Category Archives: I Will Punch You

Things to Do in Baltimore When You’re Almost Dead

Things to Do in Baltimore When You’re Almost Dead

Feb 26

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I don’t travel much.  Or well.  There’s plenty of reasons for this, a large one being traveling is expensive and I am not independently wealthy.  Another reason is I am, especially as I’ve gotten older, a bit anxious.  Okay, that’s a giant understatement.  I am very anxious.  I don’t really drive anymore because the last winter we had a car, I turned into everyone’s great Aunt Tillie and drove twelve miles an hour if there was an inch of snow on the ground.  And yes, I know exactly how miserable and annoying that is, so I just took myself out of the equation.  If someone doesn’t text me back within two minutes, I’m pretty convinced they’re either dead or hate me.  Also, every time I see an airplane take off, all I can picture is the Challenger explosion.  Yes, I know the Challenger was a rocket and not a plane, and yes, logically I understand I am safer in the air than I am on the ground – especially if I’m driving – and yet here we are.

So when I got the opportunity to go for a mini family reunion in North Carolina a few weeks ago, I had not been on a plane in nearly eight years.  Which means I also had not been out of the TriState area in eight years.  I had the money.  I had the vacation.  (Had being the operative word, stay tuned on that one.)  It was time to get out of my bubble.  So I booked the flight, much prouder of myself than I probably should have been as I am 39 years old and considered mostly fully functional.  I was really excited, but I was also nervous as hell.  I had to fly to North Carolina via Baltimore, I hate taking off and now had to do it twice, and I was going by myself, which I had never done.  By the time it was time to go, I was a gigantic ball of extremely annoying nervousness.

The way there went smoothly.  I set four alarms to make sure I didn’t miss my flight, I checked my pocket approximately 597 times to make sure my ID hadn’t jumped out of my zipped coat pocket, I was two hours early, I had a twenty two dollar bloody mary.  I was ready.  I was immediately stopped at security because my ass set the metal detector off.  “Ma’am, do you have anything in your pockets?”  “These are leggings.  I don’t have pockets.”  “Well, something in this area,” (gesturing at my not inconspicuous ass,) “that is setting it off.  Please step to the side so we can pat you down.”

Now.  There are few things I am 100% certain of.  But one of them would be that at any point in time, I am not transporting anything, metal or otherwise, in my ass.  Like, I know this.  It’s not like someone could sneak it in there without me knowing.  So why I broke into a panic sweat, I don’t know, yet here we are.  It’s like when I’m downtown and the cops are walking through the Thompson Center with the drug sniffing dogs.  I don’t do drugs.  I am not carrying drugs.  Ever.  But every time, my heart starts racing until I get past them.  Suffice it to say, they did not find anything wayward in my butt and I was set on my way, shoeless and sweating.

The rest of my arrival went smoothly.  Whether it was the vodka sodas, the interesting teenagers on their way to a debate conference, or the smooth flight, I don’t know, but I was fine.  I met my sister and niece at baggage claim, my parents picked us up, and off we went.  We had a great few days with family, lots of laughs, lots of wine, a boat, and made some great memories.  It was a great trip. 

And then.

My flight home was scheduled for Sunday morning at six am, direct on Southwest from North Carolina to Midway.  I would be home by nine thirty am.  This was by design.  I knew I would want some time to decompress after being outside my element for a few days. 

The first wheels fell off Saturday night, when I got a text message saying that my flight was canceled.  Apparently, there was no plane.  I’m going to tell you right now that this on its own was enough to get the anxiety going.  I don’t like when things change.  I had that flight number memorized.  I knew where I was supposed to go. I knew when I was coming home.  I knew my gate.  I was already checked in online.  My cousin saw my panic and walked me through rebooking.  Okay.  I had to connect back in Baltimore, but I got a flight at 8:30AM, would have a two hour layover in Baltimore, and then home sweet home.  I adjusted!  Go me!

My parents dropped me off at the airport, I had a drink, and was on my way.  We got to Baltimore, got off the plane, and went to McDonald’s and inhaled a breakfast sandwich.  Cheerily talked to a man next to me who was on my next flight, scheduled to depart at 12:30.  We went our separate ways, me happily saying,  “Okay, maybe I’ll see you on the plane!”  Ah, back when there was such sweet, sweet hope.  I headed to the bar for a nice relaxing drink while I waited. Talked to a nice man who was delayed to Florida who was slamming Bud Light like it was his job.  Look at me!  Traveling!  Making conversation!  Not being awkward!!

EMERGENCY!!!  THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!!!  EMERGENCY!!!! 

Out of nowhere, all of the emergency lights started blaring, all of the sirens in the airport started going off, and the automated voice was screaming that we were in an emergency.  So much for not being awkward.  I jumped off my stool in a panic, grabbed my purse, and was a solid five feet away before the bartender said, “Oh, honey, it’s just a drill.  We’re safe.”

Now, I’m no expert, but I would still like someone to explain to me why they were blasting the words EMERGENCY instead of THIS IS A DRILL so the less savvy of us travelers could perhaps not piss our pants during the duration of said drill.  I slammed my drink and immediately ordered another to to bring my heart out of my throat and back into my chest where it belongs.

Okay!  Time to go!  Go to the security line, and literally as I’m standing in the vestibule thing where they scan you, I feel my Garmin vibrate with a text message.  I glance at it and all I see is the word, “Cancelled.”  I pretend like this isn’t happening because obviously it can’t be and proceed to my gate, where there are about 150 people lined up at the gate.  I just stood there, in line, like I had any idea what I was doing.  I called my sister – who is not a spaz and travels frequently – and plaintively said, “What do I do?”  She tells me to see what they say, then immediately calls back to say all Southwest flights are grounded until Monday and I need to go right now to an American or United counter to get a ticket out of there before everyone else realizes it.

Except I don’t know where those gates are.  I knew where Southwest was.  I had not planned on going to another gate.  I do not do well when the script is flipped completely upside down on me.   Also, the flight she found on United was 375 dollars.  I did not have 375 dollars.  I mean, I did, but that was going to throw a wrench into paying my electric bill and eating food for the next week.  I planned money for vacation.  I did not plan for a four hundred dollar emergency.  She said she’d call her husband – who travels all the time for work – and see what he thought I should do.  He can get me a flight to O’Hare at 3:30 with his airline miles.  (Side note?  I love my sister and brother in law.  A whole lot.  They are good people. I still have a sneaking suspicion said flight was not exactly free but they were concerned I was going to have an absolute breakdown in the airport.)  At this point, Southwest is saying they can book me on a flight at four pm, but it might not go.  Call my brother in law and just said, tearily, “What do you think I should do?”  He says he’s just going to book it and send me the confirmation, to go to American Airlines and pick up my boarding pass.  It is 1:30PM. 

I heroically find the AA counter all by myself and wait in line for an increasingly maddening 42 minutes while the agents help the only two people in front of me.  Apparently they are missing connecting flights to Europe.  I do not care.  I need a ticket, something tangible to tell me that I am, in fact, leaving Baltimore.  Finally get said boarding pass and head back to my girl Melissa at the bar, who lets me charge my phone and brings me quesadillas.  I’m actually still in decent spirits.  I can go with the flow!  Especially if I have the help of six people!

Text – flight is delayed to four pm.
Text – flight is delayed to four thirty pm.
Text – flight is delayed to five pm.
Text – flight is delayed to five thirty pm.

Begin to get irrationally angry at both my phone and Garmin watch with their cheery vibrating with all of this garbage ass news.  My Bud Light swigging friend from the morning is also still stranded.  He leaves for his gate and says, very seriously, “You’re a very nice girl.  But I hope to to hell I never see you again.”  Same goes, buddy.  I am all alone.  Blatantly plead for sympathy on Facebook with posts like, “I live in Baltimore now.  My new address is Gate 4C, Baltimore, Maryland.”  People respond with the laughing emoji and I swear at them a little bit.  I have no idea where my bags are.  Baltimore?  North Carolina?  Texas?

It’s now a quarter to five.  Head back through security, vowing not to explode if my watch vibrates so as not to get arrested in the Baltimore airport.  Get to the gate.  My plane is here!  All of us weary travelers nod knowingly at each other.  We’re getting out of here! 

“Folks, your plane is here!  We just have a slight maintenance delay and then we’ll get you out of here.”

Despite overwhelming reasons not to be, I am still an extreme optimist.  Just a slight delay and I’m going home. 

5:45.
6:00.
6:15.

“Uh, folks, really sorry to say this, but this plane isn’t going anywhere tonight.”

I had been halfway out of my seat, expecting them to say we were boarding.  I sat back down, literally stunned.  Who has three flights cancel in one day?  Do I really live here now?  The girl next to me swears and immediately gets on her phone to rebook.  I do nothing.  I’m just sitting there, staring at the plane.  I can’t even move.  My sister texts me right then saying, “Boarding yet?”  and I just respond, “Just canceled.”  She immediately calls, swearing a blue streak that would have otherwise made me quite proud, and says, “You tell them you booked this flight on points, you’re a priority flier, tell them they have to get you out of there tonight!!!”

At this point, I’m literally standing in line, tears rolling down my face and desperately needing to blow my nose, and just wail, “I don’t think they’re going to believe me!!!!!”  Because clearly I am not a priority traveler.  Clearly I need to stay in my apartment forever.  Clearly I am never leaving Baltimore.  My mind is racing.  Do I take a voucher for a hotel?  Do I have to pay for a hotel?  Is Baltimore safe?  Do they have Uber?  Keep in mind, I am running on three hours of sleep, vodka, and a quesadilla.  I am in no shape to make any decisions. She tells me to see what they say, if they offer a flight tonight to take it, if not, the rest of my family is working on a hotel and transportation.  (Have I mentioned my family is amazing?  The group text from this day is GOLD.)  I get to the agent, who says there is a flight to O’Hare at nine pm. 

Pathetically, still fighting tears, I ask, “Is it actually going to Chicago tonight?” 

“I sure hope so, honey.”

I trudge back to my new family at the bar.  Melissa takes one look at me – keep in mind I have been there for her ENTIRE shift – and just says, “Oh, honey.  Again?”  I nod mutely at her.  She hands me a drink on the house and plugs my phone back in.  (Two things to note here – I for sure posted a glowing review of the bar on their Facebook.  Also, while it seems as though I drank a heroic amount of vodka this day, I was not drunk.  I assure you, nothing will sober you up faster than having three flights cancel on you while you’re by yourself in a city you’ve never been in with zero concept of time and the outside world.)

Flight is delayed to nine thirty.
Flight is delayed to nine fifty.
Melissa reminds me the kitchen is closing and I order french fries.
Flight is delayed to ten fifteen. 
Melissa brings me another drink and apologetically tells me they’re closing soon.

I head back to the gate.  Am now a pro at security, wordlessly taking off my shoes and coat, secretly calling all of the happy travelers who are just arriving at this godforsaken airport who are clearly going on vacation assholes. 

“Folks, your plane has landed from New York!!!  We’re going to do a very fast turnaround and get you to Chicago.”
Entire gate goes up in cheers, me excluded.  I do not believe them.  Until this damn plane is in the air, I have no hope. 
People are plastered against the window, looking for our escape.  One man says, “Oh fuck.  It’s one of those super small planes.”

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??? 

We finally get to board the American Eagle, otherwise known as “My First Airplane.”  They ask if I am willing to help in an emergency as I’m in the exit row.  My eyes were literally glowing by this point because I’ve been inside circulated air for sixteen hours and my contacts are dried to my eyeballs, and I’m pretty sure I was delirious.  I couldn’t have helped someone cross the street, let alone operate machinery.  I have no shame in saying I looked her right in the eye and said, “Absolutely.”

I have to DUCK to get onto the plane.  I’m 5’4.  This is the smallest plane I have ever been on.  I try and breathe deeply.  I am going home.  I decide I’m going to sleep because I was too afraid to in the terminal, (because you know my ass would have missed the plane or gotten robbed,) and immediately abandon that plan as we’re ascending because it felt like the plane was doing somersaults.  Looks like we’re back to my old friend vodka.

The flight attendant comes down the tiny aisle offering drinks.  I politely ask for a vodka soda and she comes back with a cup of soda and a mini-bottle of Titos.  Score!  This will make me two drinks and get me home!  Then she says, “That will be eight dollars, and we only take cash.”

I had spent my last cash tipping Melissa.  All of the other airlines said they only take credit cards.  I researched it!

“But…but.  I don’t have any cash.  I spent it all because I’ve been in the airport for fourteen hours.”

She looks at me closely and says, “Oh, honey.  You just take it.”  God bless you, air service person.  I love you almost as much as Melissa.

We start to descend and I have my face pressed against the window, all fear of flying gone.  I see the familiar grid lights of Chicago and legit start to cry.  I am home!

I am the second person off of the plane, despite being in the middle.  I walk, unseeing, through O’Hare, following the signs that say “Ground Transport.”  The first vehicle I see, I vow to get in.  I walk out to the beautiful, freezing, Chicago air, call a Lyft, fall into it and thank Santa that my driver doesn’t want to talk.  Finally get home, pour the the giantest, bestest glass of wine ever, and sit on my couch in dead silence for forty minutes. 

And then I got the flu from sitting in an airport for fourteen hours and being on four different airplanes and couldn’t leave my bed for a week, leaving me with a grand total of five vacation days for the next ten months.

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This is what crazy looks like

The End.

Posted in Chicago, family and friends, general stupidity, I Will Punch You, life in general

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You Don’t Have to Understand

May 24

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I don’t understand transgender people.  There, I said it.  I am a straight, white, privileged female, and I cannot understand how someone is born a female but identifies as a male, or vice versa.  I can’t wrap my brain around it.  Never, in my life, have I questioned myself in that regard.  I had my first crush in kindergarten, (Bobby Rossi, thank you very much,) and my first real crush in the fifth grade.  (Oh, Danny Andreeff, how you broke my permed hair with an overbite awkward heart.) It was always boys.  There wasn’t a question, never a real curiosity.  I didn’t have to think about it.  I was a girl, girls like boys, that was pretty much it.

But bear with me here.  Because there are a lot of things I don’t understand.  They include, but are not limited to, the following:

* Being a cat.
* Having a penis.
* Being African-American.
* How gravity really works.
* Being really rich.
* Being truly poor.
* Not having family that loves me.
* Why Kim Kardashian is famous.
* Tumblr.
* Why my cats are assholes.
* How a man walked on the moon.
* Why children get cancer.
* How ten minutes when I’m in a spin class can feel like eternity, but ten minutes before my alarm goes off is a nanosecond.
* Why McDonald’s diet coke is far superior to any other diet coke.
* That people actually believe Donald Trump could lead a country. (Sorry.  Had to throw it in there.)
* How a parent can harm their own child.
* Where the extra socks go to live after they’re put into the washer, never to be seen again.
* How the internet works.
* How the telephone works.
* Really, how anything electronic works.
* Being disabled.

The list could go on and on and on and on.  But here’s the thing.  All of those things?  Happen.  They are real.  They are true.  Some people understand them.  Some people make them their life’s work.  They EXIST.  They are reality.  Just because we don’t understand something doesn’t make it untrue.  It doesn’t make things not happen.

We used to think the world was flat.  We used to think women weren’t capable of voting.  We used to think it was okay to enslave an entire race based on skin color.  We used to believe that we were untouchable, that no one could ever use our own planes and training against us.  We used to think only gay people got AIDS.  Guess what?  We were very, very, wrong. 

To denounce something because we don’t understand it – is that not the absolute height of all arrogance?  “Well, that doesn’t make sense to me, therefore, it’s impossible.  Case closed.”  That’s like insisting two plus two equals five, or that Mars isn’t a planet.

So no, I don’t understand being transgender, any more than I understand standing up to pee.  And I’m not going to lie, I’m glad for it.  I’ve never had to defend being who I am, defend who I love and have to explain why.  I can’t imagine having to do so. 

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But that doesn’t mean that population doesn’t exist.  It doesn’t make them less real, or less than anyone else.  People are people.  And most people?  Are good.  Even the ones you don’t understand.

And they all deserve to go to the damn bathroom in peace. 

Posted in general stupidity, I Will Punch You, Media Makes Me Angry

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So, There’s a Live Animal in Your Wall.

Feb 7

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Thursday, 10PM.  “Hmm, why are the cats skulking along the baseboards in the kitchen?”  “Oh, there’s a loose floorboard.”  “Hmm, I hope that rat/mouse I saw in the summer doesn’t try to get in.”

Friday, 7PM. “Aaah.  Excellent.  Long week complete.  Time to sit down and relax with a drink.  Hey, you’re home all alone for the first time in forever.  This is sort of nice.”

Friday, 7:48PM.  “I’ll just go ahead and stir this pot roast.  What a great dinner this is going to be!”

Friday, 7:51PM. “What’s that scratching?  Hmm, I never noticed that hole below the kitchen cabinets.”

Friday, 7:53PM. “OMG SWEET JESUS THAT WAS A FUCKING PAW THERE IS SOMETHING SCRATCHING ITS WAY INTO THE APARTMENT.”

Friday, 7:54PM. “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK STOP IT STOP IT OH MY GOD OH MY GOD HELP!!!”

Friday, 7:56PM. “No, I don’t THINK there’s a rat in my wall.  There IS something in my wall.  I saw it. Send help, like right this second.”

Friday, 7:57PM -Friday, 8:05PM, Pounding on wall frantically whilst yelling out loud. Go away!! Oh my god oh my god!!!

Friday, 8:05PM to 8:35PM. Hysterics.  There’s no other word.

Friday 8:35PM to 8:37PM. Silence.  No one cares.

Friday 8:38PM to 8:42PM. Scratchedy scratchedy scratchedy, motherfucker!  I’m going to get you!!!

Friday, 8:43PM to 8:51PM.  Camped out at kitchen table, making as much noise as possible.  “Come on, Ramon, hiss at the dirty shit filled rodent – yeah, okay, it’s a mammal – trying to attack our lives.  And my pot roast.”

Friday, 8:52PM to 8:56PM. “Why are you throwing up, you stupid cat???  This should be your shining moment!  Your one chance in your eleven years to do something that doesn’t make everyone angry!”

Friday, 8:57PM to 9:01PM. OMG this is totally worse than when that possum got onto the porch.

Friday, 9:02PM to 9:05PM.  And when that stupid skunk had babies in the backyard and they were all digging everything up and trying to act like they were cute but were actually horror-filled stink bombs that ruined entire weekends.

Friday, 9:06PM to 9:10PM. Scratchedy scratchedy scratchedy!!!!  Ima get you!!  You’ll never sleep again!!!

Friday, 9:11PM to 9:15PM. Yes, yes, I do believe it’s time for another vodka drink.

Friday, 9:16PM to 9:21PM. “Die, motherfucker!” yelled while pounding on the wall.  “AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEE!!”  (that’s me screaming, if you didn’t catch it.)

Friday, 9:22PM to 9:30PM. Maybe it died?  Or fell asleep?  Does that happen?  Do they just give up?

Friday, 9:31PM to 9:45PM. “All is calm, All is bright!”

Friday, 9:46PM to 9:47PM. I am not losing this pot roast.  You don’t scare me, rodent!

Friday, 9:48PM to 9:51PM. Seriously, this has to be the one night in six months that the partyboys upstairs haven’t come home around this time to gear up for the night.  I don’t know that they’d be that much help, but this is one situation I’m not ashamed to admit I really wish there was someone of the opposite sex here to give some advice.

Friday, 9:52PM to 9:57PM. Am going to be found here, alone, eaten by rodents.  I swear, Mom, I was just about to clean up and organize that dresser.  I got sidetracked.  I’m sorry.

Friday, 9:58PM to 10:01PM.  Might as well have one last drink.  The thing has been quiet for a few minutes.  I can only assume this means it is gathering reinforcements.

Friday, 10:02PM to Present. Clutching glass of vodka, head spinning as if on a swivel, just waiting for the noise, spontaneously yelling and/or stomping feet.

Just know I loved you all.

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See that little hole right underneath the cabinets? That’s where the scary monster is trying to get in.

Posted in Chicago, family and friends, general stupidity, Hmm, I Will Punch You, life in general

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Ten Signs the Chicago Winter Has Beaten You Senseless.

One year, I had tickets to both the Bears and Cubs home opener.  The day of the football game, it was 105 degrees on the field.  The baseball game?  Was snowed out.  We know the weather is bipolar in Chicago, but somehow we are continuously surprised by it.  “I don’t remember it sucking this much last year.  Was it this hot last year?”  “Remember last year on this day, when we went to the beach?  Why is it snowing?  WHY???”  We have approximately seven days a year of perfect weather, and generally even those are marred by the impending bitchfit we know Mother Nature is brewing.  Oh, are you enjoying this unseasonably warm day in March?  Opened up all of the windows and pulled out the grill in anticipation of an early spring, didja?  I have two words for you, losers.  WINTRY MIX.  What?  You’re surprised?  Don’t worry.  I’ve got a tornado I’m working on for next week that’s going to make this miserable shit seem like rainbows and sunshine. 

That being said, this winter has been particularly brutal.  Snowstorm in January?  Not surprising.  Wind chills of negative 40?  That’s new.  And being that it’s only January 9th and we’ve already had nearly two feet of snow and several days in which Alaska was enjoying temperatures 30 degrees higher than here, I think we have a legitimate argument that spring should probably start next week.  Here’s a couple of signs the weather is winning.

You Have Worn More Than One Pair of Pants.  To Work.

I don’t generally even pull out a coat until it dips below 25 or so.  This year?  I had seven outfits on at the same time.  Once arriving at work, it was like the unsexiest strip show ever –  and I wasn’t alone.  The whole office was like a graveyard of outerwear.  Boots strewn about, sweatshirts laid out on desks, extra socks under desks; coats, scarves, and hats ripped off haphazardly to counteract the 80 degree difference in temperature between the ground floor and the 29th.

Every Single Person You Know Has a Cold.

Coughing, sneezing, sniffing, that gross clearing of the throat and sound of snot in Kleenex – these are your days now.  The only place I’ve found to be comfortable is in a sweatshirt, yoga pants, thermal socks and slippers on the bathroom floor with the shower running full stop to create my own personal sauna.  Sometimes I bring whiskey to make it a party.

If You See That Post About How Beautiful Chicago Looks Under Ice Posted One More Time, You’re Going to Punch Someone.

So many of my social media friends – currently not in sub-zero temps but instead in places with reasonable weather like California and the South Pole – posted this article this week.  Yes, it IS beautiful.  Unless, perchance, you happen to be attempting to walk through it.  Then, you can’t stop to admire the beauty.  You know why?  Because YOU’LL FREEZE TO THAT SPOT FOREVER if you stop moving for even a second.

Ditto to the “Chiberia” Folks.

Just, ugh.  Fucking stop it already.  That’s worse than “Chiraq.”  Sometimes I hate Twitter.

Your Kitchen Floor Looks Like This.

"There's only so much I can do!!!!!" cried the mop.

“There’s only so much I can do!!!!!” cried the mop.

You’re About to Spontaneously Combust At Just About Any Second.

It’s so dry in your house/apartment/workplace due to the constantly running heat that shuffling along the floor on carpet is a deadly game of Russian roulette – the next thing you touch might be your last.

You’ve Developed a Love-Hate Relationship with Your Mode of Transportation.

I can’t speak to those of you poor souls trying to drive in this nonsense.  But those of us taking the CTA have developed a drug-dealer-like dependency on our bus drivers.  “Please, please, please, be on time, you miserable f-ing piece of garbage.  Please.  I’ll be nice.  Please just show up.  Please don’t make me wait out here longer than three minutes, you f-ing jerks.”

You Forgot How to Walk Like a Normal Person.

Anyone who has thought that they were walking on innocent snow or slush who has violently found the black ice underneath is terrified of it happening again.  So we all walk gingerly, which, in boots, is more of a slow uncoordinated clompstomp across the street.  Walking the full block and a half from the El to work becomes a terrified mantra of “Don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall WATCH OUT SEWER COVER don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall please please don’t fall.”

You’ve Done This.  Or At Least Watched a Video of One of Your Friends Doing This.

For those of you lucky souls who aren’t currently dealing with Mars-like temperatures, this is what happens when you throw a pot of boiling water into the air when it’s 14 below.  (Also, yes, I am considering a second career as a cinematographer, how did you know?)

Gray, Dirty, and Wet is the New Clean, Shiny, and New.

Nothing you own will ever be the same.  The slush alone is enough to ruin the best of pants and shoes, no matter how hard you try.  Just let it go.  You need all of your strength just to not fall on your fucking head and break every bone in your body. Everything is ruined.  We’ll start again next year.

So thanks, Polar Vortex.  For making us appreciate this so very much more.

SEVEN MORE MONTHS! SEVEN MORE MONTHS!

SEVEN MORE MONTHS! SEVEN MORE MONTHS!

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It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.

Dec 12

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Have you ever been reading through Facebook and come across a story, eagerly clicking a story only to be disappointed when you realize it’s actually a fake headline from “The Onion?”  This week has been the opposite of that.

MICHIGAN ‘RAPE INSURANCE’ BILL PASSES INTO LAW

TEEN WHO KILLED FOUR DRIVING DRUNK SPARED JAIL BECAUSE HIS RICH PARENTS SPOILED HIM

SIX-YEAR-OLD WHO KISSED CLASSMATE GETS SEXUAL HARASSMENT SUSPENSION

There is so much wrong with this bill in Michigan I don’t even know where to start, but I’ll try.  The gist of it is that abortion will not be covered by any private health-care plan unless it threatens the life of the mother.  This includes cases of rape.  In black and white and at its worst, this means that if you live in the state of Michigan and become pregnant due to rape, if you do not have the additional rider your state government so generously offered you, your health care will not cover or even subsidize an abortion.  So now, aside from dealing with the trauma of sexual assault, and aside from dealing with the physicality of becoming pregnant, and aside from dealing with the stigma that already comes with being raped, if you are strong enough to still stand up and demand an abortion, you have some more difficult decisions to make.  There’s basically three options for you here: go to a back-alley doctor that you can afford, have the child and give it up for adoption – because you certainly need more mental anguish and pain at this point, or have the child and try to deal with it.  Sounds great, right?  Certainly a decision someone in a fragile mental state who has just been violated in the most personal of ways should have to make.

Of course, supporters are all bent out of shape that it’s being called “rape insurance,” saying that’s not what it is, it’s simply not covering a procedure that not everyone believes in.  Untrue.  Rape insurance is exactly what it is.  That is telling a woman that has become pregnant due to rape that she should have had the foresight to purchase said rider.  That is telling women everywhere that, when deciding on their health-care coverage, they need to think about just how likely it is that they’ll be sexually assaulted and how they would respond should the unthinkable happen.  That is telling mothers and fathers that when deciding on what coverage their young daughter needs, there is a price on their body should it be violated.  This is blaming the victim at its very definition, and you aren’t going to convince me otherwise.  “Oh, not every woman wanting an abortion is a rape victim!”  This is correct.  And not every sixty-year old with a Viagra prescription is banging his secretary, either.  But plenty of them are – should we start questioning their motives for needing it?

Moving on.  Is there a bigger piece of shit than defense attorney Scott Brown, who successfully argued his client out of a 20-year jail sentence for killing four people while drunk, other than possibly the judge or this kid’s father?  I don’t really think so.  If you haven’t seen this yet, the short version of this story is that Ethan Couch, a wealthy teen in Texas, robbed a Wal-Mart, got wasted to more than twice the legal limit, went out driving in his truck looking for more booze, and killed four innocent people, injuring and paralyzing several others.  His attorneys used the defense of “affluenza,” arguing that he was too privileged, overindulged, not taught that there are consequences to actions because his parents did not instill these values in him.

I’m not even lending credence to the fact that this was an allowable argument.  To me, this is a pretty clear case of mommy and daddy have money, paid off the judge and psychologist and hired a brilliant attorney.  (I said he was a piece of shit.  I stand by that.  However, he did his job, and certainly did it well.)  If Ethan had been a poor child with a crackhead for a mother who had been exposed to drugs, violence, and rage his whole life; if he had been left to fend for himself from a young age because his father wasn’t around to teach him right from wrong and went out and shot and killed someone, does that mean he gets a free pass as well?  What’s the difference?  How should he have known better when Ethan Couch couldn’t have?  I bet there are an awful lot of gangbangers down in Cook County that would like to know.  This decision is more than proving the argument that money fixes everything, but that isn’t the biggest issue.  The biggest issue here is that this ruling sets a precedent that allows the defense, “I didn’t know any better.”  It opens up a whole new world of loopholes and defense attorneys arguing that there are logical reasons for breaking the law.  I’m not saying that money bought Ethan Couch a happy life or that he doesn’t have problems.  But he is NOT a child that doesn’t know right from wrong.

Which brings me to my next point.  Little Hunter Yelton in Colorado – him, we expect to understand that there is apparently a fine line between being a child and being a sexual predator.  A six-year-old boy who kissed his “girlfriend,” on the hand during class was not only suspended, but suspended under the reason of sexual harassment.  How heartbreaking, on so many levels.  One, that this child, expressing his affection for a little girl, now has to be taught what sexual harassment is; his mother now has the fun task of explaining sex to a six-year old who probably has only been using the big boy toilet for a couple of years.  Two, that we made this happen.  We did.  Everyone is coming down on the school district – how dare they?  What were they thinking?  It was an innocent little kiss, how could they label him like that?  Folks?  The school district did exactly what they had to do.  We tie their hands in matters like this.  Same as the children who get suspended for pointing a finger like a gun, who innocently bring a knife that their grandfather gave them to show and tell, who get suspended for picking up a drunk friend because it violates school policy.  We have forced our schools to adopt a zero-tolerance policy, and then when a situation arises that showcases the ridiculousness of said policy, we turn around and blame the people that we are insisting enforce it.

I remember my first crush – I was in kindergarten.  His name was Bobby Rossi.  I don’t remember much about him other than he had brownish hair and I think he wore a plaid shirt. Did he ever kiss me on the hand?  I have no idea.  I was five and my memory of that time is pretty much limited to riding my bike and having a Cabbage Patch doll.   But I do remember Danny and Scott and Joey and Jeff when I was in elementary school; I remember giggling like only little girls can and teasing (or, let’s be honest, I’m sure I was the one being teased,) about kissing a boy.  How do we teach our kids about healthy relationships between boys and girls?  We don’t allow for innocence anymore.  If parents today could see some of the “love letters,” that were passed around in my elementary school, we’d probably all be hauled down to the counselor.  Not because they were overly sexual – I’m pretty sure I was at least 13 before I completely understood how sex actually worked, and even then I was a little cloudy about the logistics – but because they were outright professions of affection.  “I love Joey and when I grow up he’s going to be my boyfriend forever and ever like my mommy and daddy.”  What do teachers today do with that note?  Is it a conference?  Do we have to tell Joey’s parents that there’s a little girl bound and determined to trap him into wedlock?  Do we tell the little girl she needs to find another way to be happy and that boys aren’t always the answer?  One thing is pretty clear – we’re not going to leave it to the kids to figure it out.  We’re too suspicious; we’re too focused on the underlying meaning.  We don’t consider that children are children, and at the core, they don’t have ulterior motives.  They say and do what they think and feel.  That’s it.

One thing is clear.  For all of our intelligence, we live in one fucked up country. In one week, we’ve set women’s rights back about thirty years, let a murderer go free because he’s rich, and slapped a first grader with the label of sex offender for simply acting like a child.  One week.  Let’s make the next one better, shall we?

I bet what they have to say makes more sense than the shit we put up this week.

I bet what they have to say makes more sense than the shit we put up this week.

Posted in general stupidity, Hmm, I Will Punch You, Media Makes Me Angry

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Excuse Me, I Have a Tiny Violin I Want to Hit You With

Nov 13

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I don’t read gossip magazines.  I don’t follow celebrity blogs or Twitter feeds, I don’t watch E! or Extra or TMZ.  To be perfectly honest, I’m not even sure if those are the “popular” celebrity sites or shows; those are just the ones I remember flipping past on the television when I do watch my late night reruns.  Part of the reason is that it makes me feel old – either they’re showing videos and photos people like Dakota Fanning and Abigail Breslin doing grown up things when in my head, they are permanently ten years old – or they make me feel dirty and old, i.e. showing a picture of Taylor Lautner shirtless and I’m all “Ooh, yummy,” until I remember that he was probably still in diapers when I graduated high school and then I’m all, “Ew, I’m old enough to be a cougar,” and have a drink instead of continuing to hurt my own feelings.  Another part of the reason?  Is that I despise everything Kim Kardashian and it is fucking impossible to watch any sort of gossip/celebrity show without that stupid bag of hair smiling beatifically for a photo-op with that walking piece of arrogance she’s engaged to.

But the biggest reason of all is shit like this interview with Mariah Carey in which she compares her time on American Idol to working with Satan every day. I had to read the whole thing because I thought to myself, “That’s impossible.  She wouldn’t actually say something so ridiculous.”  She did.  Read the article.  Her exact words? “It was like going to work every day in hell with Satan.”

Really, Mariah?  Was it really so bad?  Was it really just so, so, very difficult to get paid 18 fucking million dollars to judge a talent show?  18 million dollars.  Do you have any concept of how much money that actually is?

 

THINGS I WOULD DO FOR 18 MILLION DOLLARS

Yes – Pretty much anything

No – Eat a baby

I once had a manager when I was waiting tables whose night was not complete unless he made someone cry.  He would scream profanities at you that didn’t even make sense, “Fucking yes bread is slow stop waiting dammit go!” “Don’t care steak broken fryer!” and my favorite, a horrifying Hunger Games version of red light green light, “Get out! Where are you going! Get that out!  Get back here! What are you waiting for?! Pay attention and stop!” until you were slip sliding in your own sweat holding a full tray of food above your head with one hand, questioning every life choice you ever made.  Do you know how much money I made doing that four or five times a week for three years, Mary Poppins?  Three dollars an hour.  And do you know what else?  I did it with a fucking smile, because I had a job and I was grateful. How long would you make it in a regular job, Ms. Mariah?  As a mail carrier, a receptionist, a customer service rep?  A nurse, a social worker, a teacher?  You’re a very lucky woman.  You were born with an extraordinary talent that you’ve used to your advantage, which ensures that you will never actually have to “work,” in the real world a day in your life.  From what the article stated, part of your problem is that Nicki Minaj called you “insecure,” and “bitter.”  Instead of having the audacity to feel sorry for yourself, prove her wrong.  Take a look around and be happy and humble at what life has provided you with. Or at least get a better publicist that will advise you against complaining about the show that paid you 18 million dollars in one year to sit on a stage and look pretty.

Yes. SHHHHH. Dummy.

Yes. SHHHHH. Dummy.

 

Posted in celebrities, general stupidity, I Will Punch You, life in general, Uncategorized

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Jimmy Kimmel is Awesome and Please Calm Down

By now pretty much everyone has seen Jimmy Kimmel’s video montage of the reactions of children after their parents tell them they ate all of their Halloween candy.    If you haven’t seen it, please take a minute or six to take a look.

Priceless and hilarious, yes?  Apparently not everyone thinks so.  Here’s some quotes from folks outraged at this horrible example of parenting.

“Is it just me, or does anyone else thinks this sort of borders on emotional and mental cruelty toward children??  It’s pretty darn close to bullying, isn’t it?” Commenter on NBC article.

“Cruel and potentially damaging.” Child psychologist Mark Barnett.

“Inappropriate parental behavior.” Psychologist Jane Annunziata.

That’s just a couple of the criticisms, but you get the gist of it.  These parents are only out for a couple minutes of fame, and by participating in a prank, may be causing lifelong damage to their children’s psyches.

People?  Get the fuck over yourselves.  It’s funny.  It’s CANDY, for fuck’s sake.  They didn’t tell them Santa hated them, that the Easter Bunny didn’t exist, that their favorite teacher was actually an alien, that the dog was dead.  They told them someone ate their candy.  And they didn’t even do it!  The kids got their candy back!

I’m just going to point out two things and then leave it alone.  One – most kids that have parents willing to buy them a costume and take them trudging around in the rain for several hours trick or treating are probably reasonably in tune with their children and whether playing a prank on them is going to destroy their entire life.  Two – if your kid reacts like some of them did, such as the two-year-old who called someone a bitch, they probably deserve a spanking a lot more than a bag of candy, anyhow.

Hell, I believed my dad built the Sears Tower until I was probably eleven.  My cousin Carrie – who isn’t actually my cousin, MORE LIES, MOM AND DAD – was told that Santa vacationed with a bunch of girls in bikinis in the off season.  The list goes on and on.  We’re fine.  These kids will be fine too.  Get over yourselves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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You Pay Someone for That??

Nov 7

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Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be some weird amateur expose on prostitution or how sex sells.  Mostly because even if I wanted to, I don’t have the money to buy it nor the body to sell it, so it wouldn’t be all that interesting or factual.  Also because the last time I had a conversation about that subject, it devolved into an extremely stupid argument about whether Hooters girls are being exploited and sexualized or simply using the good looks they were born with to increase their earning potential while having to work as a waitress.  I’ve waited tables, and I can say with complete authority if I’d had the body for it, I promise I would have happily donned the fluorescent short shorts and a push up bra faster than you could say, “Excuse me, miss?”  with nary a qualm.   For all of you shouting, “Oh, but it’s so degrading for those poor girls,”  you know what else is degrading?  Wearing a vest and bow tie while trying to fish a lobster out of a tank in front of a cheering crowd for a four dollar tip.  Trust.

Anyhow, the other day, I got some random email from a site I must have registered for during my desperate days of unemployment.  It was advertising some degree and certification programs when one of them caught my eye and I thought, “Wait – the fuck?  There’s a certification program for organizing your house?  What is happening here?”  And thus came up with a list of jobs that are apparently born from the realization that we are so lazy and stupid that we are willing to pay someone to do almost anything so we don’t have to deal with it.  Here we go.

Life Coach.

Sure, it sounds good in theory.  Pay someone to help realize your untapped potential, uncover your hidden talents, discover what you were really meant to do in life.  Are you really SUCCEEDING as an accountant?  Should you follow your dream to become a world-famous sculptor instead?  Your life coach will help you find your inner happiness, your true calling in life.  Here’s the thing.  There’s a good chance that this life coach that you’re paying to help you realize your true calling in life?  Doesn’t have any fucking idea what theirs is.  Instead, they have some drive and ambition, a decent head for marketing, and a thousand bucks to pay for the course.  Do you know what that means?  That means I could be a life coach, folks.   I am fucking fabulous at taking tests – I promise you I could ace this class.   Sure, my husband decided to have popsicles for dinner and my cats are sitting on the kitchen table, but hey, your life?  I can totally fix that.  I got this certificate to prove it.

Animal Behaviorist/Psychologist.

Nope.  Just fucking no.  Of course you want your pet happy.  I want my pets happy.  You know how I make that happen?  I feed them, clean up their poop, and give them a warm place to live.  I give them love and attention, I let them sleep on my head, scratch my furniture, and buy them toys and treats that are good for their well-being.  And if they’re not happy after that?  Fuck em.  I’ll still love them, I’ll still take care of them, but yeah, I’m going to resent them a little bit.  In much of my research as to why my small cat finds it necessary to occasionally relieve himself in places other than the litterbox, I found several articles from these professionals explaining that my pet is stressed, and is “voicing his displeasure,” by acting out.  You know what, doctor?  I’m stressed too.  You know what adds to my stress?  Waking up in the middle of the night and having to change my sheets.  You don’t see me taking a shit in the cat bed, do you?  No.  That cat is clean, well fed, and safe.  If he feels “threatened,” by the different noises in the new apartment, too fucking bad.  Adjust.  If I don’t get Prozac, he certainly doesn’t.  You know why?  He’s a CAT. He’ll be fine.  Promise.

Professional Organizer.

At work, I’m pretty organized.  My job often requires keeping a lot of plates spinning at the same time, and for the most part, I’m relatively good at keeping them all in the air.  At home, however, I kind of fall off the wagon.  In the past couple of years, the list of things I have lost (and found again) is simply ridiculous for a grown adult to misplace.  They include: my crockpot, winter boots, an entire set of tools, my good knife, a garbage can, winter coat, my Kindle, my husband’s wallet, two phones, a set of cutlery, the remote control, my neighbor’s favorite sweatshirt, a significant amount of Halloween decorations, and the glass shelves to my china cabinet.  Things I have never lost sight of include a random collection of forty dice, a solid brass monkey that holds a hackey sack, a singing stuffed chicken, four candles that I’ve had since 2005 and never lit despite having zero personal significance, and a box of collected rocks that neither of us can recall ever gathering.  One might argue that I could benefit from a professional organizer.  If you can believe it, there is a entire association of professional organizers, and you have to have been practicing in the industry for 1,500 hours before you can even become ELIGIBLE to take the test required to become certified.  So maybe they could help me.  Or, instead of giving them money, maybe I could use a combination of common sense – stop being so lazy and throw out the goddamn box of rocks, dummy – and my mother’s advice, “Get a goddamn calendar and put shit back where it goes,” and voila!  I’ve saved a couple hundred bucks and I can find my silverware.

Then again, all of these people are managing to make money completing basic, everyday tasks, while I go to work every day, so who the hell am I to judge?

Hi! For thirty dollars a month, I'll organize your spices! Interested?

Hi! For thirty dollars a month, I’ll organize your spices! Interested?

 

 

 

Posted in family and friends, general stupidity, I Will Punch You, life in general, rotten cats

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Well, Color Me Hurt and Confused

Oct 24

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I’m not even sure how I came across this article; one minute I was reading about Tori Spelling’s money problems (that post almost writes itself, but I have to take a step back before writing it so as not to be a hate-filled obscenity spewing rant about how she should be ASHAMED of herself even saying such a thing as how she lost a million dollars in her efforts to scale down,) (Seriously?!  Many other notes aside, you had to make some money of your own playing that unbearable Donna character, lording your virginity over poor David Silver for so long,) and the next thing I knew I saw this article by one Abigail Geer entitled, “10 Signs Your Kitty Actually Loves You.”  Well, I thought to myself, I could use that!  Perhaps there’s some signs here I was unaware of that will help me understand why I keep feeding and cleaning out boxes of shit for two animals who – at least on the surface – would eat me if I stayed still long enough.

Ms. Geer’s article gives, as advertised, ten cat behaviors that supposedly prove their love.  For her reasoning, please feel free to read the article linked above.  Here’s what I thought.

1. Head butting. Right. Because very few things say “I love you,” more than face-to-face combat, especially if one opponent is wide awake while the other is in a blissful slumber.

2. Powerful purrs.  My stupid small cat sounds like a motorboat when he purrs.  It’s actually cute – he only weighs like six pounds and it’s unbelievable what a loud sound he makes when he’s purring.  Unfortunately, he purrs the loudest and most frequently while he is licking the (surely lead-based painted) walls.  Try to pick him up or pet him and he recoils as though you’re trying to throw him in a vat of boiling acid.  The other one?  See sign number three below.

3. Love bites.  Apparently there is a difference between a “love bite,” and a “cat bite.”  Hmm.  Tell me, Ms. Geer, when the cat is chomping about your ankles while you’re making dinner, is that a love bite?  When the cat curls up all sweet right next to you while you rest and then sinks her teeth into the tender flesh on the underside of your arm when you pet her, is that a love bite?  How about when she tries to take a chunk out of your knuckles while you attempt to eat a popsicle?  Which type of bite is that?  Cause I’m pretty sure it’s the “my cat is simply a complete asshole,” bite.  Does yours have one for that designation?

4. Tail twitching. You know what my cat is getting ready to do when his tail twitches?  Pee in my shoe.

5. Tummy up. Ms. Geer says it shows trust.  I say it shows a grim determination to trip me to my death while trying to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, as that’s the only time either of these jerks ever flops down in front of me.

6. Licking your hair or ears.  Hmm.  Have you ever woken up to a cat trying to pull your hair out of your head via her teeth in the middle of the night?  Do you know what that sounds like when it wakes you out of a sound sleep?  It sounds like the murderer you’ve known has been coming TRYING TO SAW THROUGH YOUR HEAD, that’s what.  To your other point about the ears, I refer you to my husband who suffered an (undiagnosed) punctured ear drum when the cat resting on his melon got scared and clawed his way to the ceiling via his head.

7. Kneading.  Nope.  This does not make me feel good.  This reminds me I really, really need to go to the gym and stop eating so much damn macaroni and cheese.

8. Slow blinking. You call it “kiss with their eyes,” all you want, you weirdo.  I call it the creepiest staring contest ever because my cats?  Don’t fucking blink.

9. Nap time. Apparently cats crave a safe place when they sleep, so if they pick you to be their naptime spot, you should feel honored.  Sure. Recently, Potato fell asleep with his head and front paws hanging off of the top of the refrigerator.  Ramon once got trapped INSIDE the refrigerator (not a good day,) and when I opened it she blinked repeatedly, jumped out, and took a swing at me; apparently I’d ruined her nap.

10. Gifting.  This was geared towards a cat leaving a mouse they’ve killed at your doorstep, showing their prowess and bounty to you.  If that’s true, when that baby possum got on the porch and I was chasing it down the stairs with a broom – CRYING, mind you – where the fuck were these cats then?  Cowering under the blanket, that’s where.

I’m starting to think maybe I should have a dog.  Or a pet rock.

Thought I was kidding? Tell me these aren't faces of evil.

Thought I was kidding? Tell me these aren’t faces of evil.

Posted in general stupidity, I Will Punch You, life in general, rotten cats

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Surviving Winter

Oct 22

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If you’re in the Chicago area, you undoubtedly had the conversation today.  It was impossible to avoid, no matter how hard you tried.  The news was all over it, Facebook was awash with amateur weathermen, (excuse me, weatherPEOPLE,) and casual conversations on the elevator couldn’t help but veer towards it; today was the first day of possible snow.  And despite all of the obvious, i.e. it’s the end of October, this tends to happen, and oh yeah, we live in Chicago why are we still surprised at any weather, EVER, we just can’t help but be surprised.  It’s like Mother Nature stopped her tease of the past few weeks, which had lulled us into a false sense of security, thinking, Hey!  Maybe this will be the year we actually WILL have a fall! and just dropped the temperature like 30 degrees while at the same time taking away the sun, leaving half of us standing in flip flops and dresses and the other half in gear fit for Antarctica on a bad day while we all stare at each other, uncomprehending.  Seriously, if one were to come from another planet today and was forced to make assumptions based on how well we dressed for the weather, we would fail everything.

That being said, I’m trying to get over my frustration with the fact that once the temperature dips below 40 degrees social media loses its collective mind and can concentrate only on the weather outside.  So I decided to embrace it; cold, snow, sleet and all, and make a list of what I’d like to accomplish during this upcoming glorious six months of slush.

winter

Dress Appropriately

Here’s something that will likely surprise no one – I am woefully lacking in dressing for the weather.  You’d think, with all my bitching, that I’d pay a tiny bit more attention to all of the Facebook weather updates and manage to dress accordingly, but you would be wrong.  For one, I hate wearing a coat.  Hate it.  I hate being hot more than pretty much anything in the world, and if walking to a bus stop and then waiting for a bus and train in below freezing temperatures for a total of 30 minutes while freezing in a long sleeve shirt means I don’t have to suffer through it being all hot and twisty and miserable for five minutes while ON the bus, I’m all for it.  I tried wearing gloves, a hat, and a scarf with my normal clothes last winter so as not to give myself frostbite, but I was still smoking then and not only almost lit myself on fire, but lost at least one of these items on a daily basis.  In addition, being asked 20 times a day, “Where is your COAT???” from concerned citizens and co-workers is only slightly less annoying than being strangled by that stupid coat.  So this year, I bought a pair of boots, and this weekend, I am buying a coat.  And I am going to spend time – ugh – shopping for said coat, so I don’t leave it hanging up every morning while I throw a DC sweatshirt over my dress pants.

Go Sledding

I haven’t been sledding in years.  The last time I consciously remember sledding, I was in high school and me and one of the boys in my class damn near killed some innocent schoolchildren while careening down the hill, Griswold-style, completely out of control.  It was glorious.  I love sledding.  There is a big sledding hill at the park near my new apartment, and despite the negative effect the addition of forty pounds, Peppermint Schnapps, gangbangers, and diminished coordination may have on the experience, I am going this year.  I don’t particularly care if it kills all of us, because we will die SLEDDING which is awesome.  (Note to self – Google “sleds for uncoordinated adults.”)

Embrace the Chicago Holiday Season

Every year, I’m all, “Ugh, it’s so crowded, and who the hell wants to see stupid window decorations and lights with four hundredy billion tourists?”  This year, I’m going to embrace it.  You know what, Chicagoans?  Especially all of you Loop workers out there?  We are so, so, lucky.  People take bus tours to come see our lights.  People from all over the country make a point to come look at our windows and go shopping in our historic stores.  People visiting will talk for years of the street performer they saw inexplicably playing the Flintstones theme song on the saxophone, (seriously, that must be the easiest song ever on the sax.  EVERYONE knows it.)  And us?  We just brush by all, Ugh, please, people, learn to cross a street!  This year, I am going to do my best to enjoy it.  Please note, I said I would try.  Should you see a post around December 20th entitled “OMG Why Can’t People Just Stay at Home and Shop in Their Own Damn Stores, I Just Need a Fucking Extension Cord and This Target is Not Any Different Than the One in Kansas!” do not be surprised.

Not Fall Down.  In Case of Failure, Allow Self to Wallow Under Blanket for the Rest of the Day

Again in the you’re-probably-not-surprised category, each year I tend to “lose my balance,” at some point during the ice-filled, snow-covered season.  Sometimes it’s because of black ice, sometimes it’s because my shoes are completely unsuitable for snow, and sometimes it’s because I’m just really bad at walking on uneven surfaces.  But this year, I have fucking boots.  This year, I am going to pay attention.  This year, I am considering walking along with one of those wheelbarrows that spreads salt, just to be on the safe side.  However, if this should fail, and I fall down in a puddle of mess on my way down the street, I am GOING BACK HOME.  This year, I will not be mocked on the bus when I get on, covered only on one side with dirty slush.  This year, I will not be asked, whilst trying to maintain dignity despite being soaking wet and bleeding from my hands, “What happened to you!?” from co-workers desperately trying not to burst out into laughter.  I will turn around, go home, make myself a hot toddy or seven, and stay under the blanket where it is warm and dry.

What are your goals for the winter?

Posted in Chicago, general stupidity, I Will Punch You, life in general

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