It has not been an uneventful past couple of weeks.

As it turns out, I did not wind up bludgeoned to death by an irritating Frenchman.

It also turns out that a lot of the stereotypes Americans hold about the French are there because they are true. Sometimes I think I'm just better off being single, that way the only person who ever pisses me off is me.

Minus the loss of a friend (I'm leaving it at that. I refuse to turn what is a horrible thing into blog fodder), the crazy has been good though.

I am still at the job I didn't think that I'd like. Turns out, I was wrong. I love it here. I am good at what I do, and have kind of carved myself out a nice little niche. I have the best boss a girl could ask for, and for the most part my coworkers are a great bunch of people. There are a few exceptions to the "great bunch of people" statement, and mark my words: They will stop acting like assholes, or I will make their lives a living hell. It's their choice, really.

Anyway, about six months ago I interviewed for a job at what is going to be the biggest airline in the world. 6 months of interviews, and they finally came back with an offer.

And it was obscene.

I actually thought it was some sort of typo. After reading the entire thing, I was honestly surprised that they didn't include a pool boy named Raoul and my own company Porsche. I would not pay me that much, and I know me and I think that I am awesome.

The problem being? My manager would be going on Maternity leave 2 weeks after I got there, they were being totally inflexible with my start date, and from the sounds of it I would be walking into a huge mess. Not to mention they are currently working on a merger.

In the mean time, my boss where I'm at is finally comfortable enough to go on vacation for 2 weeks and leave me to take care of things, and even though I'm contract the work isn't slowing down any. 

Decisions decisions.

Ultimately, I told my Very Awesome Boss that I would have to go to the airline unless I could be hired on as a full time employee at some point. No more of this contractor shit.(Contracting gives you a lot of flexibility, but this not getting paid for time off thing is starting to chap my ass. I haven't had a proper vacation in years and most of the time I feel like I'm a minor irritation away from hitting someone in the face with a stapler. I'm going to need those benefits sooner than later.) His boss was supposed to call me by end of day Friday, which is when they needed my answer.

Nothing. So I signed the papers. I had actually started faxing the signed offer over when his boss called me.
"YOU DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WITH THE AIRLINE YET DID YOU?"

What do you do with that?

If you're me, you frantically start hitting the cancel button while desperately yanking the papers out of the fax machine, while saying "No, why do you ask?"

At literally the very last second, they made me a verbal offer. She even offered me more vacation time than the airline, and the company would pay for my insurance until benefits kicked in. So I'm staying put. Sure I turned down a shit ton of money. Which sort of makes me itch. But on the same token, my boss went to amazing lengths to make me stay. My girls in marketing were super excited, and at the end of the day, working for a boss that not only doesn't make you want to kill yourself but is someone you genuinely like is something you can't put a price tag on. Very few people will ever feel that appreciated and valued at their place of work*.

Now I wait for the official offer, and hope I made the right choice.

I think I did.



*By the way. If you are my old boss? The one who always told me what a pain in the ass I was and how I was never really good at much? The airline's offer was FOUR TIMES what you paid me, and the place begging me to stay is a huge company. In short: Fuck you with a big stick.

Things That Made Me Laugh This Past Week


Backstory: Spring's Boyfriend had a big bunch of sand in his vagina because they don't have enough in common. Whatever that means. So yet again, he decided to make her sit down and discuss her feelings. I'm told the middle of a very serious discussion about their relationship went something like this.

Boyfriend: We don't have enough in common, you never do anything with me.
Spring: Like what?!
Boyfriend: Like, you never go jogging with me...
Spring: Why the fuck would I go jogging, that's why I have a car.




Backstory: Her little car quip didn't go over well, he threw a fit and she called me for advice on what to do.

Clare: He wants you to show your feelings!
Spring: I don't have feelings!
Clare: Pretend! He's the chick in this relationship, obviously. What would you want if that was you?
Spring: I don't know? Send him flowers?
Clare: Spring do not send him flowers.
Spring: FINE. Send him a balloon bouquet to work?
Clare: Spring do not send him a bouquet of balloons to work.
Spring: Why not? Its the only idea I have.
Clare: Well, for starters, he works at the jail.




Irritating Hippy Spouting Off BS About the Environment Downtown: Do you want to learn about <something I blocked out because I just don't care>.
Clare: No.
Irritating Hippy: WHY DO YOU HATE THE EARTH!?
Clare: Don't be ridiculous, I don't hate the Earth. I live on it, don't I?
Homeless guy: <laughs hysterically>

My friends from home have come and gone, and I have no idea what I was worried about. I haven't had that much fun in a long time.

I should have had some indication of how the night was going to go when while we were getting ready, we clipped Belinda's hair extensions on to Cece, and gave her the most rocking mullet anyone has ever seen. There are pictures of this. I will find them. She wandered around my apartment looking like Joe Dirt's long lost sister for awhile. After Spring gave herself a 3rd degree burn on her forehead with an Instyler, we decided it was time to hit the city.

So we went to Morton's.

Where we proceeded to eat ourselves damn near retarded. Spring spent most of the meal refusing to speak to anyone, as that would require a break from the food, anything Belinda ate went straight to her boobs, and Cece ate a steak that may actually have been bigger than she was.

Then we hit the bars, when we realized Belinda left her ID in Iowa. Belinda is pretty well past her 20's at this point, but she is one of those lucky bitches who will look 22 until the day she dies. If she wasn't awesome, I'd hate her on principle alone. She looks like Rosario Dawson, and I don't, thus she must be destroyed. Anyway.

We wound up at some bar on Rush and Divison, simply because between the two of us we managed to fanagle a bouncer into letting her in without an ID. Do not ask me how we pulled that off.

That's also when I started drinking tequila. Anyone who has known me for 10 minutes knows that I need extra supervision when I drink tequila. A lot of extra supervision.

By my count, I was 16 shots in when I called my friend Con to inform him that I was drunk, and surprisingly not calling from jail. We had a hell of a time. I was in rare form even for me, and wound up snagging the numbers of a gorgeous African guy. And the hot female asian bartender. Whatever, that's just how I roll.

It really got fun when my girls decided that we were taking a bunch of Irish guys back to my apartment with  us. When I say Irish, I don't mean Pasty White Guys Who Say Their Ancestors Are Irish. I mean Can't-Understand-A-Word-They-Say-But-I-Don't-Care-Because-They're-Hot Irish. 8 of us packed into a cab, which we got kicked out of shortly afterwards.

At this point, I was less than amused. We were bringing the Boondock saints back to my place, we were all ripped drunk, and I had had enough. I could give a fuck what happened to everyone else, the 3 girls that left with me were coming back with me. Anyone who wanted to tag along, fine.

Spring at this point decided I'd be less pissed off if she petted my hair and told me I was pretty. Which she did for about 45 minutes on the platform for the Blue Line. Whenever I asked her what the fuck she thought she was doing, she would respond with "Shh mama, you're pretty."

I should've known that it would've been a mess once we got off the train. I finally just shoved the girls in the direction of the car, and told them it was like watching 4 monkeys try to fuck a football.

I look over and this guy is laughing at me. He introduced himself, and asked if he could take me to breakfast.

Now, I am wasted. Not a little tipsy. I am seeing 3 of everything, Im hotter than you will ever be, giving my actual phone number to people wasted. You know, the special kind of drunk you usually only see on episodes of Intervention.

At about this time, I turn around and realize my friends have left me alone in the parking garage at the Cumberland stop of the Blue Line at 4 AM with some French guy who wants to take me out. (I'm lucky I wasnt bludgeoned to death). So you know what I did, right?

Right.

I was that special kind of drunk where I gave my number to a French dude at the train station at 4 AM.

Go ahead and think about that for awhile, I'll wait. It takes awhile to fully comprehend how absolutely stupid that was.

We finally made it back to my apartment, which now kind of resembles the United Nations because it's chock full of people with funny accents and more calling. To my surprise, The Frenchman called.

We are going out for drinks in a few days.

If you never hear from me again, It's because I decided to go out with someone I met on the Blue Line. At 4 AM.

Because really, what could go wrong with that scenario?

Im so excited!

A few friends from the Quad Cities are driving out here tomorrow to see me and go out!

Part of me is excited: My apartment is reasonably clean if you don't open my bedroom door, and it's been a long time since I've seen these guys.

The other part of me is terrified. I am older than I was, and I can no longer drink the night away. Not to mention, when I first met these people I was in a pretty bad place. Fine. I was an emo cunt. There, you happy?

Moving on.

Now I am far less likely to put up with some of the same shit I used to put up with when I first met these folks. Not to mention, I have a spine again.

Its totally unreasonable, but part of me is terrified that the weekend is going to suck. Or somehow, we won't get along anymore. Or somehow, I'll cramp their style because instead of being fun I'm a total sell out who works a boring corporate job.

Case in point? I just tore apart my closet looking for shoes to wear out tomorrow. I've decided I hate all of my shoes, and I was stupid for buying them in the first place. I obviously have no taste and should be locked away where I will no longer offend society with my taste in footwear.

Not to mention, suddenly I'm totally uncomfortable wandering around dressed like a slut.

I know, crazy right?

When the fuck did I get old?

I'm sure I'm just being crazy and the second that tequila hits my lips all will be right with the world again.

Ugh. Valentine's Day.

If you've read...well...anything I've ever written in the span of all of my 27 years of life, you'd have known by now that Valentine's Day is my least favorite holiday.

That's not true.

Thanksgiving is now my least favorite holiday, but only because my ex boyfriend took it upon himself to ruin it for me. Remind me to thank him for that later.

It's not that I hate it because I'm somehow bitter because I'm single. I'm usually single. I spent the majority of my life single. Until I trick some unsuspecting guy into marrying me, I'll probably stay single.

I'm alright with that. It gives me time to write, drink myself into a drunken stupor and generally sleep with anyone I feel like.

What I'm not alright with is the way other people respond when they find out I'm not dating someone. It doesn't bother me, until I have to have a conversation which goes quite a bit like this:

Person: So who is your Valentine?
Clare: I don't have one, I'm not seeing anyone.
Person: Really? I'd have thought you would have one.
Clare: Nope! Not this year, maybe next year.
Person: That's just..that's too bad.
Clare: It's alright, I've got a lot to do anyway.
Person: That just doesn't seem right.
Clare: What doesn't?
Person: That you wouldn't have a Valentine.
Clare: It's really not a big deal.
Person: Don't you get lonely?


And so on, so forth. This usually goes on until the person has somehow made me feel like utter crap for not buying into this type of bullshit, before they run along, shitting out candy hearts, rose petals and fucking rainbows along the way.

Part of the reason Valentine's Day irks me is the entire idea behind it. Even if I wasn't single, I'd hope that my significant other would show me that he loved and cared about me more than just one day a year because Hallmark told him he had to. I don't want someone to have to show their affection for me because they are afraid they'll get yelled at if they don't, that's why we have birthdays and Christmas.

That being said, I'm going to finish up my work here and go home alone to my lonely apartment where I will work out alone, watch SpongeBob Squarepants alone, and try to catch up on some writing. After that I will bask in the lonely alone-ness all alone.

And I can't wait.

Being alone doesn't bother me. If someone could tell me why my being alone bothers so many other people, I'd love to hear it.

It was a pretty low key new year.

Lots of beer, and just chilling at Steve's with a lot of really awesome people. Some friends I made in the last year, some I made that night. Either way, it was a nice way to ring in the new year, and send off 2009, which I have nicknamed "2009: The Year Of Suck".

It was a good night to put things in perspective: I am very lucky to be surrounded by people I love and people who love me. I hope that all of you were as lucky as me. I wish you all a happy new year, and hope you all got home safe and sound last night.

It was a shitty year, but now? Clean slate. Time to get back on track.

I make resolutions every year, and most of them fall flat on their faces. This year I think will be different. I spent the last year putting the right pieces in place, and instead of focusing on some short term results, I'm looking into long term changes. Which is code for "This will suck".

The list is the usual: read more, work out more, be nicer to my ex boyfriend.

But I figure a good way to start is by overhauling my little blog. It's looked the same for years, and now I need a change.

And I have no ideas on what I want to do to it.

Good start.

I hope everyone had a good Christmas, or whatever holiday you Godless heathens celebrate.

Yet again, life kicked me in the butt. My Fancy New Job In The City gave my entire team their walking papers...2 weeks early. And to sweeten the pot, they told us this 4 days before our end date, and the week before Christmas.

I've been happier.

 

However, I got exceptionally lucky, and managed to fanagle myself a new job with another huge health care company for similar money. I started today. So there was no down time, really. I could've started yesterday, but I had to drag out Christmas just a little bit longer.

 

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure how I feel about the job yet. My last job spoiled the crap out of me: casual dress, flexible hours, and a great team of people to work with. So being thrown back into a super controlled enviornment kind of makes me apprehensive.

 

But there's only one way to find out I suppose.

I know it's only my first day, but I really miss my old team.

 

 

I know it's been a little bit since I've updated and I swore that I'd be better about it, so here we are.

This whole commuting into the city thing can be kind of a mess in the winter.

If you want the truth: Chicago is a cold, windy city and in the winter it's cold, windy and wet.

There are fewer things I hate in life than being cold and wet. Except maybe being cold and wet and outside.

The problem being, if I'm running late for work, the walk from the Clark and Lake Station to the Red Line to the Pedway to my office will make me really stinking late. A little late, I can handle. This is Chicago, everyone is a little late. I try to avoid the "Holy shit is Clare even coming in today?" kind of late, at least until they hire me on permanently.

So there are a lot of cab rides. Usually, I'm not opposed to just running from Clark and Lake to my office, but there is not a chance in hell I'd do it in the winter.

I could be chased by a mob of people holding torches and pitchforks, and I still wouldn't run outside in Downtown Chicago in the winter.

Earlier this week, I decided to snag a cab as to not be ridiculously late.

I slid in and said "<Address of my work> East Wacker, please".

The cab driver nodded, and promptly turned left instead of right. It was about then that I noticed the Jesus station on the radio. Whatever, his cab, his choice, right?

I said "I'm sorry, I wanted EAST Wacker, not South Wacker"

While still heading in the opposite direction, the cabbie then asked me if I knew Jesus.

"Not personally, no. You need to turn left, you're going in the wrong direction. I wanted East Wacker".

He nodded, and while still driving in the wrong direction, proceeded to ask me if I've been saved.

"Yea, Jesus, real cool guy. EAST WACKER. You need to make a left you're going the wrong way!"

"HAVE YOU ACCEPTED JESUS AS YOUR LORD AND SAVIOR?!"

And somehow, some way, that was just it.

"Jesus wouldn't let you pad the fare. GOD DAMN IT I SAID EAST FUCKING WACKER!"

Little did I know, that in the world of Bible Thumping Cab Drivers, the phrase "God Damn it" is a secret password? Apparently, it is because the minute those words came flying out of my mouth he pulled the cab over to the shoulder and demanded that I get out.

I would be lying if I said it didn't take a second to register.

He repeated himself "get out of my cab".

I looked at him, and said "I bet Jesus never kicked anyone out of HIS cab". Then I got out and slammed the door.

I got kicked out of a cab in Chicago. I just kind of stood there for a second thinking, well, that was a first. The good news is, the cab I hailed immediately afterwards knew where my office building was, and spent the entire ride telling me inappropriate Tiger Woods' jokes.

Second cab driver, you are awesome.

Happy!

My iPod is no longer missing.

My coworker, sick of my constant bitching and moaning, used the magical powers bestowed on her by the pilgrims to find my iPod.

She just walked by, tossed it on my desk, and kept walking.


HOORAY!

I was having such a good day, too.

I love my new job and I love everyone I work with, which is why I am eternally pissed off.

Let me tell you a little story about an iPod.

I've had the same iPod for literally five years. It is full of music from a hard drive that I have sitting in a tower I can't use until I get a new power source, so it's stuff I don't generally have access to at home. Yes, it's my own fault for not fixing this little problem faster.

My iPod is old. It's big and clunky, and as far as iPods go, it's kind of  a dinosaur. It's seen a lot in it's time: college finals, three jobs, two moves, four published magazine articles, about seven different flights and the worst breakup of my life.

It has survived me dropping it in a puddle, accidentally throwing it across a parking lot, and being carried around in my purse with everything else I own. It carried me through numerous workouts, and a broken heart I thought would never heal.

It's old, it's beat up, but I still love it, even if it only holds a charge for about an hour.

Work has been ridiculous lately, so we've been pulling a lot of hours. Thus, the trusty iPod comes out. Somehow, a little heavy metal makes 15 hour days just go faster.

So you can try to imagine the pure joy I felt when I walked into work today and realized it was gone.

Last night I was in such a hurry to go the hell home, I forgot to bring my iPod with me. I left it plugged in, sitting on my desk. Which I admit is my own fault, but we've all accidentally left things at work.

I came in this morning, at 7 in the fucking morning, and found the headphones laying next to the charger, with no iPod in sight.

How thoughtful, they left me the fucking charger and headphones for an iPod they stole.

I hope they needed it more than me. I really do, because there are songs on that thing that are irreplaceable (some from a friend of mine that he sent to me in college. I can't exactly buy that on iTunes).

Obviously, I don't think work is an appropriate place to leave expensive pieces of technology. But I also like to think that we live in a world where if someone was to accidentally forget something at work, it's not considered open season for whoever happens to wander by. I guess I was mistaken. Thank you for ruining what little faith in humanity I had left.

Enjoy my iPod, you sack of shit. Happy fucking Thanksgiving.

I am not a nice sick person. I've never been a nice sick person. I'm a "leave me alone" sick person.

I am fine with that.

I am sicker than hell right now. It's put me in a chipper mood to say the least. When I say sick, I don't mean like "oh, Clare has a cold". I mean, I have fluid in my lungs, a fever, and this is the first time in two days I haven't been totally out of it. I've got a cough that can rattle windows, and the sheer amount of steroids I have surging through my system either make me a shoe in if anyone needs a Lou Ferrigno impersonator or if any Major League Baseball teams are hiring.

Today I finally got off the couch, and managed to somehow make it to Walgreen's. It was a quick mission: More soup, some orange juice, a box of Kleenex, and despite my thinking its hippy crap, a vaporizer. I've never been a huge fan of vaporizers. With my lungs, a vaporizer is kind of like putting a band-aid on a gunshot wound. It's not going to do much good, and you look like an idiot. That, and I rank it's medical usage right up there with magic crystals and herbal supplements. Some people swear by them. I prefer my drugs to be prescription grade controlled substances that are quality assured and handed to me by a professional with an incredibly expensive education.

But what the hell, I'm desperate.

So, I'm standing (or doing my best) in line, holding my arsenal of medications and coughing and hacking up a lung. The problem with having even a little fluid in your lung is that it makes an obnoxious rattling noise, and leaves me with a cough that sounds like it belongs to a 400 pound man.

I was waiting for my total, when the most uppity cunt I have ever seen stepped up behind me. She looked me up and down and then started whispering loudly to her husband about how I have no business being out in public with what is obviously the swine flu. She prattled away about how I am the example of everything that's wrong with our world, that people only care about themselves and we are all selfish.

And honestly? I'm just not in the fucking mood to listen to this shit.

I turned to her, and said "Excuse me? In case your wondering, my doctor diagnosed me with pneumonia. Which isn't contagious. Just incredibly uncomfortable. In the 24 years I've seen this particular doctor, he has never once misdiagnosed me. However, you are right people are selfish. And on the off chance that he is mistaken, and I do have the swine flu, I'd like you to be the first I celebrate the occasion with."

At which point I coughed into my hand and proceeded to blow it into her face.

I would be lying if I said that at the moment, I didn't wish I had Ebola.

I have never been a particularly good sick person.

Even when I was little, I'd tell whoever it was that was trying to take care of me to leave me alone and go back to bed. I'd be so insistent that eventually even my mother had no choice but to actually leave me alone.

The problem about my fancy new job in the city is that it is in the part of Chicago that everyone thinks about when they think of Chicago. It's right by all the notable things that you see in movies. Just in my commute I pass numerous landmarks that are famous. The Chicago Theatre, Millennium Park, Navy Pier, and State Street are a couple of them. Most of it depends on the traffic and time of day.

But my all time favorite street to pass through is Michigan Avenue. It's hands down my favorite part of Chicago. I could sit here and lie to you and say it's the spectacular buildings in the area. That it is just a beautiful and convenient place to get to. I would be lying. The buildings are beautiful, but so are half of the buildings in Chicago. And anyone who believes that anywhere in Chicago is easy to get to has obviously never had the pleasure of navigating our public transit system.

The reason the Magnificent Mile is my favorite place in the city is the sheer abundance of ridiculously priced luxury brands. Nowhere else in the city can you be surrounded by Tiffany and Co, Gucci, and Prada. You can walk from Louis Vuitton to the Coq d'Or at the Drake Hotel for a drink. I could spend hours at Cartier, staring at jewelry that is fit for a movie star or queen, and then wander over to Ferragamo. After that I can wander over to the Intercontinental Hotel and munch at Zest while gazing at people who make four million times the money I do.

It's a nice little slice of retail heaven right here in Chicago. Even if I don't shop there for fear that a purse will throw me into a debt that is rivaled only by my student loans, I still love it and can't think of a single place I'd rather be. It's an adult game of dress up. No one there knows that I can't afford a single thing I look at in the stores. Until they read this anyhow.

The problem with passing these things on a daily basis is that they become ordinary. Things seem to lose a bit of their magic when you are shuttled past them every day on your way to or from work or school. So when I left work early yesterday because I wasn't feeling well, the Magnificent Mile was more like "the Longest Street Ever Between Me and Home".

Being a shitty sick person, I hailed a cab to take me to the train station and settled in while my cab driver, who looked like he came straight from a police line up drove down Michigan Avenue.

We were almost at the Drake when I realized how sick I really was, and it dawned on me.

I had the cabbie pull over just past the Drake hotel, where I proceeded to, at 2:30 in the afternoon on a Wednesday, hang out of a cab and throw up on to the Magnificent Mile.

It was only when I looked up to close the car door that I saw the group of Asian tourists standing six feet away from me, staring open mouthed in my direction.

I did the only thing I could think to do in that situation. I smiled, waved and said "Welcome to Chicago!"

I'm sure the pictures will be showing up on the internet shortly.

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: ....
TweekerchickQC: GUESS WHAT I'M GOING TO BE!
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.

notes

¹ Fine, it was a week. Happy Chris?

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.

notes

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.

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.

If you are in or around the Chicago-land area today, you have probably heard about Oprah shutting down the Magnificent Mile just to show the world that she is in fact more powerful than Jesus.

I'm glad I don't work downtown at the moment, because I'm sure it's a hot mess. However, I just landed a 3rd interview at a place that is actually located at One Magnificent Mile. If I worked there today, Oprah and I would not be getting along.

Also, I just scored having the 50 Mistakes published in a US magazine. When I know more details, I'll share them. The good (and bad) news is that it's a new publication. I'm currently writing up some samples so they might let me write for them on an ongoing basis. Which just seems like a lot of fun. Sex in the City but with better shoes and less herpes kind of thing.

It's because of this that I had someone ask me how I would know if I've really made it with this writing thing that I've been muddling my way through.

Because she has chosen today to show what extensive power she holds over everyone on Earth, Oprah has been doing interviews on every damn radio station in the city. I caught the tail end of one interview where she stated that she would do a shot of tequila- lime no salt- because that's how you know it's a party.

Holy shit, Oprah takes her tequila the same way I do.

That's when it hit me. That's when I figured out my litmus test for success, if you will. Screw being published. Screw TV.

When I can look you in the eye and say "I've done tequila shots with Oprah", that's when I'll know I've achieved my dreams. Why? Because it's damn near impossible to even meet her. You have to be successful to get on her show, and even then she's highly selective on who she hangs out with. If I ever find myself in a position to do tequila shots with someone powerful and filthy fucking rich enough to shut down the Magnificent Mile at her whim?

I think that would be a pretty good indication.

Plus, it just sounds like something I'd do.

The thing with job interviews is that you never know exactly what you're going to get. Kind of like a blind date. Despite what you've heard, there is always a very real possibility that your prince charming is going to wind up being some middle aged balding guy with his chest hair poking out of the top of his shirt and a habit of calling women "Toots".

When your date turns out to be, say, a tall dark and handsome lawyer who wears Armani, it's a pleasant surprise.

I went on a job interview yesterday, that I honestly didn't have high hopes for. The job ad gives you the same bullshit: flex time, loft space, creative environment, etc.

So I assumed that I was walking into what would more likely than not be my own personal hell.

Turns out, the hiring manager is a great guy. The team I'd be working with consists of this awesome chick, a guy who reminds me of Jack from Will and Grace, and a really good looking Tool fan. I mean really good looking.

I sat down for the second phase of my interview, and the first thing one of the team members did was make a dick joke. I was floored. Someone just made a big penis joke during my interview.

I belong here.

That facet of the interview went well, and then it was time to meet the CEO. Everyone I had met up until then had been pretty awesome, and by all accounts he's a pretty decent guy too. He sits down, wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt and leans back in the chair.

He kind of locked his fingers behind his head and said "I have one question for you".

Ok, hit me.

Folks, I am not making this up.

"If you had a gigabyte of data, and every character was one byte, how many stories tall would it be if you printed it out?"

To which my response was "...What?"

So, I did what I could. I told him theoretically the math you'd use to figure it out. He then stretched his arms out over his head a little bit and said "Ok, do it."

"....do what?"
"Figure it out."
"...here?"
"Yes."
"But I kind of lack the resources I'd need to ans..."
"Use what you know from your everyday life. Ball park it."
"...can I phone a friend?"

Apparently, no, I could not phone a friend.

After about 20 minutes of making my hiring manager do the basic math for me while I tried explaining the numbers I had and how I came up with them (I finally wore him down into settling on a font size and other such things), I finally came to the answer of about 18 stories high.

No one said a word.

Of course, this is my hell. I've had nightmares about this. Of course they aren't saying anything. They're wondering how I've made it this long in my life without being able to do basic math. (Random aside: I'm sorry to Dr. Fenwick. I was wrong when I told you I'd never have to use this shit.)

The CEO finally looks at me and laughs, and said "No one ever gets that right. Good job." He then shook my hand and walked out.

I looked at the hiring manager, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

I finally said, 'So what's the answer to that question?"

"Between 18-20 stories. Good job."

I was actually fucking right. What is up NOW, bitches?!

I couldn't do it again if you paid me.

There is some good news!

In October, I will be officially unemployed.

I know, you're probably thinking "How is that good news?", let me tell you.

It gives me ample time to either find a job suitable to my ridiculously random skill set, or gives me ample time to sit at my parents house and write my book. Either way it seems like my life will be a hell of a lot less stressful, once you take my current financial clusterfuck out of the equation.

I think a lot of my friends are waiting for me to absolutely snap. I got bent over by a credit card company, and rightfully so. Turns out, when you're not paid on time, and then not paid the full amount, after a few months you fall out of favor with your creditors.

Who'd have thunk, right?

I do have an interview today, to do something that I'm really goddamn good at. It's one of those things that when I started doing it 10 years ago, I was doing it for fun. I kept it up, and suddenly 2 years ago it's the New Hot Job. Of course, I didn't realize this as I was busy sitting back thinking "People will pay me for this? Seriously? And I get to keep my shirt on the entire time?"

A little part of me hopes they offer me the job today, so I can walk back into my office, take my pictures off my desk, toss them the keys and tell them to mail me my next check.

So yea, another turd in the sea of shit that has become my life.

However, I have faith it'll get better.

If not, I suppose I can always take up stripping.

What a lazy Sunday.

I have a lot of work to do for my job, and a lot of work to do for an upcoming interview I have. I'm really excited, because I would love to have this job. LOVE.

But I'm trying to not get my hopes up.

Anyway, I was going through my usual reads and I found the saddest blog post from my buddy thesuit.
Turns out, while he was rocking out to Incubus, his condo was burning. Makes me want to cry for him, because all the sudden I have all these feelings I don't know what to do with. (Must be a PMS thing). Anyway, keep him in your prayers. He's special to me, and I can only hope some attractive rich woman sees what happened and decides she wants him as a pool boy.

Hey, weirder things have happened.

Obligatory birthday post!

I'm not sure if it's the martinis I had with my heterolifemate, or the chocolate cake I got from a coworker, but holy crap I'm in a great mood considering I'm now old.

I always hoped things would be a little different by now. It's kind of sad being twenty seven and still struggling to make bills, but I figure it's just a matter of time until things turn around. If not, there's always alcoholism.

Anyway, I wanted to thank everyone for all the good wishes in my email, on facebook and on twitter. You guys are amazing and I love most of you. :)

Time to pass out in a puddle of diet coke and leftover cake.

Tomorrow is going to suck. I'm too old for this!

Life has kind of sucked balls lately. I've been doing some reevaluating, and I've decided this is not exactly how I expected my life to turn out. Working at a job that doesn't pay me enough when they do manage to pay me (15 days late last month!). A few less publishing credits than I'd like. A few more gray hairs than I'd like. A few less significant others than I'd like.

The significant other thing is more my own fault than anything. On the "nurturing and caring" scale, I rank somewhere between Hitler and animals that eat their own young. I doubt that will change anytime soon, so it takes a special kind of guy.

All of that is actually, now that I write it down, not that big of a deal. It's all shit that I am totally capable of changing. Which is why I work my ass off. Because I believe it won't always be this bad. I also believe that the Geico caveman is the worst advertising idea in the history of the world, but they continue to be on TV, so it's pretty obvious that I've been wrong before.

My birthday is coming up in exactly 7 days. I'm turning 27! Whee. The plan is the same I have for every year: go out with a few friends and anyone else who they decide to bring (I honest to God do not care who shows up as long as they aren't one of three people I will punch in the face on sight and aren't assholes). We will most likely go out for dinner somewhere (again, doesn't matter where, my favorite restaurant is in Iowa, and it takes a real bitch to make everyone drive to Iowa for your birthday).

Then we will go to the city*, where I will get so drunk one of two things will happen. I will either get drunk enough to think I am the hottest woman in the entire room...nay the entire city, or I will drink until I stop feeling feelings.

Either way, the night ends with my friends dumping my drunk ass off at my place and me waking up with no clue how I got there, or why I have a hickey there. The only thing that could make it better would be a concert where I got to punch someone in the face again.

*I was going to announce the name of the club, but for some personal safety reasons I decided against it. Read: Stalkers ruin the fun for everyone, good job.
However, if you want to know where we're going and want to stop in or tag a long, ping me at TweekerchickQC on AIM or on Gmail, and if you're not stalking me, I'll probably fill you in on the details. If not, that's a big hint that you're the asshole I'm talking about.

Anyway, fun link for Fun!
I give to you: Goths in Hot Weather.
It's exactly what it sounds like. People dressed like Goths in hot weather. Why it's amusing as it is, I can't tell you. But it is.

Since I lost Internet, I had not been keeping up with my promise to post some of my random linkage.

My bad.

Here, check out Post Cards From Yo Momma.

For all of us who miss our Moms, it's a collection of conversations other people have had with theirs.

One of my favorites:
Me: I don’t know what to get my husband for his birthday
Mom: Well, I don’t know if the standards are higher in New York, but in Oakridge, a 6-pack and a blowjob would do. That’s all men around here want.

Ugh. I haven't had a lot to blog about lately so I just haven't. Oh, and the not being paid on time ever resulting in my internet being cut off definitely put a crimp in things for awhile.

Then work sucked the life out of me for awhile. Nothing quite like almost being laid off, responding with "no, I don't think so", and managing to in the span of 24 hours become "a valuable part of the company".

I deserve a plaque for that. Apparently, it takes a serious set of brass testicles to look at someone who just told you that they didn't want to employ you anymore and say "No."

Extra points because they then asked if I would work part time. Again, I said "No, I don't think so."

Apparently, when other people get laid off, they actually do things like...leave.

The entire situation is giving me gray hair and it's making me more a bitchy, miserable person than I was before. Nothing says "Happy Tuesday" like going home, drinking three glasses of wine and sobbing hysterically to my poor, sweet ex boyfriend who made the mistake of calling me in the middle of it.

I say that's what he gets for calling me anyway. But he gets points, he did make me feel loads better.

In case you're wondering? Having to worry if today is the day they're going to lay you off sucks big huge donkey balls.

So does the fact that I am the only person on earth who can wind up with a streaky tan using gradual tanning lotion. I didn't think it was possible, but it is. Part of my leg is so white its blinding, and the 'gradual tan' the rest of me has sets it off beautifully.

Anyway, I have Internet at home now, so I'm back!

I know, I missed me too.

Just popping in to wish everyone a happy 4th of July.

I'm going to be in Indiana with my fat Pomeranian, so I hope you all have a fun, safe holiday.

Don't blow off any of your fingers.


And check out Passive Aggressive Notes. It's one of my new favorite sites and it's hilarious.

I used to think that I had the worst luck with dating.

Actually, I still think that. Put 49 well adjusted highly successful men in one room with one highly successful working addict with mental problems, and 99% of the time I'll automatically pick the addict as the hottest in the room. It's my gift, I find dysfunctional men. This also makes me a brilliant recruiter because I can just tell but I digress.

My friend Rachel Chang? Totally beats me.

Everyone has dated someone older before. It's one of those things that make us all human, and tie us all together. That and pornography. Generally, you realize that dating a forty-year old when you're twenty just isn't going to work and you part ways. (There are notable exceptions, shut your hole).

Unless you're Rachel Chang.

If you're Rachel, you go about your daily life, buy a house, and meet your neighbors, only to discover that your new next door neighbor is the forty-year old you probably shouldn't have dated in the first place.

So what does she do? Calls me for support. You'd assume she'd know better by now.

Since I couldn't give her any advice through the hysterical laughter last night, I'll do it here.

There are two obvious ways to deal with this.

You either have to set fire to his house, or move.

Good luck.


Anyway, here's my link for the day, from the Foggy Monocle. I ADORE that website, but this is my favorite entry ever.

Poke around the rest of the site, it's great.

A friend of mine suggested I go through my long random list of links, and post a new one every day to keep him entertained.

Every day.

That's a lot of, well, effort. But I can't say no to a cute guy so here we go, at least until I forget.

First up, John Daly Motivational Posters.

It has been a craptacular week in terms of people dying.

My ex boyfriend felt the need to IM me to let me know that Billie Mays died.

Dude. It's always someone.

This sucks.

I've never been one of those people who cries when celebrities that I've never met kick the bucket. But for some reason it tears my heartstrings just a little bit when people who you can tell were super nice guys bite it early.

If they keep dying off like this, we're going to be left with people like Tila Tequila or whatever the fuck her name was and the cast of Flava Of Love. Do you really want that? I think not.

Anyway, time to send off some queries. Wish me luck!

I'm learning the hard way that it's not always easy to be friends with your exes.

I'm that idiot who always dates people that I've established really great friendships with prior to us fucking it up by dating, so when things inevitably go bad, it's never a clean break. Ever.

Generally, I've done a pretty decent job of staying friends with my exes.

But theres always that few that you still have some passion with, and no matter what you do the same fights keep creeping out of the wood work.

Part of me wants to remain friends, to try to get back what we had.

The other part of me isn't functionally retarded and knows that it's impossible and the problems we had as a couple aren't just going to disappear. I wish they would, though.

The same arguments start getting old. I'm still a bitch who isn't pretty enough for him, and he's still a worthless sack of shit with no redeeming qualities that can't satisfy me in bed.

It's the same old shit over and over again, and it's kind of sad.

Maybe I should adopt the same idea my friend did: I have enough friends, there's the door.

Boo for being a fucking softie.

I am in what seems like a never ending fight with AT&T.

I will lose that fight. It's because of this that I'm typing this blog from the lovely Bensenville Public Library, which has apparently never heard of a chair with any type of padding. Jesus H Christ, sitting in the parking lot would be more comfortable but I digress.

Unlike most of the assholes in the planet who like to call themselves writers, I hate writing in public. There is nothing that screams "Untalented, pretentious asshole" more than lugging your laptop into a public place and setting up shop on the hope that one, just one person, will stop and ask what you are doing so you have the chance to say "I'm a writer".

Actually, no you aren't, you're a pretentious dick, but again I digress.

Writing in public sucks for a few reasons. One, there is a guy snoring and it's throwing off my concentration. Two, I can't really rock out to music in the library (I won't wear headphones in public.) Three?

They insist I wear pants.

I can't write with pants on! Did Paris Hilton create her empire with pants on? Did Bill Clinton lead this country with pants on? Did Jenna Jameson become Jenna Jameson with her pants on?

I think not.

If they can't do their jobs with their pants on, how can I be expected to write with pants on?!

I can't work under these conditions, and I shouldn't have to.

I will be writing a letter to my Congressman.

So, unless you've been living under a rock, you know that Michael Jackson died.

Kind of a bummer, I really enjoyed some of his music.

That being said, Farrah Fawcett died yesterday too, and if I were her, I'd be right pissed that the King Of Pop took some of my "Died before my time" thunder away.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think that either should be ignored. They were both icons.

But I made the mistake of watching the news and had to suffer through fifteen minutes of Michael Jackson's death. Look, it's his place in Gary, Indiana. Look, it's a bunch of people who don't have all their teeth standing outside of his place in Gary, Indiana. Look, it's someone no one has ever heard of talking about how much he liked Michael Jackson. Look, it's some drunk white guy stepping between the reporter and the camera in Gary, Indiana.

Farrah Fawcett was mentioned as almost an after thought, and on one network not at all. Well played, guys.

I dunno, the media circus surrounding celebrity deaths has always kind of bothered me. It's impossible to grieve for your loved one with a camera in your face. Standing a reporter outside a place where a famous person lived when they were seven isn't news. It's obnoxious.

Can we get back to real news, like President Obama killing a fly in a fit of murderous rage, already?

Busy busy busy busy busy.

I've been so busy writing that I'm exhausted. I've been in meetings for Something-Awesome-That-I-Can't-Openly-Discuss-Yet, polishing up my proposal and query letter, waiting for a new contract and trying not to fall asleep at my "real" job which is sucking the life out of me.

I just want to wake up and write.

That's all. Perfect job for me.

All this other going to the office and getting yelled at sucks balls and I'm sick of it. Bah.

But good things are happening! Soon enough, I suppose.

Now, someone bring me some sesame chicken and a nap.

Sorry sorry, I know I am a little late with this one.

My internet is shut off at home until the next time I get paid (God knows when that is), so I'm kind of stuck using the net at work only. It sucks balls, but I suppose it's a lot of uninterrupted writing time.

Anyway, I know I'm a day late, but Happy Father's Day to all the Daddys out there.

Whee!

I'm super excited. I'm still in the middle of what I'm going to refer to as the Great Literary Agent Hunt of 2009, but there's some good news!

Turns out, a rocking author/speaker/TV/Whatever else she does person wants to use an excerpt of my stuff in her upcoming book! I'm pretty stoked. I don't want to give away too much information yet, but when I can I will.

It is nice to know that someone seems to think my writing is worth publishing, in any capacity. Especially someone who lives in Australia. It's one thing for people in your own circle to say you don't suck, but for someone I have no ties to, who lives on the other side of the world saying I don't suck? Well shit, I'll take it.

You don't have to hang around here long to know that I've got some serious asthma, and some other weird ass lung issues that cause me to be somewhat miserable a good portion of the time.

I don't feel sorry for myself, it's just one of those things I deal with. I don't go places with smoke, I don't allow people to smoke in my car, but generally I'm not an asshole about it. It's not the rest of the world's problem that I have crappy lungs.

That being said, I'm still kind of an asshole. When I can't breathe it makes me crabby, which I'm used to. But god help everyone if I haven't had any sleep. I turn into a colossal bitch, and I have been known to make people cry. I'm not kidding. I made a politician tear up because I was tired, and god damn it he started it. I do not fuck around when I'm tired.

In my apartment complex, it's against the rules to have any sort of grill anywhere near the building. No one ever really listens, and that's fine. However, there is this particular Mexican family that lives in an adjacent building that likes to grill right under my windows.

The first time, I nicely asked them if they could move about six feet to the left. And when I say "nicely", I mean just that. I am always nice at first. I told them I wasn't trying to be a pain, and I explained my lung situation and how the smoke gets into my apartment and makes me very sick.

He tells me they are almost done. Fair enough.

It happens again. I ask them again, very nicely, if they could inch it over. Again I explain that I have very bad asthma, I am very allergic to the smoke and I will wind up in the emergency room.

Again he tells me that he's sorry, he forgot. Does not move an inch.

The other day, he's grilling again. I don't know if that's the only way he knows how to cook or what, but again right under my window.

And again I walk down there and ask nicely if they could move just six feet over from my window.

This time, he looks at me and promptly tells me to fuck myself.

Well OK then. I walked back upstairs, while he proceeded to grill under my window for four fucking hours. I don't know much about this kind of thing, but I'm pretty sure after four hours whatever the hell you were cooking is done. He could've stuck an entire cow on that thing and it would be done in less time.

And because of that, I was up all night doing breathing treatments and popping steroids so I could stop wheezing. Trying to prevent a trip to the Emergency Room.

This does not make me happy. Staying up all night strung out on steroids is only fun if you're a profesional baseball player.

As I was hauling my sick ass to work, I noticed. The grill was still there. Under my window. But Paco was nowhere to be found. He left it under my window. Insult to injury.

Now, I am not a vengeful person. I am one of those people who is nice until I'm just not anymore. And I did ask him nice three times. The forth time I do not ask and I am not nice. But I'd never do anything to anyone else's property that I'd admit on a public forum.

All I know is that the grill is now missing, and I can only assume that someone who was angry with the owner maybe left a note saying "Please Pick This Up" on it after dragging it over to the dumpster. But that's pure speculation as I'd never, ever do anything like that.

So I think my neighbor learned a few important life lessons that day.
1. You should pick up your things after you're done using them.
2. Being a good neighbor only makes your life easier.
3. Don't ever piss me off when I'm sick and tired. It only ends in tears.
4. Don't pick on people who wake up earlier than you do.
5. You should be careful who you tell to fuck off.

So, in response to his suggestion when I asked him the third time to please move, I feel the need to say the following:

Fuck me? Fuck me? Oh no, my little bean eating friend. Fuck you.

Well shit!

I was having a bad day and being all crabby and bitchy, because it's what I do.

Some people paint, others sing, I bitch about random shit.

But Brian Smith, (Not Bryant!) ruined that. Because that's what he does, he's a ruiner. He ruined a perfectly good bad mood.

Nothing like sitting around and getting a text message of "I just saw your blog on TV".
Which generally means one of two things: The FBI is looking for me or...ok fine, it only means one thing.

Turns out Brian got me an early birthday present and got me Tweekerchick.com.
And, in a tribute to the greatest song ever made, he also got me Bigbootybitchwhothinkssheistheshit.com

Yea, he's hard to love sometimes.

Anyway, the show is pretty bad ass. This particular one is how to break out of police grade handcuffs. Not that I'd ever know anything about that or ever have any use for that particular skill stop looking at me that way.

If you want to skip to awesome check out the 7 minute mark, but I'm putting the entire thing because if you're reading my blog, chances are the info will come in handy.

By far one of the coolest things that's happened to me.

I've got some seriously awesome friends.

Thanks Brian, you're the best.

Now I have all this extra energy to write that book (FINE. Find and agent and write a book, rub it in), and hopefully get back to work at Tame The Bear!

While you're here, check out Blood Guts and Shiny Things. I've really been digging it lately.

So I did it.

I busted my ass all weekend, and wrote sixty-seven pages of a proposal. It seems like a lot, but when you're writing a book with fifty chapters, it's really not.

Anyhooter, it was a long weekend. Went through 2 cases of diet coke, and I ran out of coffee early in to Saturday morning. The sad thing, is that it's still not done. However, now that I have the chapter outline out of the way, the rest is smooth sailing.

At least that's what I Thought.

Sixty-seven pages. Two pages longer than my senior thesis in college, done in about 48 hours (taking into account the amount of time I screwed around on the Internet instead of working).

I finished at 9:14 PM.

And I was thrilled.

Nothing sounds better than printing that bad boy, taking a purple pen to it, editing it and being done with it so I can find someone to buy my book.

I was wrong.

Sixty-two pages into the print job, things are fine.

Page Sixty-Fucking-Two comes along, and I run out of toner. No biggie, I always keep another on hand. Pop the new one in there, click resume...and nothing.

Cancel the job and start a new one for pages sixty-fucking-two to sixty-fucking-seven.

Nothing.

Wash rinse repeat.

I do this a few times and finally, FINALLY something prints.

It's pages sixty-fucking-two to sixty-fucking-seven!

Well, sort of. Now it's only printing roughly every other line.

My eye has been twitching since. Any ideas?

I'm going to finish my book proposal today, come hell or high water.

The part that's taking forever is the chapter outlines...there are fifty chapters! Yes, I know, I've done it to myself.

I have finally put my finger on what's taken me so long.

Meeblings.

They have ruined any chance I had of productivity for awhile. Cute little addicting things that go "Meep!"

Don't say I didn't warn you.

I've been spending more and more of my time on Twitter , and because of that I've been lucky enough to chat with more than a few literary agents, publishers, editors and what have you.

And they have subsequently scared the bejeezus out of me.

Jesus Christ on a Crutch, they can be terribly scary people (Unless they are planning on representing, publishing, etc. me, in which case, total kittens. All of them.)

If you've ever met me, you'd know that I've got a set of brass plated balls the size of Miami, and it takes a special kind of person to give me pause. They've managed to do it.

Their blogs and tweets are intimidating to say the least, especially if you're a newer writer. It's always a new blog post on what some other writer did terribly wrong, as a lesson to the rest of us. I suppose they aren't paid to be sunshine and butterflies, and I'm sure a good majority of their day is filled with sifting through misspelled bullshit. At the same time, for a writer who is wet behind the ears, they can be the most terrifying people on earth.

Common sense says if you have a good idea/manuscript/proposal/set of boobs you should have no problem presenting it to an agent. Common sense also says I should stop wearing five inch heels three weeks after I broke three of my toes, but you don't see me doing that either.

My proposal is an adaptation of a piece I wrote that was published internationally, has had over a million readers on my dinky little blog alone, and has a following on Facebook that's 40,000 strong. (Forty-thousand people! Humbling, really.) I know that my book will be faboosh, and even better, marketable.

Knowing that doesn't make it any less intimidating sending it off to industry professionals to tear apart though.

The truth is, writing a proposal for other people to tear apart is scary. Writing a book is entirely more personal than I had ever anticipated, and at some level, it's really difficult to separate myself from the manuscript. It becomes an extension of yourself, and the idea of putting that out there so other people can judge it makes me incredibly nervous. However it's par the course, and I'm alright with that. I'd be concerned if it didn't scare me. Good things can be scary. Good things that can get you out of a shitty job and into a position where you can do something you love every day can be worse.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a proposal to finish and a Zanax to take.

I don't know if anyone caught the newest Burn Notice, but holy shit was it fab.

I never wanted my blog to be one of those sites where people come and talk about TV in such a serious way that it sucks all the fun out of it, so I'll keep it for what it is as a whole: Mindless entertainment that will only make my ass bigger.

That being said, the season premiere was so fucking good I felt like I needed a cigarette afterwards. Michael Westin is our generation's MacGyver but with way better hair and Armani suits, and for anyone who likes good looking men, you can't beat him in a prison jumpsuit working out. Just saying.

Plus, it's got Bruce Campbell. How can you go wrong?

Let me tell you. Fiona.

I love the character. She's bad assery, and I would not fuck with a person who would throw a block of C4 at someones head, regardless of it's stability.

However, can we get her to eat something? Please?
She is getting so thin that it's almost distracting to the story lines.

The show is in it's third season, she can afford a burger by now, Jesus H Christ. She's a great character and it would really throw a wrench in the works if she starved to death.

I am not having a good morning.

Which is really nothing new or exciting on a work day, but I digress.

I was doing my hair this morning, because I got it cut in a way that dictates I have to blow dry it every fucking day. Not my best call, but it's uber cute.

Long with chunky layers and side swept bangs. Very Ashlee Simpson when her hair was good. But again, not my point.

I know I live a high stress life, mostly because I'm just like my mother and if there's something on the planet to worry about, I'll find it and freak out about it. When you get us together, it's like a race to see who can give themselves a bleeding ulcer first.

This morning while I was busy making my bangs all side swept, and worrying whether or not I'd ever get a new contract, sell my book proposal, finish the book proposal, find someone who will tolerate me, get married, and find the perfect shoes something in the mirror caught my eye.

I have a grey fucking hair.

Well, I had a grey fucking hair, as my initial reaction was to scream "What the fuck?!" and pluck it out so fast I almost went back in time.

I am not happy. I'm turning 27 in August, and I don't feel that old. Not even close. But apparently the wrinkle on my forehead (That no one can notice but me but as soon as I get on my feet I fully plan on Botox-ing the shit out of), and my hair think otherwise.

I will not age gracefully and you can't make me.

Suck on that.

I've been cranking away at the book proposal, if only so I can get the hell out of my job. Why, you ask, do I hate my job so much? (Maybe you didn't ask. But I'm the only blogger around here, so pipe down). Because it's sales.

I suck balls at sales. The next person who tells me that they can teach me to be good at sales is going to spend the rest of the workday sewing up the new orifice I will tear them. There seems to be some misunderstanding. It's not that I hate sales because I'm bad at it. I'm bad at it because I hate it. I don't want to be good at it.

So, dear Literary Agents, Publishers, Etc:

Please save me from this hell.

Kisses,
Clare


Until then, I've been tinkering around the Internet, and I found some awesomely hilarious links that I will share with you here so it appears that I've actually written something of substance, which, if you've read this far you can tell that I certainly have not.

The first one is just what the title says. Goths in Hot Weather.

For my readers that are as mean as I am, here are the 10 most inappropriate Helen Keller things online. I can't believe you'd laugh at those. What the hell is wrong with you?

I've finally found myself a nice, good man in Chicago I'd be willing to date.

I'm super stoked about Drag Me To Hell, because I dig horror movies, and I love Sam Raimi even more. So here are his 5 Most Disturbing Moments. Sadly, Emo Spideman seems to have been left off of the list.

And finally, to make your work life a little more colorful, let's let the CIA take us on a little trip.

I was laying in bed last night when I realized that there's something I really hate that seems to have escaped my post from last night. How I missed this, what with recent media events, I'll never know but I'm fixing it now.

Whether it's the fact that she is a huge famewhoring cunt, or the fact that she pimps out her children, marriage and family for media attention, or just her stupid face, I can't tell you, but Kate Gosselin deserves a nod on my things that piss me off.

I'm pretty sure it's mostly the blatant exploitation of her children for a quick buck that pisses me off, considering that if Octo-Mom has taught us anything it's that it's alright to be devoid of all talent, style and redeeming qualities as long as you are fertile enough to have more than six kids in one sitting. I suppose sponging off of your offspring and ruining any chance of them growing up as normal well adjusted human beings is a hell of a lot easier than a nine to five, but the rest of us don't have to be happy about it. I can't wait until they turn into teenagers, band together and revolt agaisnt her using a high priced lawyer and divorce her stupid ass just like her husband should. Oh snap, I went there.

So Kate, if you ever happen to read this: You're a bitch and no one likes you. And by the way, your hair looks stupid.

Ive had a hard time finding things to write about because I've been so wrapped up in my book proposal. However, my friend over at Insatiable Blathering inspired me to start writing today with her list of things that piss her off.

So here is my list.

Shortened considerably. After all the Internet is only so big.

1. My Boss pulling me into his office for a lecture when I'm obviously on my way to the bathroom.

There are two things in the office when you walk down that hall. The door to leave, and the bathroom. Do I have my purse, sunglasses and car keys? No? Then I'm going to the goddamn bathroom, leave me alone. If you pull me into your office again when I'm going to the bathroom, I will pee in your office. Do not test me.


2. Not getting paid on time.

Believe it or not, convincing Com Ed not to turn off my power, Dish not to turn off my TV, and ATT not to axe my Internet is not my idea of fun.


3. The Black Eyed Peas.

Really? Boom Boom Pow? It sounds like names a frat boy would give his genitalia.

4.Heidi Montag

I don't know what it is about her. Maybe it's that she's not that cute and is still hotter than me. Maybe it's her douche baggy boyfriend. Maybe it's that she just wimped out of a reality show, when the proceeds go to charity, because it was too hard and she's a sniveling bitch who has never had to work for anything in her life.

Regardless of the reason, this picture of her makes me laugh my fucking ass off every time. Thanks to Matt-T over at Stealing Happy Hours for letting me steal the picture.


5. Not having dental insurance.

Twenty six years, totally covered. The minute I work at a place without dental? I chip a tooth. In front. Thanks God, I needed that.


6. Cops who ask me if I know why they pulled me over.

Here's the thing. There are measures in place to prevent people from incriminating themselves in a court of law. However, get me on the side of the road with a police officer, and suddenly every criminal activity I've ever engaged in comes flying out of my cake hole. After I run the list of legitimate reasons he probably pulled me over (ie: I was speeding, I didn't use my turn signal, I crossed 4 lanes of traffic, and I didn't yield back there) nine times out of fucking ten it's something I have no idea is even wrong. Like the fact that my tail light is out. Again.

By that point, it's too late to change your answer. Trust me, I've tried.


7. Family Guy jumping the shark.

I definitely preferred Family Guy over American Dad, but I was wrong. Family Guy seems to have turned into a half an hour game of "Let's see if we can beat Stewie being queer into the ground and then make horribly offensive jokes just for the sake of seeing if we can get away with it. Fuck being funny!" The notable exception being the most recent episode, and the only reason that gets a pass is because if you want to get technical about it, Stephen King was the genius behind the entire episode.

American Dad has been passed the torch, which makes me wrong and I hate being wrong.


8. Being told "You don't understand what I'm saying" when I disagree with someone.

Here's the thing. I'm not stupid. I understand what you're saying. I comprehend it. I just think you're wrong. And how much of a dickhead are you to imply that if I think you're wrong I'm obviously too stupid to get what you're saying?

Here's the answer: A huge dickhead. Huge.


Wow. I feel a ton better now. Time to write more of the proposal so I can quit my shitty job and spend my life entertaining the masses!

I have been at my parent's place for the past week or so (save a quick trek to FL), and thus far it's been pretty uneventful.

My Dad has been in Southern Illinois working, so most of the week it's just me and my Mom, in the country outside of Indianapolis.

All we have for protection is a 7 pound Pomeranian (fine. 9 pounds, but she's got a thyroid issue), and a Shih Tzu that is afraid of everything, including but not limited to loud noises, the remote control, when people snap their gum, and squeaky toys.

What could possibly go wrong?

So last night when I woke up at 3 in the morning by my mom saying "I need your help", I naturally assumed that something was very wrong. I rolled out of bed, and realized a few things in very short order, the first of which was that the gun cabinet was all the way across the house.

The second being that I don't have the key.

Far be it for me to leave my mother in whatever situation was currently unfolding, I grabbed the knife I keep in my purse and snuck down the hallway to the outside door.
And yes, I keep a knife in my purse stop looking at me like that.

Just outside the door stood my mother, staring at one side of the fence, wielding a flashlight.

On the other side of the fence stood my 7 pound (Fine. 9. But she's fluffy.) Pomeranian, and my Emo Shih Tzu, cornering what is the biggest goddamn possum I've ever seen.

There's not much I know about possums. I know enough to know that they are nocturnal, this one was bigger than my 7 pound (Fine, 9. But she's sensitive about it) dog, and this one was pissed the fuck off. And my dog was not about to let this go. Which our purposes was not a really good thing because I have a general rule about being within about twelve feet of any wild animal that's snapping its teeth and hissing. Call me crazy.

Turns out my dog's comfort zone to angry potentially rabid nocturnal marsupials is about eleven feet and six inches closer than mine is.

A half an hour of her barking at this thing while it hisses and snaps passes. I bribed her with squeaky toys, a ride in the car (which worked on the other dog, which I will now refer to as "my favorite"), a promise that her favorite person was here, and even that it was time to eat.

Nothing.

There stood my 7 pound (9. But really, she's got a glandular issue) Pomeranian, saving the house from the Evil Possum Of Doom at 3 in the morning.

Finally, I got out the bag of treats. Shook it a little bit, and true to form she came barrelling at me as fast as her little chicken legs would carry her. I scooped her up and carried her inside, where she spent the rest of the night staring at me like "How dare you use my weakness against me". Turns out that inside that little 7 pound (Fine. 9. She's fat, ok?!) body, is a fat kid. Thank god for that, or I'd still be out in the back lawn trying to convince my retarded dog to come inside.

So that's been my vacation thus far. Instead of writing my book proposal, I've been dealing with an overweight dog and a rabid possum.

I should've gone to Vegas.

I got my ass kicked.

For any of you that have met me, you probably have been waiting for this day for a long time. You're all good friends.

I went to the Music As A Weapon tour, and rocked out to Killswitch Engage, Lacuna Coil and Disturbed. I am a huge metal freak, and I am an even bigger live music fan. To me a good heavy metal show is the closest thing you can get to talking to God. With pants on, anyway.

It was bad ass all around, but things got a little wild and I left with three broken toes, a hairline fracture of one of the small obnoxious bones in my hand, and a black eye. I honestly don't know where the shiner came from, you would really think I'd remember getting socked in the eye, but I digress.

My toes are all taped and I am walking with a limp, my fingers are taped and wrapped, and I have a black eye, so right now I just ooze sex. I know, you're probably touching yourself right now. Stop it, you'll go blind.

I was at the gas station the other day, bruised, limping and gimpy, and this guy kept staring at me. First he looked at my foot, then my hand, then finally my eye. He did this three or four times, really taking it in.

He looked a little harder at my hand, and squinted a little and looked at my eye again.

Finally he walks up to me, takes it all in one more time, pauses, and says...

"...So you're married?"

Not going to lie, it took me a second, but holy shit if I didn't fall over laughing.
Kudos to you random gas station guy, you made my day.

Yes, I know. I'm a shitty blogger.

However, I've been busy! Yet another writing gig fell through (sensing a theme here?) so I decided fuck it, I'm going to write a book.

Yea, I know. But in my defense, I chose the one thing I wrote that's a clear winner to start with. That's all I can say at this point.

Because my only marketable quality is writing, it's either this or be stuck in a job I hate that underpays me like whoa. (Sometimes I think I'd take a job at McDonalds over this, if they would match my 401k, and I was allowed to be hired back. I'm not. Long story for a different time.) They say living off of Ramen builds character, I say I have enough character, I'd much prefer cable.

However: Finding a lit agent sucks balls. Finding a publisher sucks balls. Etc. You'd think it'd be easier, considering I found out there's a group on facebook about the 50 mistakes that has, I shit you not, 36,000 people in it (That is not a typo), and there was that whole being published in popular magazines thing. But who's counting?

I guess if it was easy, everyone would do it.

I've gone through so many websites even trying to make a shortlist of agents that I kind of want to die. Chances are, they will all tell me to fuck myself. But I have no doubt at some point, I'll find the perfect one. Who will look at my proposal and realize that I'm the shit.

And before anyone tells me that writing doesn't pay, I say fuck you. It pays for some people, the key is being one of them. Somehow, when I start thinking of my day job as just a temporary thing until this book thing pans out, it doesn't seem as bad.

I know I say this a lot, but I will try to update more! Pinkie swear.

Holy crap it's been awhile! I've been crazy busy over at Tame the Bear.

Not much has changed in my life really. Got laid off, only to be rehired, then laid off again. Shortly after that I spent quite a bit of time explaining to men in black suits that I was only kidding when I told that particular employer if they didn't knock it the fuck off I was going to go on a shooting rampage. Everyone knows I'm far too lazy for a shooting rampage.

Instead I was kicking around new career paths. So far I've not had much luck, but I hear with this economy that is typical.

Stripping seemed like a good plan, I mean good cash money every night? Then I realized that it required actually taking off my clothing in public. I barely get naked in the shower, and barring that no one is going to pay to see my pasty ass naked. So much for that idea.

I tried to take my diploma back to my college. I figure, I don't use the thing anyway and if I return it maybe they'll give me back some of my $100,000. And I was wrong. And no longer allowed on the premises.

I found a job that would be perfect for me. Apparently, some people will pay you thousands to look pretty and show up at parties. Unfortunately, this only applies if you're Paris Hilton. In my case, turns out the only way anyone is going to pay me to show up at a party is because I'm part of the waitstaff.

In my next life, screw this. I'm going to make sure my talents are marketable ones.

Hope you guys are all doing well and the recession hasn't kicked your asses as much as it's kicked mine. Remember, it's only temporary and things will get better. And if they don't? There's always that shooting rampage I mentioned before.