Client Meetings, Day 2

One of the account guys just spent most of lunch discussing, in great detail, his recent kidney stone.

I am so off the hook.

True Story

I just told a client (who happens to be black) that I didn't have time to be in her meetings this morning because my office was a bunch of slavedrivers.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

Monday Misc

It was full-on Susie Homemaker all weekend. The kids just got back from a vacation in Florida with their dad so I dusted off the ole cookbooks, figuring they'd had enough fast food and would welcome something hearty and not from the microwave. Once they stopped laughing/mocking me/fake fainting, we enjoyed such delights as homemade mashed potatoes, manicotti, chicken pot pie (FROM SCRATCH, people) and two breakfasts that were not even cereal.

First sewing and now cooking. Wow, it's almost like I'm a real mom.

Ms. Fixit
This weekend I also rewired a lamp, set up my new-ish printer, and replaced my car's transmission using only my pinky fingers and a chopstick. Handy!

* * * * * *

Dude, You Are 40
The new guy in the next office seems nice enough and everything, except he listens to really bad techno ALL DAY LONG. I feel like I'm at Crobar. On ladies' night.

Not that I would know.

Ahem.

Doin' It All For My Baby
CJ and I are cool now, thanks.

Currently Reading:
The God of Small Things, which is killing me dead of boredom, and The Model by Michael Chabon, who 100% RULEZ IT.

MC Comedy

Indie Boy...Red Line...You Talked To Me... - m4m - 24

Reply to: pers-136728844@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-02-24, 3:13PM CST

You had a pierced lip and shaggy hair. You were wearing a vintage blazer and red shoes to match it. When you left the train you grabbed my shoulder and either said..."You are adorable" or "You are deplorable."

either way...um...want to meet??

Double Bummer
So long, Mr. Furley and The Dad From A Christmas Story.

Shut It, Lady
Death to the preppy female newscaster on Channel 5 who carefully and insistently pronounces it "N'Awlins." You, madam, are a tool.

Movie Review: Eight Below
Paul Walker is fine. I loveth him.

Dogs? There were dogs?

Crappy

Scene: my office, this afternoon. The phone rings. It's my coworker, who is at a client's office getting ready to present some of our work.

ME: Hello, this is Kari.
HER: I am going to shit my pants.
ME: Oh god. What happened? Did they hate it?
HER: They haven't even seen it yet. I can't go in there. I have the flu and think I'm going to crap myself.
ME: Like, literally?
HER: LITERALLY.
ME: Huh. Maybe you could, oh I don't know, go to the bathroom?
HER: I tried! The client said, "Hey, I'll pee with you!" and followed me in. Who can take a dump when the client is in the next stall making chitchat?
ME: I see your point.
HER: This really sucks.
ME: So where is she now?
HER: I don't know. But I can't get up. I'm clenching.
ME: Heh.
HER: I feel like I'm going to die.
ME: I'm sorry.
HER: I hate everything.
ME: I know.
HER: God.
ME: Yeah.
HER: Alright, I'm gonna try to poop.
ME: OK. Let me know how it goes.
HER: I think I'll make it.
ME: Uh, I meant with the meeting.
HER: Whatever.
*click*

not so good morning

It's 7:57 AM and I'm sitting at my desk. On a Friday. Not because I have a ton of work to do, or because I'm some Super Dedicated Employee looking to score brownie points with my earlybird bossman. I'm here because it was better than being at home this morning. Concert Josh and I aren't exactly fighting, but neither of us is very happy with the other right now. (And this is where anyone who is sick of hearing me talk about my boyfriend can well and truly GO FUCK THEMSELVES.)

I don't really care to get into details. I'm sure we'll work it out eventually. But right here, right now, I'm hurt. And upset. And sad and anxious and exhausted.

And wouldn't you know it, my boss isn't even in today.

Thrifty Wednesday

Three reasons you want to go thrift shopping with me:


Coat: $2.50

Coat: $2.50

Sassy Boobage Shirt (formerly Ugly Dress): $2.00

I am available for thrifting on Wednesday and Thursday evenings, and every other Sunday between 11 AM - 4 PM CST. Please call in advance, as sessions book quickly.

TIP! Dressing up and taking pictures of yourself is a fun thing to do while you're waiting for your boyfriend to bring his ass over on a boring Tuesday night. It's better than women's Olympic bobsledding, for sure.

* * * * * *

Hey, That's Not Work-Related
I definitely did not take a bunch of raunchy photos with my digital camera, upload them onto my laptop and then burn them to a CD this morning. In my office. During work hours. Because that would be misuse of company resources, of course.

No, Steve#2, you can't see.

Jackpot

Why doesn't my boyfriend ever win a trazillion dollars in Vegas?

Weekend Update

NEWS
Concert Josh Purchases "I ♥ Hot Moms" T-Shirt
Girlfriend searches store in vain for "I'm With Stupid"

Arctic Monkeys Ringtone Considered, Rejected
Redhead can't be "that guy"

Lottery Not Won
AGAIN

Scary Thrift Store Dress Turned Into Super Cute Shirt
From muu-muu to woo-hoo in just 30 minutes!

Second Piece of Mail Addressed to "Tequila Red"
Mailman getting wrong idea

Hot Chick Gets New Job Selling Red Bull
No, she's not single.

CLASSIFIEDS
Free Cat
Fat, mean, hygenically challenged bastard of a cat needs new home. Keeps trying to sleep in owner's bed/sneak into owner's closet/poo in owner's shoe. Triggers motion-sensor light in kitchen all night long purely for spite. Litter-trained, if he's in the mood. Needs constant attention. Won't last!

POLITICS
Dick Cheney Shirts Will Never Stop Being Funny

BRB

OH MY GOD. Stop checking! No, I haven't updated yet. Look, I know you're tired of clicking on this page and seeing my Valentine's Day flowers but I'm a little busy right now with several Top Secret things I can't mention on the Internest. So just hang tight, and I'll try to put something entertaining up here by lunchtime. Maybe.

VD

Despite my anti-Valentine sentiment, these were delivered to my house this morning. Concert Josh does as he pleases, fools.




Also this morning: a text message on my phone, sent at 12:42AM. It said, "Happy Valentine's Day. Thinking of you. Nick"

Do I even know a Nick?

Seriously, I'm asking.

Lurve Songs
Pro-Valentiners can click here and here to download two adorable songs from the upcoming Rhett Miller album The Believer.

Karma's a Bitch
Tool.

Valentine for the Dumped

Cupid is Stupid

Valentine's Day blows. I thought so when I was single, and having a boyfriend has not changed my opinion. Don't try to give me that party line about love and romance because being forced to show you care about someone by purchasing them gifts isn't romantic, it's CHRISTMAS, and it just happened six weeks ago.

I hate every single thing about Valentine's Day. I hate the commercials that portray men as too lazy or stupid to choose a present for the person they should know better than anyone. I hate commercials that portray women as greedy, competitive harpies with sky-high Hollywood expectations. I really hate the commercial where Cupid says that KY jelly is the perfect Valentine’s Gift, because no. No, it’s not.

I hate stuffed dogs that say “I Ruff You,” and tacky heart-shaped pendants from Penny's, and chocolate covered everything. I hate stupid sappy rhyming cards with velvet roses on the front. I hate roses, especially roses from the grocery store, and don’t think we can’t tell either, because that baby's breath is a dead giveaway. I don’t need bubble bath, perfume, a picture frame, or a back massager. I don’t want an overpriced dinner in an overcrowded restaurant where every 20 minutes some girl finds a diamond in her tiramisu and shrieks with fake surprise. I do not want to be one of those girls.

This weekend my boyfriend installed a new side mirror on my car, to replace the one scraped off by that taxi. Insurance wasn't covering it so he went online, found the right one, ordered it, and installed it.

In my book, that says "I love you" better than a gift certificate for a Brazillian wax ever could.


the only dozen of anything I want from Jewel

* * * * * *

Project HOOSIER
It went from being a toss-off on Friday afternoon to becoming a full-fledged plan. In a year I'd like to A) leave the city and move somewhere more slow-paced and with more space, probably in Indiana (go ahead: mock), B) find a job that makes me feel like less of an asshole, and C) stop throwing away a small fortune on rent. The kids, it should be noted, are all over this plan like stink on a pig. Look, I'm already talking country!

Step One: get out of debt. Sadly, this means no birthday trip to Tokyo.

Shut Up, Grey's Anatomy
"It was lavender. My hair smelled like lavender." Somewhere Cindy Adams is thinking Jeepers, I could write better dialogue than that.

AKA
This weekend I got a wedding invitation addressed to Ms. Tequila Red & Mr. Concert Josh. I love the internet.

Off the Wagon

The alcohol embargo has come to an end. Last night, after a long hard day of Arkansas, I flopped down on the couch with some sushi, my boyfriend, an episode of Veronica Mars and a cold Staropramen.

It was bliss.

Now maybe my coworkers will stop spreading the rumor that I'm pregnant.

______________________

Smoking embargo: still on.

______________________

My number one fantasy of the moment is going freelance, packing up the kids and moving out to the country where we'll have a cute farmhouse with a big porch, a tire swing, and two horses named Bob and Beau. And I'll make lemonade from scratch and drive a baby blue pickup truck and answer to "Kari Jo."

Or maybe I'll buy this adorable house in The Cutest Little Town Anywhere and mow the lawn in jean shorts and be a volunteer firefighter and take my dog Daisy for walks around the resevoir and write children's books and then read them to little kids every Saturday morning at the local library.

Or maybe I'll take a week off and fly to Tokyo. Who knows.

Weirdness, Everywhere

We went for dinner last night at Buffalo Wild Wings (don't ask) and some girl came into the bathroom without any shoes on.

No, it wasn't Britney Spears.

I don't think.

* * * * *

At 5:45 AM, someone at The Jeeb sent an email alerting the entire office that he's having problems sleeping.

No word yet on the condition of his bowels or the state of his allergies.

* * * * *

My boss fell out of the rental car.

* * * * *

I haven't had a sip of alcohol or a cigarette in 24 days.

Arkansas Is Weird

Today I almost ran over a chicken with my rented minivan.

Windbag

So I saw on Gapers Block that some crazybitch from the New York Post wrote this weirdly nonsensical and rambling article about all the reasons Chicago sucks.

I believe this calls for a rebuttal.

WINDY CITY'S NO CINDY CITY
By CINDY ADAMS

EXCUUUUSE me? I read in last week's paper that The Second City - Chicago - is now calling itself the Number One City in America. Chicago, that toddlin' town, The First City?

Excuuuuse me? Take away Al Capone, the Merchandise Mart, O'Hare and Sinatra's favorite song and what have you got? A nice little gritty city that has decent beef, a few tolerable restaurants, some OK hotels, the stockyards and The Loop. But let us all calm ourselves . . . New York it's not.

First of all ... the Merchandise Mart? Who in Chicago has ever bragged about the Merchandise Mart? It's a large BOX. Also, the stockyards? Was she here during the 30's?

Guess she couldn't find any real live actual Chicago institutions to openly disdain.

Chicago's population is a piddling, shriveled 2.7 million. Please. I mean, please! P. Diddy has more than that in his bed alone.

Kanye thinks P. Diddy jokes are played.

[Deleted: large section about how NY has better criminals. Because, what?]

Chicagoans, get with it. You once had Wrigley, you once invented Crackerjacks, you once paraded hometowners Jane Addams and Upton Sinclair, you once had Mrs. O'Leary whose cow had a cow. But for right now, other than the freezingest coldest iciest lousiest weather anywhere, what are you the Number One in (other than the most flights a day to New York)

Well, we're the fattest city.

I don't say you're not nice people. You're very nice people. You've had some of the niftiest mayors money can buy. And nobody - not any single body - could ever beat Mayor Daley for popularity. Everybody was for Mayor Daley. Even dead people voted for him. So I'm not knocking your citizenry. But let's get real here. You just have to stop thinking you could ever beat the Big Apple.

I wonder what year she thinks it is?

Just take the creativity of our politicians. Like when we had a bad traffic problem. One councilman came up with the solution: encourage car theft. Hey, you got to admit, nobody in your town came up with that one.

"When we had a bad traffic problem"? Yesterday?

Yeah, you were big enough and important enough to have a World's Fair. But, dear ones, dear sweet minded Chicago persons, that was 1893. What have you done lately? We had us a World's Fair in 1939. Another in 1964.

No, seriously. What year?

Your tourism group burbles about Ada's Famous Deli. Well, wowwee! Well, now, shut my pastrami. We got us the Stage, Carnegie, Katz's, PJ Bernstein and, until an hour ago The Second Avenue Deli. We got us as locals Regis and Rudy and Rosie, Katie and Conan, Julianne and Julia, Liza and Lizzie, Woody and Whoopi, Dustin and Derek. We got us Barbara and Diane and Matt and Sarah Jessica. We got Bloomberg and Bloomingdale's. We got Steinbrenner and Sharpton. We got Yanks, we got franks. You got Oprah.

Regis? HA HA HA HA HA HA.

Art? You want to talk art? Picasso's "Garcon a la Pipe" was sold at Sotheby's. That's New York City. The record price was $104 million and some small change. Maybe some pitiful additional little dribble like maybe another hundred thou or so. You got what? Some cartoon from the Chicago Tribune?

Um...

Zoo? You want to talk zoo. We got us the A-Number-One in the whole world Bronx Zoo. You know why? Because we know that in New York animals must be kept behind bars - for their own protection.

Wha?

Surveys prove we got us the largest number of rich people. Now if these billionaire folks were wealthy enough to buy wherever they liked and live wherever they liked, you'll notice they did not move to Chicago. I mean, you're a very nice little town and everything, you even have some nice little shops and everything - but, dear ones, what is wrong with you? You are not New York. Even folk in downtown Atlanta know that.

No clue.

Do you have New York cheesecake? New York sirloin? New York bagels? New York water? New York Post? New York attitude? Of course not. And that is why I am being so easy and gentle with you because I realize you are a deprived lot.

Now, there are bigger issues at play here than Who Has The Biggest Skyscraper or White Sox vs. Yankees. Namely, why is Cindy Adams THE WORST WRITER EVER? And also, why didn't she mention things that New York does have an edge on, like a phenomenal live music scene or fantastic Broadway theater?

Why does one city have to be better than the other, anyway? Chicago isn't constantly ragging on Milwaukee, even though we're clearly cooler than those nerds to the north. So what's up, NY? What do you have to prove?

* * * * *

Confidential to Ira Glass: Traitor.

On Your Feet

Today's supa-fun Craigslist find:

Chairs shaped like high heels.

I need! I need!

Secret Decoder Ring Not Included

I had a really great weekend.
The family is always a joy.

Cooking is something my mom does well.
And she made me lots of yummy treats, like shrimp chowder.
No, I didn't help.

Save yourself 2 hours and don't bother watching Grizzly Man.
Unless you like really boring movies, that is.
Could the Discover Channel show more damn commercials?
Kripes!

Oh man, I have a lot of work to do.
Nope, don't feel much like blogging.
Everybody is pissing me off today anyway.

Fast Update
________________________
20 minutes: the amount of time I've seen my boyfriend in the past week
Arkansas: where I'm spending my Wednesday & Thursday
Peyton: totally freaking adorable drool machine
Super Bowl: Super Blah
Betty Friedan: RIP
$30: new bed frame
$5: two fabulous thrift store coats
orange tights: Valentine's gift from strange co-worker
tomorrow: another day

Imperfection

I love it when you see a woman on the street and she is impeccably put together, with perfect make-up and beautiful clothing, and then she walks by and the back of her hair is all fucked up.

Being Monitored

Yesterday The Jeeb sent around an email asking us to read, sign and return the company's Technology Policy. You know, the one that says "Email is not for personal use" and "No looking at porno on the Internet" and "Please tell me there aren't 2,000 songs on your hard-drive."

I spend a lot of time dinking around on the web, so this would seem to be a rather unfortunate development. But with a little imagination, I feel I can make a strong case that everything I do on the Internet is, in fact, work-related.

Tequila Red's Daily Reads
...and how they help me do my job better, honest

SITE: Blogger.com
WHAT: occasionally typing up something mildly witty, mostly just staring at empty white box and blinking cursor
WORK SPIN: Honing Critical Writing Skills

SITE: blogs
WHAT: reading about the lives of people more interesting/hip/oversexed than me
WORK SPIN: Demographic Research

SITE: music sites
WHAT: checking out new bands, downloading songs, reading reviews, rolling eyes
WORK SPIN: Data Collection

SITE: gossip sites
WHAT: catching up on celebrity drug addictions, fashion faux pas, and all things Jessica Alba
WORK SPIN: Keeping My Finger on the Pulse of Pop Culture

SITE: Apartment Therapy
WHAT: mentally decorating apartment
WORK SPIN: Monitoring Trends

SITE: Craigslist
WHAT: actually decorating apartment
WORK SPIN: Decorating Boss's Summer Home

SITE: Monster.com
WHAT: NOTHING! GOD.
WORK SPIN: I Accidentally Clicked That Banner Ad By Mistake, I Swear

I am so screwed.