REAL UPDATE!

GUYS!! THINGS HAVE HAPPENED!!!

Q: Gasp! Do you have a job?
A: Well...no.
Q: Gasp! Did you buy your ticket out there?!
A: Errrrrr.....
Q: Do you even have movers picked out?!
A: CAN I PLEASE JUST TELL YOU MY NEWS WITHOUT A BARAGE OF QUESTIONS. COME ON, Shelly.

No but I actually do have real news! Joe got the job officially! (Quick catch up: Joe has been in San Francisco for 4 months on contract-to-hire, and while we've been planning this move for a loooong time, he only just found out that he got the job a few days ago.) So this means we won't have TWO unemployed people living in an overpriced apartment, we'll only have ONE! HUZZAH!

And speaking of apartments--we have one of those, too! And check THIS action out!!




Windows that look out into things! Drawers that hold silverware! It's all I've ever wanted and more! And it's ours for the low low price of the top of our price range!

Now the next piece in the puzzle is getting our stuff over there. I've been talking to moving companies (almost got scammed by one. Let me tell you, there is no stress quite like the few hours you spend believing you just got scammed out of $500. Luckily Me+Ledge÷Joe+Megaphone=everything was okay.)

But I didn't realize movers give you such a wide timeframe with which to move. I thought you told them "pick it up on Saturday." And they said "It'll be there Tuesday." Then you'd do one of those single-pump handshakes, spin 180 degrees and walk away. Turns out, moving companies follow the John Locke school of stubbornness: DON'T TELL THEM WHAT THEY CAN AND CANNOT DO. So there's no way I'll be able to just fly to San Francisco the day the movers get there. Our new plan is this: Joe gets us an air mattress, shower curtain liner, kitty litter, and plastic silverware, and we camp out in our empty apartment for an unknown number of days until our stuff arrives. It actually sounds very romantic in a "middle part of Benjamin Button" kind of way. Which means inevitably everything will go wrong and it will be the worst, because that is how things go.

So in conclusion, our to-do list is coming together pretty well....even if it might not look like it from an ACTUAL to-do list perspective.

X Joe gets job
_ Emily gets job
X Find an apartment
_ Hire movers
_ Buy plane ticket
_ Gently stuff Regina into a case and fly out there
_ Move stuff in

Oh well. We're still on our way!

Why I Just Don't Care About Organic (Or Any Of That All-Natural Nonsense)

While reading last month's Marie Claire magazine (which I took from the box of old magazines at the gym [as one is wont to do]) I came across this little gem of information about a cocoa butter lotion:

"Earth-friendly manufacturing practices-- like rain-watering methods, solar crop drying, and the use of fuel derived from dried coconut shells---make the co-op sustainably sound."

Okay, you know what? That sounds like a bunch of nonsense words to me. More than that, it sounds like something Jack Donaghy would say to make fun of the Carter administration.

I want to come out and say something that I'm not sure anyone has said out loud before:

Meh.

THAT'S RIGHT: MEH. I said it. And what does "meh" mean exactly? It's this: I don't care. I don't care about your vegan, organic, free range, fair trade walnuts. Here's the way I see it:

I actively walk past organic food.
I recognize that non-organic food is probably covered in a thick film of rat poison. I know I'm probably putting growth hormones in my body and THAT'S why my eye starts twitching out of nowhere and no one else can see it. But I just can't bring myself to care. And this goes for all that stuff: cage-free eggs, all-natural soap (aka pachouli and sage. Yum), vegan hemp, whatever.

Am I the only one who will admit it? That, yeah, maybe it does cause cancer but it's forty cents cheaper and that stuff adds up. Besides, everything causes cancer. And also, NOTHING causes cancer. So give me the damn oversized strawberries.

And you know what? I like that my non-organic sliced bread lasts outside a refrigerator for weeks. WEEKS. How does it do it? No idea. How does Cameron Diaz continue to be cast in movies time and again? No one knows why and frankly, I'm tired of caring about both the bread AND the Diaz. At least one of them could cry convincingly and I think we ALL know I'm taking about the bread.

While I'm at it, I also eat meat.
I guess I don't like cows THAT much. Funnily enough, I could easily be a vegetarian. I eat Greek yogurt and black beans like it's my job. And, considering my current state of unemployment, it kind of IS. And Morningstar makes a veggie corndog that'll blow your mind. The only problem I foresee in going veg would be the restaurant ads that show hands pulling apart juicy chicken breast. But otherwise, I could definitely survive as a vegetarian. But I don't, because I don't care.

I hear all that about animal cruelty and it makes me sad...and then eventually I forget what I was thinking about because I'm hungry and I order a steak. I even read the Jungle in college. Sure, I didn't eat sausage for about a month. But eventually I convinced myself that meat packers must have changed their ways, that sausage is now made of rainbows and sunshine and nothing else, and I ordered a pepperoni pizza.

I give up.
Here's the real reason why I don't care: because whether or not I buy organic carrots, I'm sure I'm surrounded by injustice. Where did my shoes come from? Probably Malaysian toddlers. The carpet under my feet is likely peppered with asbestos. And even if the soap I bought is biodegradable, the loofa I put the soap on could be made of baby seals for all I know. So if you want me to care about something, I'm going to have to ACTUALLY care about it. And I don't live in a moss hut where I sew my own clothes and chickens gently hand me their eggs. So why really bother? I mean, I recycle. I'm not a monster. Let's just back off a little with the "all-natural" pride we get from using Aveeno hand cream while we turn our air conditioners a degree cooler because we "like to use blankets at night."

And even that Marie Claire magazine can't pretend to get all "every little bit counts" on me, because 40 pages earlier, in the same magazine that touted COCONUT FUEL, there was an entire page on how to make a statement with fur parkas. Yes, seriously.

So yeah. I buy the cheap stuff. Because that sticker (with horse hoof glue) you just slapped onto that bar of soap? It doesn't say "organic" to me. It says "don't bother".

UPDATE

Remember a month ago when I has forgotten some great word to share with Hannah? ANOTHER MYSTERY SOLVED, MY FRIENDS.

KERFUFFLE.

I was so close with my guesses of "hullaballoo" and "brouhaha"! If only I'd followed that instinct! And I was close with "F". The word does have THREE of them, afterall.

The funny thing is, the first time I thought of the word was while I was folding laundry. Then I told you guys about it. Then a few weeks later, WHILE FOLDING LAUNDRY AGAIN, I remembered it AGAIN. That is some crazy psychology stuff going on right there. Of course, when I remembered it, I didn't have the presence of mind to write it down. *punches myself in the face*

BUT THEN! At work, a middle-aged curmudgeony British guy actually used the word in context, and I audibly GASPED. Because, yeah. I'm the awkward girl who makes noises when she remembers things, THAT'S HOW OFTEN IT HAPPENS.

Anyway, besides the fact that "kerfuffle" is just an outstanding, outstanding word in and of itself, here is another reason to love it: these are a few of the images that come up when you Google the word:


If PeeWee comes up in an image search, you're doing something RIGHT.


WAY better than EGOT.


What?! Sure. I accept.


I assume this picture was under the idea of "how to knit your own slutty Halloween costume" but seriously, I want this to just wear AROUND. Like, "Hey guys, thank you for coming to this meeting. Let's take a look at the brief--oh, this? This is my hamburger dress. So anyway, the brief..."


Am I the only one who has a hard time suspending reality because CLEARLY this snowman would be more careful about putting hot things to his lips? And would he really go inside to a coffee shop in the first place? He'd start melting right away. Come on, Shelly.


This one is anybody's guess, but I really wish I had been asked to be the guy on the very right making the awkward pointing motions. I'm really good at those.


ALWAYS.


Anyway, just an update on the important things in life. Hope I didn't create a kerfuffle.

You And Your Hobbies.

I'm at an interesting place in my life. An interesting, weird place.

I think it's called "my late 20s." WEIRD.

It's a time where I'm no longer massively entertained by the three Bs: Beer, Bars, and Boys (tee hee! Okay, maybe a little bit.) and I'm realizing that I actually need like...hobbies. Like actual things that I like to do. Because, as much as I want it to be true, "acting like Amy Poehler on a consistent basis" is not something I can put on my resume.

Actually, it's not for my resume this time. I have stuff for my resume, because apparently I do work-related things now and again. No, this time I actually want to do stuff for ME. What ACTUALLY entertains me? Why am I one of those girls who cites "hanging out with my friends" as something that I like to do, as if that is some kind of defining quality? Oh, really? Do you also think puppies are cute and do you like to eat good food?


(Husband and wife dream team. AmIrightoramIright?)

So I'm starting to go for some hobbies. I attempted to crochet already. But in my hurry, I decided that I don't need to count stitches so my scarf will probably become a really long triangle. I'm too far along to start over, though, and if there's one hobby I already have, it is frustrating, debilitating stubbornness.

I also think I want to make my own candles. I'm pretty sure it's insanely easy: you buy the wax & fragrance, you schmelt it, you toss it into a jar with a wick and VOILA, candles for the People.

I know what you must be thinking, "Wow, a girl who has a cat, no hobbies and believes KITTING AND CANDLES are going to add spice to her life? What a CATCH!" And I can say to you, sir: y'all don't know me. Y'all. Don't know me.

Sigh, but you do. Which is why I need your help. I need hobbies. I need things to do that will make me interesting and also do not involve competition. You know how I feel about organized exercise. Now that it's starting to get nice, my roller blading ideas may get enacted. And maybe I'll take a sculpting class? I like clay. I like making things out of other things. Or an improv class? I do need to work on my spontaneity. Sometime....eventually. But both those things seem really expensive endeavors just so I can feel like I "do stuff sometimes."

But seriously. I need some ideas for viable hobbies. I swear to God, while flipping through the newest Crate & Barrel catalog today I actually had the thought, "Maybe I could get into succulents."

MAYBE. I COULD GET. INTO SUCCULENTS.

Like, these:


Help me. Please.

Stuff

I have been thinking a lot lately about STUFF.

Like, not that I've been generally thinking about all sorts of things, but I've actually been thinking about all the junk that is acquired in life. That kind of STUFF.

I think it started when I remembered that my Christmas tree is down in our "storage unit" (the quotation marks because it is rather more like a dog kennel than a storage unit, but there it is nonetheless) and I got to thinking: what ELSE of mine is in the storage unit?

And the answer? I have no idea. No. Idea. I assume I put more than a Christmas tree down there...it can't ALL just be Joe's action figures and golf clubs, can it?

And that got me realizing--what if all that stuff disappeared? Would I even remember it existed? And why do I continue to schlep things around from apartment to apartment and then shove them into closets? I mean, besides the awesome surprise factor you get when you open a box and see all the things you forgot about. "Oh YEAH! The lease from my apartment two years ago and magnet backing! Well, I've got to keep this around just in case. Just gunna shove this on in next to the neon green slinky here aaaaaand perfect fit."

My need to collect STUFF was diminished greatly when I lost my job in '09. Suddenly my money was better spent on annoying things like shelter and sustenance and The Internet. At first, I wandered through H&M, listless and woebegone, a single tear rolling down my cheek. I'd touch dresses fondly, as though they were from a distant, happy memory which I could no longer quite remember. I floated through Borders like a ghost too depressed to do anything but to breathe a long, drawn out sigh. Oh, if only I had a true income! I might do more than weep over my DVD collection, now riddled with holes I had once intended to fill.

Cut to a year later. Still unemployed but now ruthlessly hardened to marketing schemes, I became the Clint Eastwood of shopping.



Did I NEED this throwback April O'Neil figurine? NO.
Did I NEED this wheel of extra creamy brie? NO.
Did I NEED this entire store of Crate & Barrel? .....But...but I...what if....NO!

Nancy Reagan would be proud. Also, Lady Bird Johnson. Not really Lady Bird, I just wanted to bring her up because SERIOUSLY who is named Lady Bird? I'm sure they covered all this in the 60s but I wasn't around then and COME ON, Shelly.

Anyway, I just said no and became hardened to the Call of the Stuff. No longer did their siren song affect me. I had bought roughly 4 articles of clothing in a year and a half. I forgot all about Baby Bel and their amazing tiny red wheels of love. My preferred brand of choice had become "store." And I was fine with it.

And then the Man came knocking. And I answered his call and got a job again. Yes, at the first opportunity, I dropped my hard exterior, hitched up my out-of-style pants and marched on over to American Eagle. I slapped my credit card down on the counter and said, "How much will THIS get me?" "Miss, that is a credit card. I have no idea." "RING 'ER UP!" I yelled to no one in particular.

No, not really. But when I finally got to the counter with what can only be described as a PLETHORA of clothing, the guy laughed and asked if I was on a shopping spree. Seriously. He then asked me if I shopped at American Eagle often. I paused and said, "Well, I COULD."

So yeah. I could buy stuff again. All the stuff that an entry level position could buy! *throws $1 bills into the air and laughs maniacally*

But, besides the confidence that I can pay my bills each month, what do I really have? A few new shirts and name-brand cereal? How long does new stuff make you feel like anything is actually different? It seems a lot like when I finally got contacts in the 8th grade and assumed every guy would immediately fawn over me. I got to school and I believe one person said, "Did you get contacts?" "Yep!" "Oh." It's that same empty feeling now, after I buy something shiny, get a compliment or two, and then realize that nothing has REALLY changed. Am I any better than my neon-green-note-passing self?

I just got an email for Crate & Barrel Outlet Christmas stuff. And at first I thought "Ooh! Pretty! Snow pups on oven mitts! Twelve dessert plates for $20!

But then I immediately thought, NO! You don't need it!! And to be honest, I'm not sure if that's my old stingy, unemployed self talking...or just reason.

The Worst Oktoberfest Ever

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Emily. Emily enjoyed going to dingy bars filled with dingy people. The music was fist-pumping, the drinks were blue, and her signature dance move was an intermittent "sexy" hair flip. She yelled out Chappelle Show quotes to people across the street before ducking into Bamba's and requesting extra salsa for her steak burrito.

And then that little girl turned 22. And none of those things were appealing anymore. Emily started requesting no-cover bars only, and scoffed at the girls who wore tube tops in January.

Now I tell you this, not to warn of the woes of growing up. Nor to emphasize what a terrible person I once was (because I wasn't), but to set you up for my personal mindset while going to Lakeview for Oktoberfest.

See, I've never been to an Oktoberfest. I can't think of a good reason why, except maybe the fact that every year I forget that Oktoberfest is, in fact, in September and not October (and COME ON, Shelly.) But not this year! This year I finally remembered! I even spent entire minutes on the interwebs searching for an Oktoberfest, put it on the calendar, and, barring other mildly entertaining substitutions, determined that I would go.

On the el, Joe and I speculated what Oktoberfest would be like. A street full of polka music, leiderhosen, tall beers in glass boots, veiners, warm pretzels...basically, the extent of my knowledge of German heritage. Now according to Sara, that is what Lincoln Square Fest is. Sadly, we learned that tidbit after the fact.

SUSPICIOUS FACT #!: When we got there, we realized that the fest isn't in the street. It's in and around a church. Okayyyyy...

SUSPICIOUS FACT #2: The $5 donation fee was strictly enforced and no where was it posted or stated that it was, in fact, a donation.

SUSPICIOUS FACT #3: Upon entrance of the fest was a large table set up with girls handing out Bud Lights. Joe and I questioned aloud, "Who goes to Oktoberfest and gets Bud Light?"

SUSPICIOUS FACT #4: Once past the beer and into the mass of backwards hats and black North Face jackets, we were no longer able to hear ourselves above the band playing under a massive tent packed with people. "WHAT SONG IS THAT?" I yelled into Joe's ear. It took him a few minutes, but eventually he turned back to me. "SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY," he responded.

Now here--right here--is where we should have turned around and gone home. But we'd gotten all the way there. And we had been assuming a level of debauchery. I mean, it's Oktoberfest. So we pressed on, determined to at least find a pretzel.

We passed a girl who was struggling through the crowd, holding a styrofoam plate of oily stir fry. Joe turned to me (we were single-file at this point as we searched the grounds) and we both said at the same time, "WHO GETS CHINESE AT OKTOBERFEST?"

We passed through a bottleneck and out to a new mass of people: those in line for food. There was a booth for cookies, one for Polish food, one for Mexican, there was the Chinese place the girl must have stopped at, more booths selling Bud, Bud Light, and 312 (a local Chicago brew). And--there it was. German food. I could make out, among the items, bratwurst, pretzels, and hot dogs. It was the only German booth in the entire space. There were over 100 people in line. We realized why the girl had opted for the stir-fry.

Joe and I made our way through the bottleneck again, past the guy yelling, "Which way to the pisser?" (as he stood four feet from a Port-a-potty) and into the church basement. There were two beer booths inside, directly across from each other. Their lines seemed to blend together, holding as tight as a zipper. That and an ATM was all that was inside. I just asked Joe if he remembered if this was German beer or more Bud products. He can't remember either. Neither of us could find the end to a line, so we went back outside to the food. Maybe the German food line would be shorter.

It was longer. So we did what any sane person would do. We got in line for Polish food. At least, I conceded, I would get a sausage and sauerkraut.

As we stood there, somehow the pathway for all the traffic became the area directly in front of us. The gap grew bigger and bigger as six people at a time would pass us. Soon we would be cut off from our Polish food all together. We had to do something, and fast. I jumped in front of people, literally bouncing off of them until I had reached the other side. I stood so close behind the guy before me in line, I'm sure he could feel my breath on his neck. The problem was, I had completely cut off some Dude. But I had to stand my ground. Plus, at this point, I'm not sure if you could tell, but I was pretty annoyed at the entire experience. So I stood there and said, "THIS IS WHERE I'M STANDING NOW."

He just stood there, looking at me. "Really? You're doing that?"

"YEP."

"I like the attitude," he said sarcastically, and he and his girlfriend walked around me. I felt like an idiot. That can't have been the best way to do that. But then the guy in front of me in line turned around. "That was pretty B.A." he said. I was THIS close to giving him a from-behind bear hug.

Finally, Joe and I got our 3 pounds of potato (is there any other way?) There had also been no foresight of the Oktoberfest people to set up places for people to sit or eat. Luckily, the fine people of Bicycle playing cards had set up poker tables. I ate my potato pancake on a fuzzy green table across from some foreign kids debating how to spell "radical." And I enjoyed it.

Joe and I deemed this fest "Worst...Fest...EVER," threw away our leftover kielbasas, and left.

The thing is, I had thought I was going out for a tall, hearty lager and some schnitzel (whatever that is.) And what I got was every frat party I've ever been to, but with longer lines for the bathroom. I understand that some people enjoy the noise and the crowds and the plastic cups and the thumping music. But I don't. I don't like any of that. And maybe back when I was 21, I might have. Or at least I could have put up with it. But within those short four years, something must have changed. Maybe it's the boyfriend. Or maybe I've gotten boring. Or maybe none of those things were EVER really the true me but I did them because, hell. It was college.

When we left, we headed over to our friend's place for part two: Whiskey Night. We stood on his roof, drinking spiked warm cider, making innuendos about Knob Creek, and overlooking this:




And it felt so me. Well, 25-year-old me.

Consider Me Miles Davis (Or: My Most Embarrassing Post Yet.)

I am not what you'd call a particularly outgoing person. I second guess myself and clam up in front of anyone who I find intimidating.

Sure, I have momentary spurts of outgoing insanity, generally leading to me embarrassing myself. Like in the 8th grade when we had a mock-discussion on the pros and cons of slavery, where I stood up and tried to shame everyone who was fake "pro slavery" with a heart-felt speech.

GOD. I relive that moment at least once a week.

But I'm really kind of shy most of the time. I don't tend to make friends with people until they come up to me and tell me, "We're friends now." "Oh...okay. Wanna watch Friends and write down all the funny quotes in a notebook for no reason?" "SURE!" *skip arm-in-arm into the sunset*

My shyness was especially apparent as a kid. I was terrified of authority. TERRIFIED. And of course, by "authority," I mean anyone over the age of 12. When I still had spiked hair and dressed kinda like a boy, we had to line up in two boy/girl lines for our first ever trip to the library (EXCITING!!!) So of course, I got in the girl line. I AIN'T NO BOY. Before we left, the librarian noticed me. Thinking I was a smart-ass kid, she scoffed, grabbed my arm and shoved me into the boy's line. And I was too shy to correct her. Me, the one who had decided that I wanted a TAIL, was too shy to actually correct someone who thought perhaps I was not a girl. So what did I do? I shuffled back into the girl line, hoping she wouldn't notice. Of course she did. Again, she thought I was one of those, so she dragged me back to the boys line. Aaaaaand I slunk back. Finally, the entire class erupted, "SHE'S A GIIIIIRL!!!" And the librarian was embarrassed beyond anything. Poor, poor, permed lady.

This was a problem for me throughout elementary school. Not the tomboy thing, the shy thing. It was such a problem, that I peed my pants once a year for five years. OH YES. I am about to chronicle my bladder problems for you right now. ENJOY.

1. Preschool

Nap time. We had to sleep on these little mattresses they'd make us put down. But one day, everyone decided that they'd all have to pee during nap time. Followers is what they were. Damn followers. NONE OF YOU HAD TO PEE AND I'M SURE I MET YOU AGAIN IN HIGH SCHOOL AND NEVER KNEW THAT YOU WERE THE REASON FOR MY DEMISE THAT DAY. Buttons and Bows. 89. I will find all of you.

So there was a string of kids going to pee, and the teachers were rolling their eyes and dragging the kids off and I couldn't manage to get in there before another kid decided it was THEIR turn to go next. Well, you can imagine what happened. That mattress did not stay dry.

The traumatic part, though, is that when my parents came to pick me up, my teachers CORNERED me with them and demanded that I admit to peeing the mattress. Well eff that noise! I'm not embarrassing myself in front of God and country! I denied that accusation tooth and nail. Until they did their STARING DISAPPROVINGLY trick on me, and I'm pretty sure I crumbled.

2. Kindergarten

Gym class. We were all sitting on the yellow circle, learning how to play The Lone Ranger (aka free-for-all Dodge Ball [By the by, it is the fault of my gym teacher that I thought it was "Hi-Ho silver" and not "Hi-YO Silver", so please take it up with her.]) So we're sitting there and she's talking, and I've got my hand raised. She ignores it. I raise it higher--maybe she didn't see it. Ignores me. I flail. Ignore.

Finally, I ran out of the gym. But it was too late. Not only did I pee my pants, but I did it as my entire class watched.

That's right.

And people wonder why I never dated a boy from my school through high school. "Don't go to the dance with HER, she peed her pants in Kindergarten and I SAW IT."

AND IT GOES ON.

3. First Grade

T-Ball. Oh yes. The first and last time I ever played an organized team sport. T-Ball, where my team name was "The Gold Team." Where I threw the ball to whoever seemed like they wanted it more. Where they put me in left field where NO 1st grader could hit it except one time, when of course the ball hit me in the face and I cried until every coach and assistant coach came out to inspect my teeth.

THAT T-ball.

So I hit the ball. Which was quite an accomplishment for me, considering the ball was stationary in front of me. I ran and made it to first. Again, an accomplishment. Uh-oh. That's when I realized it. I had to pee. But I couldn't stop the game--then the adults would yell at me! And I couldn't just run to the port-a-potty like that kid on AFV. Sooo...dance around a little. Yeah, that's good. That's working. Dancing. Dancing. WHY ISN'T ANYONE HITTING THE BALL SO I CAN GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE?? Oh right, because there's no such thing as "strikes" in T-ball. Dancing, dancing, dancing, annnnnnnnd....peeing. Nothing I could do. The first baseman just looked at me in amazement. But otherwise, no one noticed. For the rest of the game, I sat there in my pee-pants, acting like nothing was wrong. It wasn't until we got our fig newtons and Mondo that I worked up the courage to tell my Mom. "Oh, Emily," she said. As if a) I had done it on purpose and b) as if it was like you couldn't just throw the pants in the wash. JEEZ, MOM. There ARE strikes in "making your child feel bad for her bodily functions" and YOU are on strike 2.

4. Second Grade

This one was a little different. See, while we were watching some Discovery Channel show, I started to feel a little woozy. Miraculously, though, whenever I set my head on the desk, I felt better. My evil witch of a teacher, MS. WIEAND, (God rest her soul) came around and told me to pick my head up. Now granted: this is the point in which I should have told her that I didn't feel well. Meh. I was terrified of her. And I'm pretty sure that I thought I could just SHAKE IT OFF. So I begrudgingly raised my head and watched the rest of the movie, my stomach gurgling all the while.

Later, when the movie was over, Ms. Wieand decided that now was the time for her to clean out her supply closet. You know, while she had minions to boss around. So she's up on a ladder, nose deep in construction paper, and it hits me. Things aren't sitting right, and I have limited time. So I try to interrupt her and ask to go to the bathroom, and she doesn't hear me. I sit back down. Nope. Nope. Back up. But at that point? Too late. *Blarg-larg-larg-larg!* Right on the orange reading rug.

5. 3rd grade

I've mentioned this one before. We switched class for Science. We were in Mrs. Barkley's class learning about the different kinds of clouds. You know, talking about RAIN and SPRINKLES. I raised my hand to use the bathroom, and she didn't call on me. And I was too shy to say anything. Her loss. Left a nice present for her on my red-orange chair. And a nice present for whoever's chair that usually was. Whoopsee.

Luckily, that was the last time (save an incident when I was 13 at summer camp, but that wasn't shyness. It was a very intense scavenger hunt.) I think in general, I've learned to speak up for myself to people I find intimidating. Why just today, I made a snarky comment to my boss that I absolutely should have kept to myself. So...mission accomplished?

Thanks for liking me and "liking" me, guys!

Bally Total Fitness Can Suck My Ovaries

A) Ew.

But you know what? B) You deserve it, Bally's. You deserve that mental image. And I hope you all think of that image each and every time you hear mention of Bally Total Fitness Centers.

Here's the thing. Technically, Bally's is...FINE. They didn't murder my grandchildren. They didn't tell me they'd be at my home between the hours of 8 and 8 and then not show up (I'M LOOKING AT YOU, AT&T, YOU SON OF A BITCH.) They didn't eat all the Drumsticks out of the freezer without so much as leaving me the bottom of a cone where all the chocolate collects.

No. Bally's is.....fine. Their gym doesn't really feel top-notch, but hey. I'm not paying top-notch prices. But tonight they went too damn far.

Here's the thing. The Bally's I go to is in the basement of a building. A building that is right next to a river.

Let's let that sink right into the ol' noggin there.

Who puts anything--ANYTHING--into the basement of a building that is next to a river? A river in a city that is NOTORIOUS for its terrible weather patterns? Shouldn't all buildings be on some sort of STILT system?! I mean come on, Shelly. THESE people figured it out, for Christ's sake!


All this to say, yes. My Bally's has flooded. I don't know the extent of it, but I know there were firetrucks (plural) and at least one animal control truck (I'm sorry...did the ducks get out of hand? Were there otters floating around your free weights?)

At first I speculated that we might get some money back. No problem. You prorate us or some nonsense, and Joe and I will run around the block for a week instead.

Until we got the email.

"Your Bally's in closed. But lucky for you, we have 80 million OTHER Bally's locations that are all inconveniently located from where you live!" ....Yippee.

Guess what, kids? I finally got my butt over to the next closest Bally's. It is also in a basement. It sucked.

1) I got there at 8:30, since my Bally's closes at 10. Well THIS one is downtown Chicago where no one lives, so it closes at 9. Huzzah.

2) I jumped on the elliptical. In front of me was Larry King. Sans subtitles. It is the only television within eyesight. So I got to lip read Larry King talking to that gymnast girl about how she apparently had a stalker. Mostly I got to ponder the effects of blonde hair dye on a girl who looks a squirrel. Anyway, there is no one around to ask to change the channel. So I opt to watch myself in the mirror and imagine fake conversations (which is my most common day-to-day activity.)

3) At 8:40--TWENTY MINUTES before close--the guy comes down and turns off all the TVs AND all the fans.

4) So now I, who HAVE PAID for a membership, am sweating my ass off in the gym I never intended on patronizing, with no visual to focus on and no fan to circulate the basement air. I can feel my claustophobia setting in AND I can feel just how deeply I am not wanted at this gym. I get the hell out and decide that my calories are better spent walking home.

And OF COURSE I can't cancel my membership right away; I have to give a full month's notice. And by then, my flood-center gym will probably be back up and running.

Basically what I'm saying is, I unknowingly paid to be screwed over. And now I'm going to go get some cheese to go with my white whine. A-thank you.