip away at that willpower bit by tiny bit, leaving them one step closer to murdering you in your sleep. This is not a romance novel, and if he spends every waking moment of his life proving to you just how much he loves you I would recommend a restraining order.

14. It’s OK for men to cry, but they still don’t want you to make a big deal of it.
Believe it or not, men cry. And every girl on earth swears they want a sensitive man…right up until the waterworks start. Then we have an obnoxious tendency to run for the hills. Truth be told, men cry. They’re human. But they cry for entirely different reasons than women. We cry all the time for everything. It’s Tuesday, time to cry. Someone was mean to us, time to cry. Generally speaking when men cry they want to be left the hell alone about it (unless it’s because of the death of a close family member). The following situations are ones in which a man will cry, and you should pretend that you didn’t notice: the death of Aeris, when watching Old Yeller, any situation in which he has been kicked, punched or head-butted in the nuts (don’t laugh, I know someone who was once head-butted in the nuts. In case you’re wondering, it’s still funny.), if their team wins, if their team loses, when Wash dies (if anyone even mentions being a leaf on the wind, I tear up), the ending of any amazing videogame, if something happens to a beautiful piece of machinery or if they happen to see a beautiful piece of machinery for the first time.

15. Men will do almost anything to see your boobs.
I know that they are just two lumps of fat stuck in the middle of our chests, but to men they are an amazing mystery that holds the answer to every question in the universe. Even guys who aren’t boob guys would still do almost anything if they thought it would get them a glimpse at a nice set of hooters. I am a pretty busty chick, and I distinctly remember sitting with a friend of mine who is completely and totally an ass man. He looked up from the TV, turns to me and said “I’m sorry, but can I touch your tits?” After I got over the fits of hysterical laughter, I had to ask “Why? You’re an ass guy.” His response? “Well yea, but look at those.” (For the record, I let him. Points for brutal honesty.) Thus cementing what I suspected all along: all men love boobs. Is your guy going to your little cousin’s piano recital? It’s because he wants to see your boobs. Is your guy suffering through dinner as the only male among your male bashing girlfriends? It’s because he wants to see your boobs. Is he holding your purse while you try on the 4th shirt that is identical to every other shirt you’ve tried on the 8 hours you’ve been shopping? It’s because he wants to see your boobs. Guys will do anything to see your boobs. Knowing this gives you power. Remember, with great power comes great responsibility. Do not abuse this and ruin it for the rest of us.

16. Sometimes men just want to be men.
I have lived alone for a few years now, and because of that I’ve grown accustomed to doing things for myself. Mostly because if I didn’t, they’d never get done. Most guys find it somewhat endearing that their girlfriends can change a tire, or patch drywall. I will never do any of those things with my boyfriend around. Sometimes you have to let a man be a man. There’s nothing wrong with it and nothing weak about it. I’m not saying you should slide off your chair so overcome with lust that you can hardly contain yourself because he opened a goddamn pickle jar for you. I’m saying let him open a jar you can’t get open, thank him and peck him on the lips. Tell him how hot it is that he changes his own oil. (By the way? It’s super-hot when guys change their own oil.) Let him take care of you on occasion. Even if he doesn’t have 14 inch biceps, most men want to feel powerful. Don’t be a helpless idiot, but let him use those muscles he has. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be checking the angry emails I just got from the feminists in the group who think that having a boyfriend open up a jar sets our society back fifty years.

17. Men don’t get Sex in the City.
The entire show is based on four women who make horrible life choices, when they aren’t acting like shallow, superficial bitches. The characters have few if any redeeming qualities, and if anyone could please explain to me how someone who writes for magazines can live in an apartment that big in Manhattan and still afford $1000 shoes, I’d love to hear it as I am clearly doing something wrong. Furthermore, the show expects us to believe that there are men all over New York who want to bang these four women. There is only one woman out of the four most men would even think of putting their dick in, and that’s only if they could gag her first.

18. Fucking a guy does not make you his girlfriend.
Or his fuck buddy. Or anything else. Even if he’s a friend. If you hop into the sack after hearing “I’m not looking for anything”, that’s what you get. If you can handle being fuck buddies, a one night stand, or an if I’m in town and the guy I’m here to see is being a dick so let’s fuck, more power to you. That does not give you any right to ask about what he’s doing, who he’s doing it with and when. You don’t have the right to get mad if he dates someone else, you don’t get to get jealous when you see him at parties. Consider it a business transaction. If you can’t handle it, that’s fine. It’s surprisingly difficult to separate love and sex. Some of us can do it. A lot of us can’t. But it’s against the rules to say you can and then go all Single White Female on him. There’s almost no chance that he’s going to be so overwhelmed by your sexual prowess that he falls in love with you immediately. It’s not going to happen.

19. Men don’t notice 5 pounds.
Or that little bit of cellulite. Or that tiny stretch mark. Why? Because if they are in a position to see these things, there’s a good chance you’re naked. And although you’re used to picking yourself apart in front of the mirror for not looking airbrushed in real life, he’s just happy that you’re naked. Pointing out your flaws to him is not going to make him see them, it’s going to make you look like an idiot. You’re naked. He’s about to get laid. Unless you kick him in the balls, take his wallet and leave, he’s happy. Shit even if you do kick him in the balls and take his wallet, if he’s into that sort of thing he’s still happy. When he tells you that you’re pretty, take the compliment. Telling him the reasons that he’s wrong makes it sound like he has no idea what he’s talking about, and no one likes being told that their taste in their significant other is wrong. Plus, if you’re not nice to yourself, you can’t expect other people to be. Stop being an ass.

20. Looking at porn doesn’t mean he wants you to look like a porn star.
Every single guy I know looks at porn. It’s one of those universal experiences that all men share. I’m not sure when looking at porn turned into “he wants me to look like that girl!” because, well, it doesn’t. Why? Because if you saw some of the porn he looked at, you’d have nightmares for life. It’s the internet folks. There is some nasty shit on it. And your boyfriend has watched it. Not because it gets his rocks off, but out of the same morbid curiosity that causes people to continue watching Whitney. (If you don’t believe me, I refer you to Two Girls One Cup, and I accept no responsibility for the nightmares and uncontrollable vomiting). For the actual porn he watches to get his rocks off? That doesn’t really reflect on you either. Very few guys I know really want their girlfriends to bleach their hair and let 10 random men glaze her like a donut. However, guys do like fun sex. I’m not saying you should bring the Denver Broncos home (although Tebow is super-hot), but shake things up a little bit. Everyone has a little freak in them, let yours shine. You don’t have to be a porn star, or lick your own back, but have a little fun. And get over it. Does your boyfriend cry every time you watch Ryan Reynolds chopping wood in those thin pajama pants that fall dangerously low on his hips in the rain in Amityville Horror? No? Exactly. And god I love those pants.

21. On some level, men equate love with sex. But not the same way you do.
Yes, it’s a little nonsensical. He’s not going to dump you because you didn’t fuck him once. However, men love sex and they love having it. Hopefully with you. And the less you put out, the more he thinks that you might be losing interest in him. Most guys won’t admit this, but it’s true. Just like you want him to constantly show you how much he loves you and all that romantic bullshit, he wants you to do the same. Nothing says “I love you” like a morning blow job. Or an afternoon blow job. Or a blow job in general.

22. Stop ignoring the geeks and nerds.
Yes, that guy with the porcupine haircut and fake tan has incredible abs. Why yes, his arms are amazing and I too want to bite him. The problem is, that guy? Is a huge dick. And while you’re wasting your time with him, there is a sweet, adorable geek or nerd who would love to spend time with you. And I mean spend time with you, not treat you like an accessory. Yes, some of them are a little squishy. Some are a little awkward around women. But these guys will treat you like a fucking princess, will listen to you when you speak, and are good dependable dudes. Men will never understand why women date guys who are flaming douchebags, and then cry when they act like flaming douchebags. It would be like me purposely slamming my tit in a car door. I know it’s going to hurt, so why the fuck would I do it? Here’s the truth: those sweet geeks that you’re crying to? Those are the guys you should be with. I’ve seen more than one geek go from adorably snuggly to looking like he’s carved out of fucking marble. And with one glaring exception, every one of them still remained a loveable geek. It’s far easier for someone who is already loveable to get washboard abs than it is for a gorgeous dickhead to grow a personality. And also? If you only love that geek after he has the abs? You’re a shallow bitch and deserve to get herpes from someone who looks like he was rejected from a Jersey Shore audition.

23. Men do not want to have sex with all of their ex-girlfriends.
Most men aren’t even friends with most of their ex-girlfriends. Occasionally, a guy will keep one around because it’s obvious they were better off friends than lovers. Do you keep in contact with any of your exes? Any of your guy friends that you may have drunkenly kissed one night? No? If you said no you’re a lying liar who should be ashamed of herself. Here’s the truth: If he wanted to fuck his ex, he would. There is absolutely nothing you would be able to do to stop it, so you might as well quit being an insecure psycho every time he talks to anything with a vagina. Am I saying that you should be OK if he has his ex-girlfriend sleep over while you’re on a business trip? No. But should you freak out if they go out for a drink with some friends? Not unless you’re ready for him to do the same thing every single time you want to talk to any of your guy friends ever. This includes your gay friend who loves your boobs but totally doesn’t want you. That’s what I thought. I know you’ve been told your entire life that the sun rises and sets on your ass, but it doesn’t. You are not the first woman your boyfriend has ever seen, so stop acting like you should be. He didn’t do anything wrong.

24. Men don’t talk about sex as often as you think.
Contrary to what popular media might have us believe, men don’t actually sit around, drink beer, and compare their girlfriend’s dick sucking skills. The women I hang out with talk about sex far more often than men, and they are graphic as hell about it. Any woman can tell you just about anything about her closest friends sex lives. They discuss dick size, positions, orgasms, whatever. Men on the other hand? Tend to keep it vague. I know for a fact that men talk, as I made the mistake of fooling around once with my ex’s friend and he said “wow, he was right you are good at that”. That was not a happy discussion with my ex. The good news is we finally came to an agreement once the last of the stuff I threw on to the lawn and set on fire was extinguished. Generally speaking, if there is a group of men talking about your sexual talents, it’s because you’ve slept with enough of them that they no longer give a shit about whether or not you come off like a total whore. You’re the community bicycle, everyone’s had a ride. At that point it’s no different than talking about that one time they all went to Six Flags and rode the Batman ride.

25. Don’t Tease.
Teasing is only fun if there’s an eventual payoff. Girls who tease just to do it deserve to be cunt punched. There is a difference between a little tease while you’re a party, knowing that you’re going to put out when you get home. Or better, when you get to the car. But getting him hot and bothered and then making him “work for it” is a bullshit move. Flirting is one thing, sitting on his lap with your top off and then deciding that you want to wait until you’re ready (weeks later) is just confusing. If you have no intention of making good on your promise, it’s not cute to tease. Don’t start shit you don’t intend on finishing. There’s nothing wrong with leaving them wanting a little more. There’s everything wrong with leaving him to drive home with a raging boner.
But if all else fails? Refer to #15.


I know it's kind of a throwback to when I would post way more stuff like this. Hopefully it didn't shock you too much. Now back to my regular schedule of forgetting to post....

Sunday, December 04, 2011

In Which I Discuss My Boobs and My Career

I've been doing some interviewing, recently. (If you're on my team and reading this, please don't freak out. It'll be fine, it just never hurts to talk to people.)

It's not that I don't like my job, I do. I have a wonderful boss, a great team, and I'm given a ridiculous amount of freedom. That being said, we have a lot of process issues, and ultimately, I'm really tired of working 70-80 hour weeks for not enough money.

I was even OK with the ridiculous hours, until I worked 40 hours in one weekend, and instead of getting a "thank you" from the person who's ass I saved, I was instead forwarded a badly spelled email about how I need to be "more supportive" of the mistakes of the people on his team.

That was the line.

So I figured, what the hell, I'll answer some of the recruiters who call me every day and see what's out there.

Consequently, I landed an interview with a huge company out in California, that pays pretty well. No idea what the outcome is, but things seem to be progressing nicely.

With one exception.

And that exception is my Mother.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my mom. She's one of my best friends, and arguably she's the one I get my sense of humor from. She's an amazing lady, and I wouldn't change a thing about her.

She doesn't necessarily understand what it is I do, and the IT/eCommerce world is foreign to her. However it's in a mother's nature to try to impart wisdom on their children, so without fail, whenever I tell my mother I have an interview, she says the same thing.

"Cover your boobs".

It's not like I run around like those women in National Geographic or anything, but my mom's side of the family has blond hair, blue eyes, and the women aren't necessarily curvy. The women on my father's side of the family have dark hair, dark eyes, curves, and big honkin boobs.

Guess which side I take after?

Because of that, I could have cleavage in a turtleneck. I've managed to reign the twins in for the most part, but they aren't going to go anywhere. This was further evidenced by the fact that one of the first things my new work husband said to me was "I'm sorry, but I can't stop looking at your boobs".

So, in the absence of any other relevant advice, we always come back to my sweater puppies. It doesn't matter the situation, the advice remains the same. The interview I had was over the phone, the first thing my mom said to me was "did you cover your boobs?"

Apparently, you can see them from California. Over the phone.

But, it's not terrible advice. It never hurts to be reminded to cover the twins. Unlike most of the women in the L.A. area, I've never had a nip slip.  I think my mom could contract her services out in Hollywood for a shitload of money. But barring that, it's a nice reminder that even though she has no idea what I'm talking about, she cares.

Either that or she doesn't want her daughter parading around like a whore.

I like to think it's the caring thing, though.


Sunday, November 06, 2011

My bad days tend to be a thing of legend.

I'm not sure exactly when (or how) this started, but they are the type of bad that if I was watching them play out on a movie screen, I'd have called bullshit and left the theater.

Last Thursday was one of those days. I woke up late for work because I spent the night drinking with Deanne. In my defense, she had come from Iowa and I see her maybe once a year, so it's totally acceptable for us to be drinking hard liquor at 3 PM on a Wednesday night. Anyway, I digress.

I rolled out of bed and magically made it to the train station on time. And that's when I realized that there wasn't a single car in the lot. Once I got over the initial Oh-My-God-Its-Already-The-Weekend-And-I-Slept-Through-Work-For-Days panic, the conductor told me that there was a freight train derailment and huge fire. There would be no train service for days.

Fantastic.

Anyone who lives in Chicago can tell you that getting there from the suburbs isn't always the easiest thing, and even the tiniest disruption in a commute can leave you hours late in getting to your destination. After wandering the suburbs for about an hour, I managed to find a different train. Ten miles away. Ridiculous.

Wednesday was an interesting evening for me. I got on the train from work and I had my Blackberry. I know this because I distinctly remember thinking "I shouldn't put that there, I'm going to lose that stupid thing". So you can imagine my utter shock when I got home...with no Blackberry.

Fuck.

I figure this is the best opportunity to see if someone turned it into the lost and found, so after waiting 10 minutes in line, some lady finally waved me up to the window.


The conversation we had went something like this:
Lady At The Window: Can I help you?
Me: Yes, I was wondering if someone turned in a Blackberry.
Lady At The Window: What kind of Blackberry.
Me: I'm not sure...it's a little older, company issue...it's easy to identify as it's most likely gone off 9000 times since you got it.
Lady At The Window: Where did you lose it?
Me: On the (Train I take, redacted to prevent stalking) outbound at 1:40.
Lady At The Window: Which car were you sitting in?
Me: The second car from the front.
Lady At The Window: Are you sure?
Me: I'm positive.
Lady At The Window: You'll have to go to window 10, that's the lost and found. He's at lunch.
Me: Wait...I have to talk to someone else?
Lady At The Window: Yes.
Me: So all that so you can tell me that I have to talk to someone else.
Lady At The Window: He's at lunch.
Me: It's 9:50 in the morning.
Lady At The Window: Window 10.


I feel like I deserve some sort of an award at this point for not breaking through the glass in the window an strangling her with my bare hands. As I was leaving the station, a very large black man came up to me.The first words out of his mouth were, and I quote, "Hey baby girl, can you help me get to Wacker Drive".

Having tried to navigate Chicago, I can feel this guy's pain. Unfortunately, I am no help at this point and I'm not having a real great day. I give him a polite "I'm sorry, I don't know."

This is where it gets weird.

Next thing I know, he's got his hand on my shoulder and he's thanking me for stopping. "God bless you, no one else has even hesitated". Then? Then he extends his hand, and before I know what's happening, I'm doing some weird ass handshake I didn't know that I knew. And I'm not talking a fist bump, either. I'm talking there were thumbs locking and fingers wiggling and I'm not entirely sure but I think I might have accidentally joined a gang on my way to work.

After I stopped to get a bandanna, wifebeater and a switchblade, I finally made my way out of the train station, where it started pouring.

Then my mom calls. It's never good when someone starts the conversation with "No one is hurt...but..." In this case? The "but" was "our mechanic took the car for a joyride and wrapped the car around a pole. It's totaled, we can't afford a new one and Jesus knows those inbred hillbilly assholes don't have insurance".

It was just one of those days.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go shave off my eyebrows and have them tattooed back on in an attempt to blend more seamlessly into my new lifestyle, yo.


Saturday, October 29, 2011

A few weekends ago, my dad invited me to go to some company event with him. This company event required me to leave my house by 5:30 AM, so I could be in a place called Vandalia Illinois by 11:30. I'm usually not the "Let's have a fun time with my father's employees!" type of girl, but I AM a daddy's girl, so my choice was pretty obvious.

I rented a cute little car, woke up early, and drove out to the middle of butt-fuck Illinois. And I mean buttfuck. The jail in this place is across the street from the highschool, I would assume so the teenagers can see a snippet of their future if they stay there.

Once I finally found the place, I pulled into the parking lot and there is a bus there. My father's employees are mingling, and I'm being introduced to a shitload of people I will never remember. Shortly thereafter I'm shuttled onto a bus, where the tour lady starts talking.

"Our first stop will be at the Rusty Penny".

What the hell is the Rusty Penny?

"A bar down the street."

And that's when it occurred to me

My father is taking me on a pub crawl.

Holy fuck this is amazing.

That my friends is exactly what happened. My father took me on a pub crawl that started at 11:30 in the morning. These people are hardcore. I knew I was in over my head when a 50 year old woman lined up 12 shots at the first bar, killed them all and then washed them down with a beer. (She hung until the end of the crawl, too.)

We actually saw a bunch of adorable bars and had a good time. And that's when shit got weird. I realized I wasn't far from my friend Jimmy from college.

The problem is that by this point I was too lubricated to make good choices.

Honestly, the next thing I remember? Waking up on my friend from college's couch. In downtown St. Louis. I woke up in another state.

The more concerning part is that the person who's couch I was sleeping on was at the time in a different state than me. I had to go through my FourSquare history to figure out where  the fuck I had even been. Turned out, my dad decided that I should have more fun, and encouraged my friend to take me and get me trashed.

Essentially, my father let me go to party with a guy he had just met and had no way of knowing and wished me luck.

I'm totally telling mom.













Thursday, October 27, 2011

So, you've probably wondered where the hell I've been.

No real excuses, life kind of exploded. So I neglected my blog because I'm a bad person, but I really do promise to try harder. Why?

Mostly because this blog has been good to me, and I have it to thank for my career as it stands now.

I also have it to blame and honestly, my career has been sucking the life out of me.

Anyway, just a quick post to promise to post tomorrow.

And it will be worth it.

Or not.

There's really only one way to find out.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

So, it has not been a relaxing vacation.

I've been pulling a ridiculous work schedule trying to become rich as hell and more famous than Jesus, and eventually you wind up burning out.

So I figure, what the hell. Go to California, see my favorite boy and his roommate who looks kind of like a red headed Jesus, if Jesus was totally awesome.

If you've read my twitter, you'd know things did not turn out well.

In typical Clare fashion, they exploded less than 15 minutes after I touched down in San Fransisco.

This, dear readers, is a record for even me.

So I'm blogging this from first class on my way home, trying not to cry. Speaking of, where the hell is that flight attendant? I'm fucking out of wine.

I am not about to air my dirty laundry all over the internet, but I'll give the broad strokes.

I fly 2000 miles from home to find out I've been lied to, and then the person who did it proceeds to ignore me almost the entire rest of the trip. I can't entirely blame him for this. I know, how could this possibly be my fault, as I am an even tempered angel?

Well let me tell you.

After he admitted he was a lying sack of shit on the car ride, I got quiet. Not the silent treatment, but I wanted to be very careful of what I said next, as I have a tendency to say what I mean when I'm upset, and usually it's soul crushing and horrible. (I know, shocking right?)

He says "Youre quiet again."
I respond with "I'm thinking."
He says "Want to think outloud?"
I respond with "I don't think you want me to".

We ride in silence for awhile, and my brand new phone keeps sliding off my knee. In a show of testicular fortitude I didn't know he could possess with what are essentially no balls he says "maybe that's not the most secure place for your phone".

I'm not entirely sure what got into me at that point.

I looked at him and witout breaking eye contact proceeded to throw my $500 smart phone at his windsheild during rush hour traffic and then said in a very soft, very calm voice "Better?"

So you can't really blame him for avoiding me.

The trip was somewhat salvageable. I did spend quite a bit of time with his best friend/roommate, who is a pretty awesome dude. Either that, or he is owed something huge for babysitting me the entire weekend while his friend hid in his room from me.

I just need a vacation. I need to relax. I need to have fun.

However, I did learn a very important lesson. I sent 3 text messages from my phone in that car ride, and less than 45 minutes later I had no less than 8 places to stay 2000 miles from home, and 3 offers from people to fly me back immediately. I have the greatest friends any snarky blogger could ever ask for. There aren't any words for how grateful I am to those people. Namely Eric and Buffy, O'Leary and Wyly, Wil, Vanessa, Irene, Shane and Con, Travis, Jessica, Spring and Mary. I love you all.

There is a far bigger problem with this situation though.

His roommate, who really, I owe more than just cookies, got me hooked on 3 new TV shows. (Ok they aren't all new but they are new to me). Like I have enough time for this.

It's like his revenge for putting up with me all weekend.

So, thanks all for the concern. Ill be alright, I'm chilling in First Class on a Virgin flight, ready to go home and bury myself in work and every X files episode ever made. (Thanks Nick, thanks a lot.)

Friday, July 08, 2011

I am currently on a flight from Chicago to San Fransisco.

Because I am terrified of flying, I have decided to give you a play by play of how this flight has gone so far.

12:28 My cab arrives. Early.

12:32 Sweet Indian cab driver convinces me to get in the cab, while watching me chew on Klonopin.

12:38 I call my boss. I'm not entirely sure what I was calling him for, but it was really, really important, and not at all related to the klonopin I've been eating.

12:43 We arrive at the airport, somehow. I giggle because I can't feel my head. I pay the nice cab driver.

12:50 I spend 5 minutes explaining to the sweet lady at the counter that I am not "Mr" anything and they have obviously made a mistake. We get it sorted out.

12:52 I make it through security. In two minutes.

12:53 They pull me aside for a body scan.

12:53 I decline.

12:53 They explain that the radiation isn't bad.

12:54 I explain it's not the radiation I'm worried about, its the chance that a picture will leak out and I'll find what is essentially a naked Xray of my tits on the internet.

12:55 A (kind of cute) Russian TSA lady explains to me how that pat down works.

12:55 The far less attractive now Russian TSA lady takes my Klonopin away.

12:55 I decide she is a bitch.

1:03 The Bitchy TSA lady finally finishes grabbing at my crotch.

1:05 She puts her glove in the machine and something beeps.

1:06 She still refuses to give me my Klonopin.

1:07 I decide that I fucking hate the Russian TSA lady.

1:08 They pull me into a private area where they proceed to grope at my adorable Fredricks bra. Why? Because I'm wearing something that is adorable and looks like a corset. I have huge boobs, it has support, what do you want from me.

1:13 I am finally freed and allowed to put my shirt back on.

1:14 The TSA lady declines to take me to dinner. I resist the urge to tell her that I'm not that type of girl and the least she can do is treat me like a lady.

1:15 I get to my gate, where I realize I tipped my cab driver $23 because Klonopin makes it so I don't know Math.

1:30 We board. I am sitting with a Chinese family. 3 on my left, 2 on my right. I'm the middle seat. Shit.

1:31 I tell her I understand that they are a family but I am TERRIFIED of flying and if you put me beside the window, I will freak out.

1:32 Her child starts reading the emergency card, and asking over and over what happens when we crash.

1:33 I somehow resist the urge to cram that fucking card down his little fucking throat.

1:34 The Chinese family passes 9 different items back and forth across me.

1:35 The little bastard has to pee.

1:35 I get up, pick up my laptop, step aside, and get glared at by the water buffalo that has managed to wedge herself into the seat infront of me.

1:40 The little bastard comes back.

1:59 I order a blue moon with a splash of orange juice.

2:03 I down the blue moon, and chase it with a Klonopin.

2:06 The little bastard has to pee again. I get up move my laptop and beer.

2:07 The manatee in the seat infront of me glares at me again. To which my adult response is a very grown up "Look lady, I'm not happy either."

2:09 The little bastard comes back.

2:11 I realize that I'm so high right now that It's not actually 2, it's 3.

2:14 I finally stop laughing hysterically at this development and realize I'm high as shit, and now have the munchies.

2:15 I try to figure out how to order a goddamn sandwich.

2:19 I give up.

2:20 Kid SCREAMS IN MY EAR IN FUCKING CHINESE.

2:20 I tell kid that the plane ran over Santa.




So, that's where we are at so far. I'm 1334 miles from San Fransisco, 35947 feet in the air traveling 475 miles an hour and rocked off my ass.

More later if I dont go careening towards the earth to my death.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Another professional athlete has come out and made a statement (and what is quite honestly a really poorly produced commercial) about gays and their right to marry. He is of the impression that gays shouldn't be allowed to marry because of the opinion of an influential minority. Coming from a black professional athlete I think we should listen to him.

Hear me out before you start sending me emails about how gay people deserve the same rights as the rest of us. Professional athletes and famous rappers disagree. Who am I to argue? I've read that website that details the gay agenda, I am on to you sneaky homosexuals.

Most people are going to dismiss this man as just another homophobe who doesn't have a clue what he's taking about. This is categorically untrue.

For starters, this man is an American hero. During a foot ball game he caught a ball, causing the other team to lose. Clearly he should be given the same respect as our war veterans for this phenomenal feat of athleticism. He caught a ball people. Keep that in mind when you address him.

The rest of you are going to say he clearly knows nothing of homosexual relationships. This is also untrue. Every...many...of the days this brave, respectable man willingly chose to shower in front of other big, muscular men before proudly wearing an outfit made entirely of spandex in flamboyant colors usually only seen in cereal commercials or at pride rallies. Furthermore this man wore that outfit proudly, despite the fact that it had knee pads sewn in.

It's in this outfit that this hero to our country would train hours on end to ensure that he was the best at handling gigantic balls. It's during this training that he would be tackled to the ground by other men, also wearing bright colors and knee pads. If he did an exceptionally good job he was treated to a firm slap on the bottom by any number of grown men.

He would then retire to the locker room to once again shower with other men and get his sore, aching muscles massaged by someone with nice strong hands.

That, my dear readers, is why we need to listen to this man and what he has to say about gay marriage. If this man wants to speak about whether they have the right to marry he should be allowed to, as he clearly has been an active member of the gay community for some time now.

I for one will not sit here and tell an American hero and obviously homosexual man that his opinion on gay marriage isn't valid. Will you?

Saturday, June 11, 2011

I've been sick lately. Nothing I'm not used to...a little bit of bronchitis here, a few asthma issues there. It's the same routine every time: I wheeze, the doctor puts me on steroids and in a few weeks I'm back in top shape.

The problem is what happens in those few weeks. Steroids do not bring out my best qualities. In fact, they tend to highlight one of my worst. Something about steroids turns me from the quirky-crazy fun chick into my real self.

It turns out my real self is dangerously insane.

I think the worst part about this insanity is that it manifests itself through tears, usually about shit I absolutely don't care about. I figure it's only a matter of time before they lock me away, so I figure I'd give you readers a list of the things I've cried over in the past week.

Things I've cried over in the past week (aka: Why I Will Die Alone)
  • I miss my dog.
  • I need new sheets, but I can't find the particular color of green that I need and consequently my entire apartment looks like someone's college dorm.
  • My Wii ate the save point from the game of Super Mario Brothers 3 I was playing, and I have to start over.
  • The space bar on my personal laptop has started sticking for some reason I can't understand, and now the entire computer is ruined and I have to get a new one.
  • My favorite people at work are unhappy, and for a good reason.
  • I required Cheez Its to get through some of my side projects, but the only thing I had in my cabinet were Cheese Nips. No, they are not the same thing, how dare you even ask that?
  • Every time I tried to play Assassin's Creed Brotherhood Multi player I would get booted from the host. Now I will never get to level 50 and no one will ever take me seriously because my characters don't have all three of the extra colors for the costumes that don't actually do anything.
  • My friend was going to see me today, and I haven't heard from him yet, thus he obviously doesn't care about me at all despite being a busy guy with a lot going on and his world somehow not revolving around the greatness that is me.
  • When my dog went to get her haircut, another Pomeranian named Toby was running around and barking and no one was stopping him. My Pom is going to learn bad habits. Toby's Dad had to come get him and his haircut had to be postponed.
  • One of my friends needed another friends number. Because obviously they are all hanging out without me because they secretly hate me. (And at this point, can you really blame them?)
  • Penguins of Madagascar is never, ever on TV when I am home. Which is unacceptable because it's the greatest show ever. The people who don't air more episodes are assholes.
  • Chris refused to get me Jack In The Box. I also didn't ask Chris to get me Jack in the Box, Chris lives over 2000 miles away, and Chris had no idea any of this was going on. However, that doesn't get me a spicy chicken sandwich.
  • My ex boyfriend is in Chicago and he didn't ask me, and he should have because obviously I am in charge of everything.
  • Someone drank my diet coke out of the fridge at work. Which they did on purpose. Just to hurt me.

The list is far from complete, but I think it's a good enough example of why I will almost definitely die alone in a house full of old newspaper and cats.

Add that to the list.

Friday, April 08, 2011

It's been an...exciting few weeks.

By exciting I mean "two pretty life changing events have occurred, and there's a real possibility that I'm scarred for life".

Last Sunday I was up late, and I look over to my second floor balcony...to see someone staring back at me.

Usually, having a big black man visit me in the middle of the night would be like Christmas for me, but considering I didn't know this guy, it didn't go over well.
I high tailed it into my bedroom, locked the deadbolt and called the cops, and he was detained after he jumped off my balcony.

Somehow he's still not in jail. Because god hates me.

Turns out he lives above me, and he climbed down his THIRD STORY BALCONY onto mine. Which isn't doing much for my being able to sleep at night. It sounds crazy, but all the sudden I just can't do anything anymore. I can't eat. I can't sleep. Even going to work is almost impossible. I assume that this will pass, but right now? Pretty rough stuff.

Which is totally magnified by the fact that I recently went to California and was introduced to Rock Band 3. Yes, I know Rock Band 3 has been out for awhile, but it's new to me so shut it.

I have been obsessed ever since. Which isn't the worst thing to happen, until you realize exactly how much Night Ranger that game requires. I've listened to that song roughly 904 times, and it's still stuck in my head. And what's worse? I'm starting to like it.

This is my nightmare.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Wow. This year is already going by quickly...it's already almost Valentine's Day.

I know you're probably expecting some bitter diatribe about how Valentine's Day is a holiday fabricated by greeting card companies for the sole purpose of guilting us into buying things for people we generally take for granted as if one sweeping gesture once a year is an acceptable time frame for telling the people you love that you in fact love them.

I'm one of those crazy ass people who loves people despite some of them doing absolutely horrible things to me. I'm hard to get to know, but once I love you, you're pretty much screwed and unless you light me on fire, there's a good chance I'll love you forever.

Actually, that's not true. My best friend once lit me on fire, and I still consider him my best friend. And he considers me his, even though I kicked him in the face in retaliation.

In the past 6 months (next Saturday), my life has changed pretty dramatically. I refuse to wait once a year to tell the people who are important to me that they are.

However, I've been really sucking it up in the forgiveness department. Valentine's Day always brings up all the old relationships. Usually in the form of people calling me to tell me that they're sorry and they miss me.

After that, I don't hear from them for another 364 days.

Which means one thing: They didn't really miss me, and they weren't really sorry. They were sorry they were alone on Valentine's Day. Or they missed me this one particular day of the year.

I know that I'm not always the easiest to approach. So I decided that this year would be different. All the people who miss me because they are lonely on a stupid holiday contrived by a greeting card company can fuck themselves.

For the people who genuinely do want to rekindle some sort of friendship, but are afraid I will make them bleed out of their faces if they approach me again, I'll talk to them.

It might not be comfortable, it might not be the flowers and candy bullshit that this holiday was created for, and it might not be what people consider normal but I've been trying to be more like Mackenzie. She could forgive anyone for anything, so there's no reason I can't either. If more people acted that way, I think Valentine's Day would suck a lot less for most of us.

That being said: if you're one of my guy friends you better pony up for some flowers or get ready to listen to me bitch for the next year.

Sunday, February 06, 2011

Unless you've been living under a rock, you probably know by now that Chicago is buried under 19 feet of snow and it's really damn cold.

Having lived in the Midwest my entire life, I'm somewhat used to my winters being cold, wet and shitty. But this is a new kind of cold, wet and shitty.

I was fine with it, until it came time to dig myself out.

Turns out that the asshole who parked next to me decided a great place to shovel all the snow that was blocking his way was directly behind my car. I walked out to a pile of snow that was about four feet wide and six feet tall.

Which is bad snow etiquette but not the biggest issue if you have a shovel.

Which I don't.

Because I live in an apartment. Why the hell would I need a shovel?!

It took me 2 and a half hours to dig it out, with a hurt rotator cuff. Thank god the maintenance guy took pity on me and stopped to help me dig out. Which he decided was worthless, and reattached the plow to his truck to plow the snow out of the way.

That's how you know you're an asshole. When you pile so much snow behind some one's car that they have to be plowed out.

Chris is always bugging me to go to California. I used to think it was because he wanted to see my boobs. Even if that is the case, he might actually be on to something.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

There are a few things about life that you convince yourself of as an adult. For example, when you're laying naked in front of your doctor while he pokes various things into your orifices, you tell yourself that he is a professional and he sees this all the time so you have absolutely nothing to worry about. You convince yourself that when you're at the gym, your trainer is more concerned with your form than the fact that you gained 37 pounds over Christmas. You tell yourself that your bartender knows that you are just tying one on and isn't whispering to his wife that you're an alcoholic when he sees you at church.

Despite our insecurities, we convince ourselves that this is the truth so we can carry on with our lives.

I tend to run at 100 miles an hour, all the time. I work, I have a side job, I write, and I'm working on some super secret side projects. I've been keeping up this pace since college, and I never thought that it would catch up to me. I keep my body fueled with a very specific combination of nachos, Diet Coke and Twizzlers, and it's worked for me for almost 10 years.

I was at work on Thursday, and all the sudden I got dizzy. I blew it off, decided it was my blood sugar, and immediately remedied the situation with an emergency Twizzler. It didn't help.

I figured I was tired, and went back to work.

It was only when I almost passed out walking across the office that I realized something was Wrong with a capital "W". Thank the lord for my friend Mary*, who was kind enough to walk me to the clinic on campus, if only so she didn't find me passed out face down in the parking lot in a pile of snow.

Some poking, prodding and a few tests involving needles later, I got my diagnosis.

Exhaustion and dehydration.

To which my response was a simple "Exhaustion and dehydration? Who the fuck do I look like? Lindsay Lohan?"

Turns out, nachos, Twizzlers and a gallon of Diet Coke do not a healthy diet make. It's been a few days and I'm almost feeling back to my normal spunky self. I'd be lying if I said it didn't spook me a little bit. So I decided it was time to get back on the "taking care of myself like an adult" wagon.

Alie over at Hyperbole and a Half wrote a great blog post about how she decides to be an adult, makes it approximately one day, and then burns herself out. She then rebels, starting the vicious cycle all over again. I am equally guilty of this, but this time is different. I don't ever want to feel like I felt on Thursday again.

The first place I went was the grocery store. Time to stock up on food that doesn't have nacho cheese listed as the main ingredient and Gatoraide.

In her post, Alie writes "For a little while, I actually feel grown-up and responsible. I strut around with my head held high, looking the other responsible people in the eye with that knowing glance that says "I understand. I'm responsible now too. Just look at my groceries."

I'm concerned with making sure I make lasting changes, so I started where I always start: Lots of fruit, vegetables and chicken. I threw my purchases onto the belt and waited while the cashier scanned my order.

I had always convinced myself that the people who work at the store don't actually look at what you're buying. Much like doctors, dentists, trainers, and the person who waxes your bikini, they've seen it all before and they don't actually give a flying shit either way.

The cashier hit total, and smiled at me.

"Yours is the healthiest order I've seen all day".

At that second, my world changed. We were lied to. They do notice what we buy. Flash back to the time I bought stain remover, hand lotion, condoms, sugar free chocolate syrup and batteries in one transaction. Facepalm.

My life might never be the same. Now that I know the truth, I will never be able to buy all of my items at the same place. God forbid I need condoms or tampons, I might have to leave the state. Never will I be able to go to the gynecologist without wondering who I'm being compared to. I may never get anything on my body waxed again ever.

But, one good thing came from this.

If I was the healthiest order she had seen all day by process of elimination, that means every other order was less healthy than mine. Which means only one thing.

I won.

I won at being an adult today, and the rest of you can suck it. I'm going to sit here and bask in my well deserved glory.

The only thing that could make this better? Some nachos washed down with some Diet Coke.



*Who I owe so much thanks to. You're such a great friend, and I appreciate you so much!

Monday, January 17, 2011

So it’s been awhile since I updated this, but I swear to god there’s a really good reason why. And not just because I’m busy working at MySpace for a few months, giving them content. (No joke. I told you, big website!)

The real problem is, I’m getting old. Well, not that old. I’m still in my 20s, and even when I’m no longer in my 20s, I’ll be telling people I am until the day I die. The reason I’ve not been around much is that I managed to hurt myself. Again.

I was minding my own business on the Metra, when my stop came up. Which is what usually happens when you’re riding a train. When I ducked out from my seat, I also picked up my laptop bag. This in itself is not an unusual activity, especially since the Metra authorities have asked me a few times now to stop leaving my belongings on the train.

This particular time, I’m not sure what happened. Perhaps I bent funny, maybe my laptop suddenly increased in weight, or maybe I’m just getting old, because the next thing I heard was a very distinct ripping noise.

It took me a second to realize that 1. It wasn’t my pants and 2. I was in horrible pain. My back had never hurt so much in my life. Having never hurt my back I had no reason to think this wasn’t the case, even with my past medical history of never having anything normal happen to me ever.

Fast forward to two days later at the doctors office. I’m sitting there while some sweet old man asks me to push against his hands. A thorough beating with the reflex hammer later, he tells me the news. It’s not my back, it’s my rotator cuff.

I hurt my rotator cuff picking up my laptop.

I even asked him “Who the hell hurts their rotator cuff?!”

His response was a very simple: “Usually, professional athletes”.

I left with a sling, a prescription for heavy narcotics and a note to get out of work.

And that my friends, is how my dream of being a professional baseball player was crushed in one single movement.

My apologies to the Braves, who were sure to draft me this year.

Monday, December 06, 2010

It's really damn cold outside. Welcome to winter in Chicago.

It's cold, it's wet and it's the prettiest time of year to go downtown.

I live in one of the greatest cities in the world, and I don't spend nearly enough time enjoying it. That's why I decided I'm going to celebrate my new gig at Myspace (Yea, I told you! Big!) by going to the city.

I think I'll do the touristy thing, finish my Christmas shopping and maybe meet a French guy for lunch.

I'm almost looking forward to some time in Chicago by myself. The problem? It's really flipping expensive. I have serious problems paying out the nose for something I can find cheaper in the suburbs, but on the same token I love going downtown.

Is it possible to do bargain shopping in downtown Chicago without stealing anything?

Sunday, December 05, 2010

I don't know if it's the time of year, or if I'm going through some sort of biological clock-y thing, but I've been super nostalgic lately.

And this nostalgia has caused me to make bad life decisions, the latest of which was downloading Mortal Kombat II for my Playstaton 3.

When I was little, I remember spending hours sitting two feet from the TV with my twin sister, Nintendo controller in hand, playing Mortal Kombat II for hours on end. I even found ways to cheat (ie: sweeping her feet out from under her, freezing her continuously, etc.)

I was 10 years old, and I kicked massive ass at that game.

Now, I'm 28 years old, and I have18 more years of hand eye coordination under my belt. This should be a breeze, right?

You'd think.

You'd be wrong.

I'm getting my ass kicked. All over the place. I can't even get past the first level of this game. The first 3 times I played I didn't even get a chance to hit the guy before he killed me.

10 year old me is very disappointed in old loser me.

Saturday, December 04, 2010

Generally speaking, I like Christmas shopping. Once I get over the hurdle of buying things for other people, I tend to do pretty well.

However, the one thing that sucks is that I have yet to figure out exactly how to do all of my shopping online, thus I am forced to deal with actual people. Which isn't always so bad, I was actually having a pretty pleasant shopping trip.

Until I stopped at Marshalls.

They had these over the knee black suede boots I had to buy right now or I will absolutely die so I stopped in. After grabbing a few things, I stood with the other 9 people in line. After waiting a ridiculous amount of time, I finally got to the checkout.

I decided to get my sister and her boyfriend a Christmas ornament with their new baby's handprint in it (cute right?), and I was checking out the cashier who I will refer to as "Miss Mary Sunshine" noticed it.
The conversation went like this:
MMS: That's cute.
Me: I think so too! I have a new niece and I think that would be a sweet gift.
MMS: They have one of these for pets at Walgreens.
Me: Seriously?
MMS: Yea.

At this point, a smart person would've let her finish scanning my crap and gotten the hell out of there, but the alarm bells hadn't gone off yet. (Remind me to get those looked at) But No, I had to open my big fat cake hole and continue the conversation.
Me: I never noticed that, I should check it out for my Mom.
MMS: I was going to get one for my sisters dog. She has a Pekinhuahua (Ok, I made that part up. I can't remember what kind of fucking dog it was, sue me).
Me: Aww how cute.
MMS: Not really.
Me: ....
MMS: I think they're ugly creatures.
Me:....
MMS:
Me: I guess I get spoiled with my cute little Pomeranian.
MMS: Yea, well my dog died in my arms so I decided no more animals for me.

Now, I'm not a terrible person all the time, and I have total sympathy for anyone who has lost a beloved pet, and this was obviously a recent event. So, against my better judgment, I decided to keep talking to her while she scanned out all eight million things I fucking bought because this is the longest most uncomfortable conversation ever.

The Dumbass Also Known As Me: I'm so sorry to hear that.
MMS: Yea, I loved her alot.
Me: That's really rough especially this time of year.
Holy lord how many more things can I possibly have in that cart?!
MMS: It was 6 years ago.

Six. Years. Ago. It was at that point that the absurdity of this conversation hit me, and in spite of myself I let out a half smile. It was either that or uncontrollable laughter, so I chose the smile as not to offend everyone.

Me: Well I can see why you'd decide no more animals. I'd be lost if something happened to Zoe, we've always had dogs around.
MMS: Well, it's easy to say that. Just wait till one of your dogs dies, then you'll understand.

It was right about then that I decided that I hated this woman. I'm 28 years old, I don't know how old she thought my dog was, but I think it's pretty safe to assume that someone who is almost 30 who has always had dogs around has probably experienced the loss of a pet at some point. Or owns the oldest dog in the history of the goddamn world.

I might have gotten a little mean.

Me: I've actually lost 3 dogs.
MMS: And you just replaced it with another one? I don't understand how people just do that.
Me: Not replaced, we rescued another dog and it just happened to be after one of my dogs passed.
MMS: So you replaced her.
Me: That's a little harsh. Are you always like this?
MMS: Excuse me?
Me: Non wonder your dog died, it was probably trying to get the fuck away from you and decided death was better than listening to any more of your shit.

And then I grabbed my bags, turned on my heel and left.

I may be the worst person ever.

This is why I hate Christmas shopping. I was in a decent mood, I was even kind of excited about the snow falling and it being pretty out. But no. By the time I got home I was depressed, missing my funny Lahso Apso that used to hide under her paws, and I kind of wanted to strangle that lady.



Merry Fucking Christmas.

Sunday, November 07, 2010

I think I start every update with the phrase 'I know it's been forever, but I'll be better about updating this".

But this time I really mean it.

It's been a crazy, crazy few months.

Since a dear friend passed away, I haven't really had much to say. The hilarious stories, anecdotes and all the other bullshit seem sort of pointless and trivial without her here to laugh with us. She was like a little sister to all of us, and as the holiday season approaches it becomes more and more apparent how not OK we all really are. Christmas is going to be brutal to say the least.

What do you even say about that? She was always there, so we took it for granted that she always would be? Everyone says things will get better, but every day when I wake up there's a brief moment when everything in the world is fine. Then I remember that she's not here, and it occurs to me that things might be OK again someday, but they'll never be back to normal.

It'll never be the same.

Makes it hard to find things to write about.

On a good note, I got to stand up in my HLM's wedding to another friend of mine. She looked stunning, and in the process I learned a few things. Here they are, in no particular order:
1. I look bangin in a bridesmaid's dress.
2. Maid of Honor duties require a lot of crying
3. My best friend Shawn and I can actually spend extended periods of time around each other without there being bloodshed, provided one of us is asleep.

It was a gorgeous wedding, and I'm so glad I got to be there.

In other news, you can now see some of my writing on Outblush.
I'll be doing the occasional Personal Shopper post, as well as the occasional look-at-how-awesome-this-is post. Mostly, I'll be reviewing video games. Yep, how awesome is that?!
Next one will be Assassins Creed Brotherhood.

Hot Italian Guy with Sleevy Knives? I'm so fucking in.

I also might have another gig at another huge website, but I'm still hashing out those details.

Stay tuned.

Friday, September 17, 2010

So you may have noticed a few changes around here.

I've been talking about giving this thing a facelift for awhile, so here it is. Whether or not I'll stick with it, Im not sure.

But given that I'm going to write a thing or two for Outblush, the least I can do is make my blog somewhat respectable looking.

It's been a pretty awesome day, I'm going to post about that tomorrow though.

Ooo, see? Reason to come back.

What? That's not enough for you? Too bad! It's always "me me me me me" With you people. You'll just have to wait!

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

I know it's been a little while since I've posted. It's been kind of a crazy week and a half.

On the 19th, I got a call from my friend Deanne. Deanne, unfortunately, seems to have become the bearer of bad news.

I knew it was bad news when I saw a missed call from Shawn, and then a missed call from Deanne.

I knew it was really bad news when I checked the follow up text from Deanne telling me I needed to call her right now.

I knew it was really, really bad news when the first words out of her mouth were "You need to sit down".

For once in my life, I actually did what I was told.

"Mackenzie is dead". That's all I really remember about the conversation. She says I just made some noises like I was trying to talk, but the words didn't seem to work.

Mack was the little sister of one of my closest friends, and kind of like a little sister to all of us. She became such a part of our lives that I still can't wrap my head around the idea that she's gone. Some of my favorite memories have Mackenzie in them.

I'm still reeling, and so are most of my social circle.

I drove out to Iowa the next day, and spent the time I wasn't with her sister crying into my best friend's shirt. In my defense, I warned him not to wear light colors.

I just haven't had much to say since.

Everyone seems to be going around their lives, happy and oblivious, and all I can think about is how can they be happy when we are all falling apart? And I keep waiting to wake up from what is just an awful nightmare.

Mack, you will be missed terribly. I love you, and I'm better for having known you.

There's not much else to say.

Friday, August 13, 2010

It was my 28th birthday yesterday. I have to say, the sheer amount of email I got was overwhelming and humbling. I think I got back to everyone, if not, my most sincere apologies. You either got stuck in my spam filter, or I hate you. Probably the spam filter. Unless I actually hate you, in which case, you suck.

28 is not a great birthday. My sister just had a baby, one of my best friends in the world is getting married, and suddenly, I feel old. At this age, I’ve passed the point of being close to 25 and now linger dangerously close to 30, and suddenly I find myself wondering about all sorts of shit I never cared about before.

For example, I spent what was close to 3 hours last night worrying about whether or not my stock portfolio was performing as well as I had expected and whether or not I’d have enough money to retire when I turn old enough for that sort of thing. That immediately progressed into Holy-Shit-That-
IS-A-Gray-Hair, which turned into a complete panic attack because my apartment is a mess.

Which is not unusual. It’s messy even by my standards, but it’s been a ridiculously busy month or two so I haven’t felt really compelled to do a Martha Stewart. This time, because I am now old, I decided that I am single because my apartment is a mess and no one will ever marry me because I have clutter on my kitchen table.

I will let you think about that for a second.

No one will ever marry me because I have clutter on my kitchen table.

It’s not “No one will ever marry me because I’m impossible to please”, “No one will ever marry me because I have impossibly high standards”, or even a well-deserved “No one will ever marry me because I’m the type of insane that thinks no one will ever marry me because I have clutter on my kitchen table”. It’s “No one will ever marry me because I have clutter on my kitchen table”. As if somehow the entire dating world knows that my kitchen table is covered in old bills, receipts, shopping bags and random purses and somehow that got me onto some crazy blacklist.

The logical side of me tries to take over. Because really, the people I’d want to marry don’t give a flying shit about how cluttered my kitchen table is. And in reality? The people who I’d want to marry only give a flying shit about how cluttered my kitchen table is if it somehow impedes my ability to remove my top.

It’s like at midnight on August 12, I completely lost my mind. Sex in the City and all those other shitty dating shows lied. Getting older while being single in a huge metropolitan area not only sucks like Lindsay Lohan for an 8 ball, it also makes you crazier than shit.

Cause nothing says sexy like being old and crazy.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some kids to chase off of my lawn.

Monday, July 19, 2010

So, I've been kicking back and forth the idea of redesigning this thing for some time now.
That being said, I have no idea what I want to do to it. It's the typical problem. I can come up with brilliant, earth shatteringly cool ideas for things...provided those things aren't for me. (See: Stealing Happy Hours).

But when it comes to me? Absolutely nothing.

There are a million different things I want to do, all of which are impossible to combine in any way that doesn't make me look like I have some pervasive developmental disorder.

So I find myself back to the drawing board, again.

I also hesistate to ask anyone their opinion.
In my head, the resulting email conversation would go something like this.

Clare: I need an idea for my blog. What makes you think of me?
Random Person In The Comments: Good question Clare! These are things that make me think of you!



And so does this:
And don't forget this! This is SO you:

(This image borrowed from Hyperbole and a Half, which is one of the funniest damn blogs I've ever read).

I was going to put in a picture of a brontosaurus, but I'm still bitter about it not being a dinosaur anymore. Then I thought about a pterodactyl, but I'm sick and tired of those snarky pterodactyls taking all of my Brontosaurus' glory. Blah blah blah blah I'm Still A Dinosaur yack yack yack You're Not A Dinosaur Anymore. It's always about them, really. So selfish.

So you can see why I hesitate.

However, I need to come up with something because I'm sick of my images being broken.

Ugh. That burning smell? My brain. Too much thinking.

Monday, July 12, 2010

One of the problems with riding public transportation is that it is, by nature, public.
There is always that one crazy person riding the CTA who is having some sort of emotional breakdown that is so severe that even during the after-work-commuter-craziness, that person gets both of the seats to themselves, simply because the other passengers are terrified to sit beside them.

On Thursday, I was that person.

Usually when I go to work, I am sunshine and butterflies. Big smiles, great mood, giggly. If I farted, glitter would come flying out of my butt. I'm not crazy, I just love my job and my boss.

So when work hires someone who decides to shit all over that sunshine and happiness, it really messes with me.

Thursday started out normally enough. Got to work, spread all of the joy I could to my coworkers, whether they want it or not. It's not my fault they aren't naturally happy sunshine-y people. A lot of them are kind of miserable. Which then makes it my responsibility to make their lives a little bit less sucky. And not in that obnoxious cheerful way that most impossibly happy people use to rape you with cheerfulness. Don't judge me, I don't see you making your coworkers lives suck less.

My boss was out for the day, and because I only work downtown a few days a week, he decided that I could sit at his desk because otherwise I don't really have a permanent place to settle in our offices downtown. This is significant for one reason. I was in the Boss Mans Chair. Everyone knows that the person who sits there is in charge of, well, everything. I could pretend that I was queen of the ecommerce department of my company all day long. All would bow down to the greatness that is my technical knowledge! I would make important decisions that no one else could make! Things would be different under my rule! It would start the golden era of our department!

By around ten in the morning, I had brainstormed an entire holiday based solely around my fabulousness and ability to update a website. I would be worshiped as a God! It's amazing that my boss is so level headed, having a desk of that caliber is a dangerous thing in the wrong hands.

So I settled into my new throne, and began working. Plucking away happily on my computer for the better part of the day until my meeting with the new Creative Director.

I usually get to skip out on meetings, because to be honest if my boss and I were both going to meetings, nothing would ever get done, and somewhere along the line they decided it was more important to keep the site accurate and updated than it was to make me sit in a conference room with my peers and spend three hours discussing something a seven line email would have covered sufficiently.

The new guy? Loves meetings.

If he could have a raunchy romance with meetings, I think he probably would. They would meet across a crowded bar, and after catching each other's eye all night one would send a drink to the other with a note scribbled on the napkin, and after a night of exchanging glances and drinks with note covered napkins they would ditch their respective dates and share a taxi to whoever's fancy loft apartment was closer and make sweet love to each other while looking out at the lights of Chicago at night. They would eventually marry and wind up with 2.5 kids and a growing sense of resentment about wasting the best years of their lives on each other, but that's an entirely different post.

So I leave my comfortable Desk Kingdom (which I had named Clareopolis) and settle into a huge conference room that smelled like some weird combination of failure, disappointment and gym shoes. One of my favorite people on my team settled in beside me, and we got down to business. Considering I was sitting beside one of the single most brutally honest people I've ever met, the meeting was going pretty well. I figured he'd have my back, and then I could return to my wonderful kingdom that was full of wonderfulness. We weren't being confrontational, and we certainly didn't want to foster any bad ju ju.

Well, it was going well until the new guy started talking.

What happened next can only be described as a slaughter.

New Guy sat there and demanded to know our teams process for doing everything. When he got to my role in this mess, he essentially said that he didn't trust my team to get things done. And that we needed a new Project Manager to manage the work flow and site updates (which is my job). When I mentioned it was my job and we haven't run into any problems with our system, he got on his high horse and went off again about how my team is not to be trusted to deliver on time (despite us never missing a deadline), and used the one project his team phenomenally fucked up as his reason. Then he cackled manically and twirled his mustache. (Fine. He might as well have).

He actually dismissed me so many times he started asking our intern for his technical advice over mine. Our intern is 20. And from Tennessee. This is Chicago! Here we don't trust 20 year olds from out of town to give us the goddamn time, we sure as hell don't ask for their expertise on complex technical matters. (Although I do feel like I should throw in that our intern is actually brilliant. He's caught on so quickly that I now think he knows too much, and I no longer trust him).

So there I sat, the lowly little Admin, taking it on the chin from a Director. This went on for the better part of an hour. If I said "This is blue", he would've responded "You're wrong, you can't be trusted to know what blue is!". Then he'd have sat back in his chair with that smug look of satisfaction you only get after getting a 4 year degree from an art school.

By the end of it he had reduced me to nothing more than a drone that plugs various codes into a website. It was like Festivus. Except after the Airing of Grievances we skipped the Feats of Strength, mostly because if we hadn't I'd have impaled his skinny self righteous ass on the Festivus Pole for all to see.

I was lucky enough to leave work immediately after the meeting. I made it to the Blue Line, settled into my seat, and before I knew it, a single tear had slid down my cheek.

Fuck.

I've always believed that crying is like pooping: everyone does it, but no other living person should ever have to see you do it or clean up the aftermath. It's a private affair that is best left that way.

Little did I know that my ex-boyfriend would decide now would be a great time to create the perfect storm. I look down on my phone, and I see "I'm sorry I haven't called. I miss you".

There are 2 things my ex doesn't do. He doesn't miss people, and he doesn't apologize. And I had just gone through the painful decision to cut him out of my life because he's kind of a bastard and I can't allow him to keep walking in and out of my life like it's a revolving door because it hurts too much and thats what adults do we make those decisions and we stick to them because we are grown ups, and his text completely ripped the stitches.

The next thing I knew, I was crying. And not just crying, I was crying in public on the Blue Line. Crying might actually be an understatement. I was openly sobbing, making noises that are probably comparable to a Water Buffalo giving birth. I have no idea what that sounds like, but I'm pretty sure that it's the only proper way to describe what happened. I was leaking out of every hole on my face, and I just couldn't stop.

I was almost at my stop when I realized how full the train was. There were people crammed next to each other, standing room only. That was when I looked beside me and realized the seat next to me was empty. Why? Because I had become the crazy person on the train no one else would sit next to.

There were some older women staring in my direction, whispering to one another. A huge tattooed Mexican guy with a bandanna looked genuinely afraid of me, and the rest of the train just looked at me with a mix of pity and mild terror. You could tell some of them were planning on what they'd tell the reporter after I finally freaked out. "Well Bill, I had a bad feeling the minute she sat down. She wasn't acting right. She kept sobbing hysterically, and whimpering. It's no big surprise to me she beheaded that nun while screaming 'I claim this for the good people of Clareopolis!' ".

It takes a hell of a lot to be that crazy in a city this big. The worst part was that I didn't know how to stop the leaking coming from my face. It took me until 11:00 AM on Friday to finally get it together. The only reason I managed to pick up those pieces was because my boss (bless his heart, he deserves an award for putting up with me), called and when he heard a catch in my voice told me he wasn't happy about how things went and he would take care of it.

And then suddenly I felt better.

It was like a Festivus Miracle.