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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.