Groundhog Day. Every day. In all Ways.

3 May

Randomly, a month or so ago, I was hanging out in my bed eating some form of chocolate bar, when I heard a knock at my door.  Immediately, I ran for the pepper spray, because, obviously, I don’t live in a walk up so you need to buzz into the building before you get to my actual door and Ru was off doing whatever he always does at night, of which I never know anything about, so I thought I was being robbed.

Upon timidly opening the door, I found a young boy at my doorstep.  After staring at him for five seconds wondering in my head if I was still going to get robbed, he quietly told me that if I subscribe to the Chicago Tribune that half of the money would go to his college tuition, or something.  And, write this fucking down, I am very charitable.  So I invited him in, gave him a lecture on college life like I’m some busted up 40-yr-old balding man reliving the only good days, and wrote him a check.

Now, I get the Chicago Tribune.  Which means my neighbors get the pleasure of looking at piled up papers in the hall, while I step over them every day to get into my apartment.  And I don’t pick them up because I’m clearly trying to prove a point to Ru, whose one chore at my place is to take out the trash.  And that includes the trash inside and outside of my apartment, slimedawg.  He asked me yesterday how he should know when to take out the trash? … ? … Like a little bird comes down from heaven and poops on his head as a sign to do it or something.

I can’t even… so I made him this to help him understand, which I’m giving to him tonight:

Image

Anyway today, this story appeared in the paper, which I didn’t read in the paper delivered to my actual apt (my colleague had to tell me about it while at work): http://www.chicagotribune.com/features/food/ct-dining-0503-vettel-rpm-italian-20120503,0,5707368.column. I still haven’t read past the first sentence, because all I have been saying for the past week is exactly the first sentence.   And because I’ve already been to RPM and once I’ve been there I don’t feel like I need to read about it after the fact.  You only have so many minutes of life.

Anyway, it’s that “Groundhog Day” sort of feeling.  That’s the only way to explain everything.

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Cats! The Musical

21 Dec

I’m afraid to say that my mild obsession with cats has spun out of control.  I can’t stop talking about/emailing/referencing a pretend cat of mine, who, naturally, I named Whiskers.   Disclaimer:  It’s clearly a sign of mental instability that I’m aware of; little kids make up invisible friends, grown slores like me just pretend they own a cat.  Titillating, right?  Sensational. 

The obsession started when K babysat her brother’s overweight cat (Sonny) for a few months over the summer.  We were immediately infatuated – texting pictures of that fat little fuck to everyone we knew.   She def cried when she had to say goodbye to him.  I pretended I didn’t, but I had the most ugly cry sesh.  I’m the ugliest crier ever – tears just advance my under-eye baggage problem, which not even Laura Mercier can cure. 

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I die for this cat...

In my mind, Whiskers is a close second to Sonny, except he’s more of a ginger color.  If my invisible cat is a gingy, then maybe my future offspring won’t be.   That’s also why I act like a child in an adult’s body – so my kids won’t have to.  Ya welcome, ya unborn little meatballs.

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Cat Happy Hour | Easily the creepiest picture I own...

Anyway… WHAT IS THE POINT OF THIS POST?

Okay, so last night I was drunkingly dreaming about Whiskers my cat.  Side note, I have the best champagne dreams ever.  I’m so blessed by that.  In the middle of a dream where I was cuddling like crazy with that little kitty, I awoke to Ru rustling around outside of the bedroom.    I was immediately distressed because he sleeps from 8 p.m. – 7 a.m. without rolling over once.  And if he ever wakes up in the middle of the night I know right away because he removes himself from on top of my back, which he treats as his own bed, within a real bed.     

But at 4:30 a.m. this morning I heard him rustling with paper and tape in the living room.   I didn’t get up because I was actually scared that he might be doing some weird shit that I didn’t want to uncover at 4:30 a.m., drunk.  Like a secret obsession of painting pictures of cats.  Except way worse, because I would actually endorse that.

He eventually came back to bed, so I CSId around this morning to try and figure him out.  From my amazing investigative skills and advanced deductive reasoning, I have come to conclusion that he was wrapping my Christmas present(s?!).  YESSSS.  

In an effort to not look vain – I bought and wrapped his presents months ago – which consist of an as-seen-on-TV vegetable chopper and an Apple TV.   I only wrote that down so I don’t change my mind last minute to keep the Apple TV for myself. 

Also, I sent him this YouTube link a few days ago (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jm3dm5J5r0A) so he definitely knows how to wrap a cat like a present.   Come to daddy, Whiskers. 

 

Merry whatever

15 Dec

Sometimes when I feel really down about my current state of affairs (not single), I read the blog of some girl I went to high school with. In it, she talks about being married, Jesus and where she should go to grad school. Not that I’m particularly against any of these items, it just makes me feel better that there is someone out there who inherently sucks more than I do.

Recently, I saw a professional photoshoot of her and her hubs (as she calls him – BLECH) taken to celebrate their one year of marriage. They’re both in sweater sets. This is my nightmare.

Who the FUCK needs photographic evidence that you’ve been married for a year? I’d rather rip my face off with my own hands and feed my flesh to my new fish before acting like that. I will never stoop to that level of suck. BTW, got a fish.

She’s pretty much my outlet for the daily angst that I wake up with. Also, I’m trying to lose five pounds by only eating fried food and lying in my bed, which is a constant cycle of depression.

But then. But then. BUT THEN. I get up, realize that my life actually doesn’t suck, and feel bad for Miss Baby Blues. At least I don’t write this blog like a make believe fucking fairytale about how great my life really isn’t. I choose silence instead. Silence of the Mothafuckin lambs. So here’s the truth – I have a little nuggety boyfriend and I am not a Victoria’s Secret model (forgive me if I lied to you). Even if I wear five layers of fake eyelashes and ten coats of black eyeliner, I am also not ke$ha. And if I start telling you life lessons about how to share an iPAD with your husband (#notswag), then you’ll know someone is holding my bun sock (#swag) ransom to write this post. If you don’t know what a bun sock is, then you clearly don’t live by the motto High Heels, High Buns. And I only wish I was referring to my ass.

Instead of attacking men at bars and going on useless first dates just for free food, here is what I deem as fun:
– Emailing ex-boyfriends from a made up email account (if you’re lucky I’ll post one)
– Calling the RU at work and telling him it’s Marguerite from upstairs (bring me that fax now you little fuck – RIGHT FUCKING NOW) and then laughing that he still doesn’t know it’s me
– Planning vintage fur trunk shows at my office without permission
– Sending my co-workers new business ideas based on things I heard Lady Gaga say (I believe the theme should be “I’m as free as my hair” because I am my hair) – like what? Did I seriously propose throwing a Monster Ball party today? Yes, yep, yippity YEP.
– Complaining about that song “Moves like Jagger”
– Seeing how many days I can go without washing my hair (seven), then telling my boss I haven’t washed my hair in seven days
– Idolizing Cat Marnell by reading everything she has ever written
– Rapping
– Spelling rapping like raping by accident

SEE? I am still fun. This is what fun people do. This is how I keep busy while 99% of my friends plan for their upcoming nuptials. There’s an E in my MERRY. Not an A. But dang, whatever. Don’t you know I wanna shoop, bahbay?

 

OctNOber

4 Oct

I can’t really remember what I did last October. Whatever it was I was doing, I certainly wasn’t dating anyone. October of last year was omitted due to over indulgence in alcohol.

Two years ago in October, I had already packed my bags and moved in with Clark. We had known each other for one month at that point. I made us breakfast when I got up, dinner when I got home and I ordered all of our groceries from a Peapod account that was linked to his credit card. I also stole $20 bills out of his wallet so I could pay for cabs to work, which I feel like I need to cop to because it was a low point for me. The habit started in October, which is why it pertains to this post. Hopefully one day I’ll stop making excuses for doing that (he deserved it for breaking up with me over Skype, he still has a ton of my merchandise in his fancy NYC apartment which equals more than I stole, he’s ugly and balding and should have paid even more for my affection, etc.).

I think that this October will be the dead middle of the two – the blissful in between of not being alone and not acting like I am married. But it’s only October 2nd, so I don’t really know how it will end up yet.

What I do know is that all of my annoying, whorish boyfriends from the past year have reached out to me over text message in the past week or so, emerging from the black hole I banished them to. Case and point:

BP – the married guy
Him: Hey Benchmark
Me: Who is this?
Him: Michael, you came to my fourth of July party?
[no response]
Him: Remember me?
Me: No

Evan – the guy who stalked my phone after I met him at Moe’s Cantina
Him: You at Moe’s Cantina?
Me: Who is this?
Him: Evan from Moe’s Cantina
[no response]
Him: Remember, you kissed me at Moe’s Cantina?
Me: Lose my number
Him: I know

Robert – the first guy I went on an official date with after Clark, who had one eyebrow
Him: Hey Hollywood, how is work? I bet it’s booming
[no response – but good one]

Hunter – the guy that picked me up from the airport after we met once
Him: Why did you delete me from BBM?
Me: Because you changed your BBM name to Honey Badger and I didn’t know who it was
Him: LOL it’s an inside joke

Jon – the guy who was friends with Clark, who I started seeing 11 days after Clark dumped me – aka the disaster
Him: Can I get my sunglasses back?
Me: Sure, but it’s been over a year. You haven’t gotten new sunglasses yet?
Him: How are you?

And then there’s Dweeb. Who has texted, called and stalked daily for the past three weeks. Honestly Dweeb, I am so glad you have come to the conclusion that I am the only one for you, but get off it. I’m not coming back. I don’t want to go to any concerts with you, I don’t want to talk on the phone at 11 a.m. on a Saturday and I don’t care that you have sooo much money. Bottle service at Underground doesn’t sound exciting and I can buy my own drinks, thank you. Go find someone else to drop in a snow bank and eat your dose of karma for dinner.

Instead of ignoring him, which is my favorite tactic to date, K and I decided to play a little prank on the Dweebster. It was a Wednesday, and we were out getting bagel sandwiches for lunch at our favorite place in Old Town. Conveniently, it’s about two blocks from where Dweeb lives and works from home. So we decided to deliver a high priority, full-sized pickle with one bite eaten from it to his doorman, with the direction that Dweeb needs to come down and sign for the package. Ten minutes later K and I are laughing our asses off from outside the building as Reed comes down in basically pajamas to sign for the pickle (which is wrapped in a plastic garbage bag). So bootleg and so funny. It looked like we were delivering a bag of crack to his doorstep. Crack for a whack.

Since then, Dweeb has exclaimed that he is “taking his ball and going home”, I think meaning that he is done trying. He’s not athletic at all. To which I replied, “you’re already home”. I think that will be the end of that… unless he gets more concert tickets.

So let’s raise our glasses and cheers to all of you poor Chicago guys who have not a clue – congratulations on making it through summer and sorry that you’re just realizing you’re going to be single for fall and winter.

I’m busy this season, but here’s to hoping for spring!

L’chaim!

7 Sep

Yes, I am his girlfriend.  And I am sick of denying it, okay?   I really like him and I don’t want to break up with him for fall.   Zap.

Three days after the so-called boyfriend accident, he asked me to be his girlfriend.  It wasn’t the perfect scenario, but it was us.  And we’re not perfect.  We’re just us.  And I am learning to like that.

I’m 5’9.  He’s maybe 5’9 ½ with shoes on.  And I’m not giving up my high heel collection.  Or a top bun.   So at times we look just plain awkward together.

I’m loud, creative and social.  He’s quieter and more thoughtful.   I spend half my day being sarcastic, so now he spends half his day trying to decipher sarcasm.  I like to think my jokes are top notch; most of his jokes are only funny because he starts laughing before he finishes telling them.   After at least five prank calls to his office line, he still doesn’t know it’s me when I do it time and time again.  I’m pretty sure he pumps surfer cologne into the liquid air freshener in his car.  And he still wears crocs.  But it’s all good.

Today I was at the salon for a meeting, when I ran into the esthetician who introduced me to Dasani.  She called me over to say that she talked to him on the phone last night.  Yay, I thought to myself as she continued to talk about him.  She was supremely excited to tell me that he called her last night to tell her thank you for setting us up.

Uhhh… it has now officially been over two months since we have spoken.  Why won’t this bug get off my windshield?  I keep killing him with the wiper and he just stays splattered right there in my line of vision.

Then, she continued to tell me that he was sad to say it didn’t work out, but that we both just had too much baggage to continue on together.  I asked her if she’s secured my sequin dress back from him (she hasn’t) and then I bounced.

But I’ve been thinking about this and you know what?  I don’t have baggage anymore.  I am checking into my flight with Ru with no carry on luggage and I’m certainly not paying the $25 to check a bag.  So if everyone could please get over it and stop blaming me for being lame, then I will send my blessings from the air.

I don’t miss Clark and I don’t want him back.  In fact, I don’t want to talk about him anymore.  He’s probably off doing some hippie dippie activities in New York, like smoking out of a fake cigarette while wearing black skinny jeans.   Just kidding, he’s probably sitting at his three computer desk, googling how to not be retarded.

In fact, I ran into one of Clark’s friends last week who just confirmed what a hippie freak he really is.  So it’s done.  We’re done talking about it.  I will not bring any of my old baggage to my new relationship.

Double deuces to you, Clark, and L’chaim to my little J.

#Whoops

12 Aug

This morning, riding in Ru-dawg’s car on the way to work, I accidentally cited him as my boyfriend.   It happened so unexpectedly – I was explaining a situation from last night and mocking myself, which ended in me saying something along the lines of “….what will my boyfriend think?” right as we rolled up to my office.

Tuck and roll right out of that car.   Straight into the world of aprons, meeting the parents, and butterfly kisses.  Ya should have seen the look on his face.  Confusion meets happiness.   A serious change in direction from “summer fling”, which is what he thought his status was before this morning…

I tried to wash my mouth out with soap when I got to work, but the damage was already done.  My subconscious came out to shake hands with my real conscious… showing everyone who is in charge.  And that ain’t me.

If we’re playing by my rules, he now has 24 hours to address the situation.  And I have to meet his brother and all of his friends tonight at his birthday dinner so it’s spectacular timing.  Can’t wait to see how he introduces me.   Will I be happy if he calls me his girlfriend?  I don’t know.  I think maybe, but then I think no.  Then I think about the time he asked me what the skin around his fingernails was and why I don’t have skin like his on my fingernails.   With a straight face I had to explain what a cuticle was and then delve into the process of manicuring one’s nails.  It’s looking back on moments like those when you seriously realize how great it can be.

So what happens if a so-called summer fling follows you into fall?

To be continued…

Farewell, So Long

4 Aug

Today, I’d like to say goodbye.  To my shoe collection.  Because I’m giving up high heels for a new man, who we will appropriately title Ru.  Which is short for RuPaul, because next Halloween, when S and I convince him to dress up in drag as RuPaul, might be the next opportunity I get to wear six inch heels.  When he’s not wearing his crocs (swear on my life), he clocks in at exactly the same height as me.  You see, the crocs give him a little marshmallowy boost, so he takes them off when I need to measure our height against one another.  I’m very self conscious about dating a shawty.  He’s also my age.  Life as we know it… is changing.  For better or worse?  TBD.

I’ve gone back and forth on the idea of actually blogging about him.  I logged the pros and cons on the back of an ATM receipt.  The major con is that I am blissfully happy and I usually use this forum, this message board, to verbally beat up my boyfriends.  And I really like Ru.  I don’t want to hurt him.   I don’t have anything bad to say at all.  But, I feel like I owe it to myself to transcribe something good happening to me.  Why only harp on the bad?  Because, it’s typically more fun, that’s why.  But not today, folks, not today.   

The pro is that you might get to see my sentimental side.  I’ve got a heart made of mush, just like the innards of Ru’s crocs.  It’s been exactly one month and I’m happy.   And the happiness makes me extremely protective.  I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable with my overbearing personality, or my past, or my phone buzzing at 2 a.m. on the weekends.  So, I’ve slowly wrecked everything else that I had going on to make sure there is no question about who I am interested in.   I can’t even imagine being with those trannies anymore anyway, so why keep them around? 

Dweeb has taken it really hard.  His poor milk man muscles just don’t know what to do when I don’t drop everything to attend to his bi-polar personality.  And my tendency to just ignore him hasn’t gone over well at all either.  In the past four weeks, he has texted and called a number of times… all with the same overarching question “are you still into this?” followed by silence, followed by “lose my number”.  Rinse, lather, repeat.  I should have just taken care of the situation 30 days ago, but I just don’t burn bridges like that.  Especially with guys who have treated me so well in the past. 

So this morning, when I rolled over and checked my phone and had another “just let me know – are you into this or not?” text from Dweeb (received at 2:01 a.m.), I knew I had to take care of the situation.  I need to start spending my mornings drinking chocolate milk while listening to Ru tell me how beautiful I look when I wake up, not reading text messages from some asshat who dropped me in a snow bank and basically told me he’d rather drop dead then date me.  GFY, Dweeb.   

But instead of responding like any normal human being, I choose to play games.  So, after a little copy and paste, I responded to his text with the exact message from Dasani, the one he sent when he “broke up with me” a few weeks ago.  Here it is again, not a word altered for Dweeb. 

4 Things I wanted you to know: 1. I have mono. 2. I think you’re an awesome person and have had such a good time getting to know you. 3. I’m really sorry I haven’t been in touch. 4. I’ve realized I’m a bit of a mess and I need a good friend more than I need a girl friend. I would love for you to be a friend, at least for now if you wanted. Not asking you to wait, or claiming that I’ll figure myself out anytime soon, but that’s what I’ve got. 

It’s a good go-to message, if anyone wants to borrow it.  And I laughed so hard when I sent it, just waiting for him to reply with some snarky comment.  I mean, “I need a good friend more than I need a girl friend”… I put the ball on the tee for him with that one.

And what does he do?  Takes. Me. Seriously.  His response:

Hey, I’m defiantly up for friends.  I like you a lot and have a great time with you.  Mono, really?  You’re a fucking hypochondriac. 

I almost felt bad that he bought it.  Defiantly almost felt bad.  Then I realized that defiantly and definitely are two completely different words.   Then I laughed again. 

Ru would probably laugh too, if I told him the story.  He’d at least give me a big toothy grin and pretend to think it’s funny.   Then we’d drink chocolate milk and he’d tell me I am pretty.  Rinse, lather, repeat.