The bright side

Who: Me
What: Wallowing-by-text message with The Modern Gal about the 10 miles of awfulness.
When: Yesterday.
Where: My laundry-covered sofa.
Why: Because that's how I roll.
How: Behold...

And that, my lovelies, is why it pays to have BFFs who always look on the bright side -- even when it comes to chafing. After all: They help you defunk your sulking and make you laugh.

Yay for friends! And yay for a good running metaphor.

P.S. YEOWW! Let my red, swollen, painful chin be a reminder to pay attention to Good Form Running, especially when you're tired.

P.P.S. And thus ends my bad-run wallowing. The self-imposed time limit has expired.

Portrait of a young artist

When I went home for Christmas, my mother dug up a little treasure to remind me that I've always been a wee bit crafty. Or, at least, had ambitions about being crafty. Or was simply a deranged child.

Witness: The puppet I "made" one day when I was in kindergarten. You'll note that in this case, "made" means attached-yarn-to-a-sock-with-lots-and-lots-and-lots-of-tape.



Keep in mind, this wasn't a class project. This was me. One day on a weekend. (Apparently sock puppets are what happens when you're an only child in rural Maryland. Except not the kind that lend themselves to puppetting because you forget to create a face that allows for the hand to bend. My puppet could only look shocked and move her head left to right.)


I think the lace trim at the bottom of the sock shows a certain finesse well beyond my years.

I would like to note, however, that the fact that almost 25 years later, the yarn and tape are still firmly attached. Solid craftsmanship, eh?

Scene from my life.

Who: Me and my across-the-country co-worker bff.
What: A scene from my life. Or, why you should never get between me and my coffee fix.
When: Today, roughly 2 p.m.
Where: My desk.
Why: Because I'm an asshole.
How: IM conversation.

And, scene!

Me: So, I know I'm trying to be all mindful and not material and shit, but the effing coffee shop didn't give me my double-tall, extra-hot, non-fat latte.
Me: Instead, I just walked back to my desk and found out that all I got a regular Chai.
Me: Fuckers.
Her: So you're being the opposite.
Me: Yes. And I want my latte back. I'm bitter.

....
(At this point, we veer off topic. And I continue my amazement/bafflement/ashamed-at-my-own-materialism rant after discovering our church's young adult volunteer and his five housemates live on a $550 monthly household food/toiletry budget and they each get $100/month to cover ALL their incidental expenses. While living in Chicago. Then we talk about her two friends who've been laid off. Then we feel shitty. And grateful for what we have.)
...

Her: We really are lucky. This isn't shit to complain about.
Me: I know. But I'd be EVEN LUCKIER if I had the caffeine I needed.



This is why I'm an asshole. A tired, uncaffeinated asshole.

In which I royally piss off the universe.

It was long, draining and downright shitty day work today. On the bus ride home, which, btw, dropped me off at my house roughly 13 hours after I left in the morning, I decided to turn the shittasticness into sparkle and bake cookies for my coworkers and spend the night working on baby quilts for my pregger girl friends.

What a dumb idea that was.

I probably should have realized the universe was against me when I saw that I had only 3/4 of a cup of flour. (How the HELL did that happen? I'm a self-professed compulsive baker.) Luckily, I had some extra whole wheat flour lying around, which OMG would make my cookies HEALTHY! I started making my modified Toll House recipe and then ... DAMMIT, I have one tiny, hard-as-nails chunk of brown sugar.

This of course, is not the end of the world. I mean, any reasonable person would have put on her boots (Oops, left them at work), her coat, and scarf and gloves and hat and trudged to the damn store. But have I mentioned it's cold as balls here? And snowing? And OMG I WANT COOKIES NOW.

Since by this point I want nothing more than to eat my weight in cookie dough as I try to shed a bad day, I keep going. I try softening the brown sugar. It doesn't want to cooperate. It gets sorta less rock like and I put it in mixer. And then I make the critical mistake of trying to mash up the chunks while the beater thingies are beating.

Note to self. It's best to do this step when the mixer isn't ACTIVELY mixing. Because this is the end result of that effort.


What the hell is that, you ask? Why, it's a completely mangled and bent attachment to my standup mixer. Fucking A....

So now, let's recap:
_ Long day.
_ Bad day.
_ Critical ingredient shortage.
_ Broken forever mixer.
_ Shitty-tasting cookies thanks to ingredients shortage (who the HELL wants whole wheat cookies anyway? What? Should I serve them with a side of tofu and wheatgrass? Phhsaw.)
_ And one very grumpy Noodles.

Epic effing fail.

P.S. After this series of events, there's no way in hell I'm letting my fingers near a razor-sharp rotary cutter.

Introspection and a public apology.

I wrestled with posting this tonight. In the end, I opted to do it, figuring that putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard in this case) might be the only way I'd have a chance at feeling better.

At issue? I wasn't a good person this week.

I don't want to rehash what happened. And not many people might even be aware of what has me so glum. But, as I close out the week, I'm know that I'm not entirely proud of myself and my actions. Before you freak out, it wasn't anything major. I didn't commit a crime. I didn't violate any ethical workplace policy. And I certainly didn't kick any homeless puppies. My self-grievance? I gossiped too much. And I don't feel good about it. Not one bit.

I don't like the person I was this week. Layoffs were afoot at work and aside from that, my stress level was about as high as it's ever been _ without the added factor of worrying about my own job and seeing coworkers go. That's not an excuse. I shouldn't have used it as one. I'm a better person than that.

My life has been changing in pretty dramatic fashion these past few years. I can't entirely explain why, or how (which, incidentally, annoys me to absolutely no end), but I can't help feel like I'm on the cusp of something. Of something bigger. Of something powerful. Of being a better person. Of finding something I didn't know I was even looking for. Of just being more than I am. It's amazing and terrifying, awesome and truly inspiring. It's also why I think this week and my bitchy gossiping is bothering me so much.

I want to be a person who does good. Who helps others. Who makes people's world a better place. Who builds them up. Who supports them. Who makes them *want* to be better, which by extension turns me into a better person too.

I wasn't that way this week. That sucks. And for that, I'm very, very sorry.

I can't change the past. I can only control the future. So here's to doing better next time.

Image via ivory.butterflies.

Boots! Glorious, boots!

I've been cursed when it comes to boots. At least since I've moved to Chicago.

This sucks for a lot of reasons, primarily because in Chicago good boots are about as important as breathing. Think I'm exaggerating? You try to have cold wet feet for six months out of the year and see how full of sunshine you are!

When I moved here three years ago, my coworkers got me a $150 giftcard to Northface as a going away present. My first few days in town, I hit up the store and plopped down $175 on the sturdiest pair of boots I could fine. I tried them on. Tromped around the store and left the store 20 minutes later, boots in hand.

Stupid. Stupid. Extra stupid.

The neophite that I was never factored in the fact that I would have to haul my ass to the train, a half mile away. And back. And then all around downtown. In the heaviest boots on the planet. After about 20 minutes in the things, which had style only Neil Armstrong could appreciate, my feet started to fall asleep. My shins hurt from the walking. Driving was terrifying since I could barely bend my ankle. And eventually, one of the grommets popped off. (Note missing grommet and note that these are in my To Be Donated pile.)



The next winter, I bought a pair of fake Uggs. They were warm and snuggly, but that may be their only redeeming quality. Uggs _ real or faux _ were apparently never made to be worn in snow since they were a) not waterproof and b) lacked the proper traction to keep me upright in the snow and keep my ass bruise free.


I shelved the Fuggs (get it? Faux Uggs?) and picked up a pair of fleece-lined golashes at Target. They were warm enough with thick socks and I could walk in them _ once I got calluses over the blisters they caused. They lasted until March when they sprung a leak after the heel seperated from the sole. I even tried my hiking boots. They were great on the snow, but I had to walk with my arms way out to the sides for balance every time I hit the marble floors of my office or condo (Alas, I'm not so much with the grace.)

Two winters. Three pairs of ineffective boots. Lots of money wasted. And lots of time wasted, too. (Without a backyard, taking a dog on a walk three times a day is NO FUN when you have to stop and lace up your boots and unlace them every time.)

That's why this fall, I became a woman possessed. I researched. I measured. I hopped, stomped, bounced, and read reviews. And I'm happy to report that I am typing this wearing my new-and-fabulous winter boots.



They're lightweight, but warm. They can tough out temperatures of -40. They fit my calves. They feel like sneakers. They come to a few inches below my knee, perfect for the snow drifts here. I'm pretty convinced I can walk for miles in them. And they are going to KICK WINTER'S ASS. Hear that Mother Nature? Me and my boots? They're made for walking. And, honest to God, if I have to buy another pair of snow boots in the next decade, I'm throwing something.

I am not a stupid girl. I'm just prone to idiocy.

I have bad luck with my condo. Like, baaaad luck.

Last summer there was the decomposing corpse of my dead upstairs neighbor that smelled the place up for weeks. (Not to mention the A+ disinfecting work done in the unit, which is a story for another time.) Last winter is was a snafu with the gas company that resulted in me not having heat until December. In CHICAGO.

This year, it's my electricity.

I came home yesterday to find that half the condo was in the dark. Unfortunately, it was the half that had all of my appliances. No fridge. No stove. No washing machine. No sewing machine (cry.) No cable, TV, nothing. I went and checked out the circuit breaker, flipped the switches back and forth and .... nada. (Oooh, this is fun I thought. I can be half Amish for the night.)

Rock on.

So this morning being half Amish got old. After a frantic call and e-mail with the management company, I started calling electricians.

Most of the conversations went something like this:

Me: I can't figure out why half my electrical sockets won't work. There was some power outage yesterday and I tried using the breaker box and I just can't get it to turn back on. I think something might be fried inside.

Them: Uh, did you, like, try flipping the breaker?

Me: Yes.

Them: So you actually touched each of the switches and moved them back and forth?

Me: OMG! Are you listening to me!? I'm not a moron. (This reminds of conversations with tech support when you say your computer is misbehaving and they asked you if you rebooted it. Uh, no. I hadn't thought about that!!!)

Anyway, so I wind up getting an electrician to come out, because at $100 for a house call plus parts, he's the best deal I can find. He comes over. We go downstairs. He looks at the box and says, uh, your power's been turned off.

And then I'm like, yeeeeessss. This is why you're here. I don't know why the power is off.

And he responds, no, it's actually BEEN turned off. See this tag? It means the power company came and SHUT. IT. OFF.

At which point, I'm just blown away. I live in a condo building. I don't pay any electrical bill. It's part of my condo fees. And also, if they turned off my power, why are my lights and my ceiling fan still working?

So he busts out his screw driver, yanks off the lock from the utility company, puts it back on and leaves 5 minutes later with my $100 check.

Now I'm pretty much freaking out. When I bought my place two years ago, I swore someone said electricity was included in my ridiculously high condo fees. I busted out the paperwork and see reference to air conditioning being included. Then it starts to sink in.

Either because of misinformation or misunderstanding, I was supposed to open an electric account when the old owner closed hers. I never did. For two years -- TWO YEARS -- I've been getting electricity without knowing I was supposed to pay for it.

Then I lost it and just total meltdown crying fit on the phone with my dad. (Yeah, yeah. I know. Cliche. Whatever.) I don't want to steal. But I'm terrified of what this bill is going to be like when I get it. It was a completely innocent mistake. Should I have figured it out before hand? OMG. OMG. OMG.

So I call the power company and try to explain the situation to them. I say that I know they probably get a lot of far-out sob stories. And this is a far-out sob story, but unlike the slackers who are trying to get out something, this one is ACTUALLY true. They're sorta baffled themselves. So I set up an account for my unit, give them the date I moved in, and they back date it to me.

Now I have to wait until the next meter reading to figure out what the bill will be. So, I'm terrified about the fact that there will be commas in this bill. And that there will be big numbers BEFORE the comma. And I'm praying they have a payment plan.

Also, I'm now considering writing a book called "Confessions of an Idiot Homeowner."

Sigh. FML.

Ack. Gag. Shower.

Is there anything more lame than a baby shower? (Except maybe a blatantly gift-grubbing-instead-of-celebrating-the-couple bridal shower?) I mean, oooh, smelly diaper games! Let's wrap toilet paper around the mom-to-be's belly. Guess how many (insert candy here) are in the bottle? Mawhahahaha.

I say this because as of about 20 minutes ago, my friend Ginny and I are currently PLANNING a baby shower. Of course, neither of us are married. Or have children. Or, uh, for the most part, like children. But we love our friend Kathleen and are dedicated to the cause of planning a decidedly non-sucky soiree. We want it to have, as Ginny says, "elegance with an edge."

This leads me to several new-found bits of wisdom: No matter what terms you Google, whether it's "hip baby shower," "chic baby shower," "modern baby shower," even, cringe, "hipster baby shower" ... THEY ALL PRODUCE LAME RESULTS. (Full disclosure, I searched "anti-baby-shower" and got exactly one promising hit.)

Seriously. I know I'm not the only one who thinks this way. Women are smart. And dynamic. And funny. And creative. And we get together to try to figure out that "erpcaiif" is really just a jumbled-up version of "pacifier" or guess what the melted candy bar is that we stuck in a diaper??? REALLY!?

Hostess etiquette my ass.

So, now I'm stumped on what exactly we should be doing. Ginny, the epicurean, is going to deal with food. I'm in charge of activities. (Incidently, we're stilling working on important thing, such as dates. Locations. Etc.) I was thinking of creating snarky/saucy madlibs? I know there's the whole decorate-a-onesy thing. Maybe having everyone offer some words-of-wisdom for the new mom? Something involving children's literature? Maybe a game of "Celebrity Baby or Just a Noun?" (Ahem: Apple. Trick question, it's both.)

I don't know. And Google won't help. That's why I need you. Save me. Save us. Save the shower.

What was I thinking?

A post in several points:

a) People in San Francisco must be crazy, freaky in shape. Because, seriously, these hills?!?!? Fuck almighty. My muscles hurt just walking up them. During a jog this a.m. (which, precipitated this posted, and which I will discuss later) I saw a bunch of people headed to graduation, which was being held in a big-ass building at the top of a hill. And then I saw them: Tons and tons of chicks in like 4 inch heels, plowing up the hill like it  no problem. Yeesh.

b) OMG, I am a dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb. I went on a jog with some people today. And by going on a jog, I mean, I had a great view of their rears for a few blocks before suddenly, they vanished while I huffed and puffed my way (walking by this point) up the hill.

c) Chicago is flat. Pancake flat. Great Plains flat. You can see the Sears Tower from 25 miles away flat. And you know what? I'm cool with that. 

d) Owwwwwwww.

e) Groan.

f) I didn't vomit.