Friday, October 30, 2009

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays. Ever since I was little, there was something magical about a night where I was allowed to run amok through my neighborhood while pretending to be someone else. An entire day devoted to wearing anything I wanted, combined with the excuse to buy loads of new and exciting makeup was just too much for me to handle and it quickly became my favorite holiday. The shit loads of free candy also helped, as I am impossibly addicted to all things that contain enough refined sugar to kill a horse, but I digress.

Ever since then, I've loved it. Even at twenty-seven, I still cherish going to the store and buying screaming red lipstick, fake eyelashes that are a mile long, and various other sparkly and glittery trinkets. This year more than any other since I've been back in Chicago, I was looking forward to buying a million pounds of candy and a bitching costume and making this the epic holiday that I adored.

I arrived home with a few (dozen) shopping bags full of all of the things a good Halloween requires, and logged into my computer.

And had the following conversation with a good friend of mine:
TweekerchickQC: I just got home from shopping! I'm so excited!
GoodFriendOfMine: ....
TweekerchickQC: It's almost Halloween! I'M SO ASITED.
GoodFriendOfMine: ....
GoodFriendOfMine: A cripple?

And that is when it occurred to me.

It is impossible to make a walking cast look cute. Or scary. Or sexy.

What happened to your foot, you ask? (Or not, but yet again I'm the only blogger I see around here so pipe down, asshole.)

Absolutely fucking nothing happened. I've been walking an assload more than I used to because of my Fancy New Job In The City, and the dress code here is a little less casual than my last job (still casual though), so most of that walking has been done in heels.

Very tall heels.

Very sexy heels.

But very tall heels nonetheless.

I assumed that I had twisted my ankle by falling off of a heel or something, but I couldn't remember anything actually happening. I walked around for a few more days1 before winding up in such blinding pain that my own mother, who one time told me I was overreacting about a cold and refused to take me to the hospital (it was pneumonia, by the way), insisted I go to the Emergency Room. After waiting while I watched some woman explain to the doctor that the reason she was holding her child's arm over his head was because he cut himself and may have nicked the artery in his little finger, and she was the single solitary reason he had not bled to death right there in the emergency room, I finally got back to a room.

After being poked, prodded, x-rayed and twisted into various contorted positions, the doctor looked at me and pulled his glasses down on his nose. He puffed his cheeks out, causing him to look like Santa if Santa was the most stereotypical Jew on the planet and put his clip board beside me.

"How you have managed to walk on this for a week is amazing".

Turns out, I have tendonitis and a 3rd degree sprain. (Did you know that sprains have degrees? I did not. Apparently, "3rd degree sprain" is a Latin term for "pump her full of drugs and send her careening through the streets of Chicago in a 10 year old Malibu".) The one thing I told Dr. Santa Weinstein was that I couldn't function in my Fancy New Job In The City on crutches, and I couldn't be on drugs that made me so ridiculous I couldn't function.

He insisted on crutches. I asked if there was an alternative. He said I could use a cane just like "That doctor on TV". After an interesting discussion in which I explained to him in excruciating detail what part of his body I'd cram a cane up if he didn't knock off the shit I left on crutches with a prescription of OxyContin. I was not amused.

A different doctor later gave me a walking cast.

Which has ruined Halloween. Halloween is the night of sluts, skanks, sexy costumes, booze and candy. It's college all over again, and I can't participate because I can't mix booze with any of the pain medications I'm on, and there's only one costume a gimpy leg works with, and I don't have the time to fashion a fake gun so I can go as that chick from Grindhouse. It is impossible to make a walking cast in any way cute or sexy. Trust me, I've tried.

This sucks. Send candy.


1 Fine, it was a week. Happy Chris?

Thursday, October 29, 2009

As I have just found a fancy new job in the city, I spend a lot of time on the CTA. This is not because I live in the city a nd find it easier to get around, and it sure as hell isn't because I have finally decided I give a shit about the environment1. It's because I leave for work at the ass crack of dawn and driving in a city full of cab drivers with death wishes and people who have such little regard for thier own safety that they will walk in front of a moving fucking vehicle and take it on faith that the driver will stop instead of running them over just doesn't sound like a whole hell of a lot of fun to me.

That, and the City of Chicago got all sorts of pissy last time I tried it2.

So, for the well being of everyone around me, I did the responsible thing and started taking the CTA to work. This seemed like the logical, safe plan that kept me from running over various pedestrians and saved me a small fortune on gas. Which is true.


Until I realized that other people ride the CTA blue line.


Generally, I am alright with other people, provided I don't have to look at them, talk to them, be near them or share anything with them. So you can see how the blue line is problematic. Then I realized3 that I have a blog that I haven't updated lately, and what a perfect platform to solve this problem.


Following is my 8 point plan to ensure that we can all continue to ride the CTA happily4:


1. I have called numerous stores around the city and suburbs of this great City of Chicago. There is not actually a shortage of soap, deodorant or toothpaste. This should be good news, as there are numerous passengers on the CTA who have not yet heard the news. The best part about soap is when used on a regular basis, you don't stink to high hell causing the cute brunette blogger beside you to hide her nose in her sleeve. For the record? Those were not tears of joy you saw. My eyes were watering because you stank like rotten garbage. The tears you saw after that were genuine, from the realization that my hair, clothes and purse all smelled like your particular brand of body odor and despite my best attempts I would not be able to go home for another nine hours to wash your stink off of me.


Soap is your friend. Toothpaste is your friend. Deodorant is your friend. For the love of fucking god, use them. All three. You are going to be wedged in a metal tube that speeds through an underground tunnel, and some of us don't feel like smelling like ass because you don't shower.



2. Don't ever touch me. This should really go without saying but sadly it does not. One happy Tuesday morning, I managed to haul my chunky ass onto the train a little bit early, and was all excited to start my day. Until I felt someone touch my hair. I have a lot of hair, and assumed that it was in someone's way. I moved my head and tried to tuck it into my coat, and again I felt a little tug. I turned around to find some scary old man smelling my hair. When I told5 him not to touch me he then proceeded to pet my hair.


Needless to say, I got off at the next stop.


This is an important rule in my plan. Don't touch people you don't know. I thought this was common sense.This is good for the safety of all passengers, because had that creepy old man touched me again, the train would've been delayed indefinately as he would've pulled back a bloody stump instead of a hand and I'd be explaining to the cops what happened.



3. Another train is coming. If the train you are trying to get on is so full that you have to propel yourself through the doors with a running start, and then suck in your stomach so the doors have room to close, it's probably best you wait for the next train. It's coming. I promise. When the conductor says "There is a train immediately following this one", generally it means "there is another train immediately following this one"6. You can wait for that one. Chances are you are not so important that you absolutetly-postiively-are-going-to-die if you have to wait for two minutes. If you're running late? Those two minutes won't likely matter. Welcome to Chicago.



4. If there is an elderly passenger, a woman with 3 kids and groceries, or someone in five inch heels7 and you are using an empty seat as a place to put your shopping bags, back pack or feet, the other passengers should be allowed to kick you until they reach their destination or you reach yours. This also goes for men who feel the need to sit down and spread their legs wider than someone who is giving birth. You're taking up two seats, this is not a pornography shoot and no one wants to see that. Furthermore, there is no way that you are so...well endowed...that you need to give Little Elvis and his back up singers that much room. I call bullshit.



5. Turn down the volume on your iPod. There is one person on earth whos taste in music I give a shit about other than my own, and he doesn't live in Chicago. Your taste in music sucks. No one wants to hear it. Turn that shit down. If you can't hear it if you turn it down , that is because by blasting that shit that you call music at decibels that rival that of a runway at O'Hare has permanently damaged your hearing. Good job, Corky.  



6. The train is loud. But it is not so loud that you need to scream to your boyfriend while he's sitting right beside you. If everyone on the train gets up and moves the minute you open your mouth, you've either violated the first point of this plan, or you're obnoxious. Usually, its some combination of the two. Use your inside voice.


7.  If you are a bigger person, more power to you. I love you, and Santa is my GUY8, but for the love of Christ stop sitting on me. Don't get me wrong, I will gladly scoot over and give you some of my seat. I am a giver like that. But lets face it. My ass isn't small, and I only have so much to give. If you can't work with the seat and a half, please get off of my lap, I can't breathe.


8. If you are getting ready to swipe your CTA pass and it is not in your hand, get the fuck out of line.There are 45 people behind you listening to that pleasant announcer claim that there is a Blue Line Train headed toward the Loop arriving shortly, and you're clogging up the works by digging through the years of recipts, results from STD tests and only God knows what else in that monstrosity you call a purse. Step out of line, let the rest of us get to the fucking train already. If we miss it, we all know another one is coming, but some of us want to get going so we can settle in and try to find a spot away from the more...fragrant...members of this community.



As you can see, I am not an unreasonable person. With just 8 easy steps, I can make the CTA a better place for everyone, instead of debarking every day with a new found respect for soap and the laws that require you to wait before purchasing a fire arm.


1 Perhaps if it wasn't so fucking trendy I'd have a different assessment. Until then, I offer the following agreement: you stop blathering about it, and I'll stop wishing that your Prius would randomly burst into flames.

2 You drive on one sidewalk, and all the sudden you're worse than Osama Bin Laden.

3 Read: felt guilty

4 Lest I have to choke a bitch.

5 Fine. It was more of a high pitched shriek.

6 I know this beacuse I have yet to see anyone starve to death waiting for the el.

7 Which are ridiculous to wear in the city but look fabulous thank-you-very-much.

8 Techincally anyone who gives me presents that doesn't expect me to sleep with them later works for me, but let's not split hairs.

Friday, October 02, 2009

My last day of work was on Wednesday.

Thursday morning I got a call offering me a job, and more than twice what I was making. I was unemployed a grand total of 2 hours.

Those two hours sucked though.

However, it is a 3 month contract to hire, so I really have to keep my nose clean until they make me a permanent offer. As Brian so kindly put it, it's kind of like Kindergarten. As long as I don't eat the glue I should be good.

I should be ridiculously happy, and I am. I'll be out of debt by February or so. However, money isn't the only thing in the world.

I find myself in the same bullshit situation. Life is going pretty fabulously right now, and then the one person I always fall for comes back around. I try not to let him get to me, but for some reason I'm incapable of doing so. It just seems like no matter what I do he's always got me wrapped around his little fucking finger.

One of these days I'm going to bite that finger completely off.

Anyway, I feel like a kid in a candy store. Once the debt is all paid off, I'm going shopping. Buying a bunch of things at Victoria's Secret, a PS3, a new car, a gym membership, a new couch, and about $9,000 worth of shoes.

I'm stoked.

Keep your fingers crossed that I don't accidentally eat the glue.