Friday, October 28, 2011

Its my mom's birthday!

I think Fridays are just as brutal as Monday's but in their own completely different sadistic way. Fridays are sneaky, unreliable and just an overall tease. I feel like I spend the majority of my morning chasing a beer tied to a string that Friday keeps pulling away from me inch by inch, laughing at me the entire way. Almost there, yeah right it's not even noon. Getting closer... Jk, it's only 2:00. Keep coming... Just a little further...  Screw you.

On another note, I guess I'm a little excited for my first ever in-office Halloween party. The party committee says it's not starting until 4:00, but I have a sneaking suspicion it might get underway a little sooner. Everyone is just too excited. We have a plethora of Halloween themed food and drinks that will be served. Pumpkin dip, Jack-o-Lantern pizza and Mummy cupcakes (at least that's what Tiffany says they are, bringing snacks to work is a little difficult via public transportation. Poor girl.) It's taking all of my might not to dig into my spider web taco dip for lunch right now. That wouldn't be weird, would it? If the dip I put out for the party is already half eaten. I mean it's my dip... If you'd like to see a picture of how darn cute it is, there may or may not be a photo of it on Facebook. I'm usually way against food photos on FB, but I'm not the one who posted it so that makes it completely okay. So don't count on me to start posting every cookie, crock pot meal, or enchilada dish I make on my page with the caption "tried a new recipe, looks pretty good!" Like, like, like!

Besides all of the Halloween fun, today also just happens to be my mom's birthday! And her second Facebook birthday, I'm happy to report all is going pretty good on her wall so far. Her generation is really good at Facebook birthdays I've noticed. One time my mom missed writing on one of friend's wall's for their birthday and she nearly had an anxiety shit attack she felt so bad about it. She fretted for days.

But birthdays are important. This is something my mom instilled in all of us from a very young age. Contrary to popular belief, they don't get any less important as you get older and must always ALWAYS be celebrated. If you don't make a big deal about your birthday why would anyone else? So make it a big deal. But be subtle (passive aggressive) about it at first,

"oh gee, my birthday's on Friday. Probably won't do much. It's not really that important anyway..."

As it gets closer, lay it on a little thicker,

"The big day is almost two days away. Wonder what I'll do. Or if anyone even cares."

By the end just throw a full out bitch fit to ensure the night is a big deal. And trust me, people will notice, and thus it will be a big deal. I'm kidding though, my mom doesn't do this... because my dad knows better by now to not let it get to this point.  And because my mom is the best at making our birthdays important so it's our duty as responsible Wolfes to do the same for her. It's the least we can do for her after all of the years of bday breakfasts in bed, hanging out the birthday flag, planning surprise parties (but only for Jordan) bringing pizzas to our classrooms (caramel apple suckers during the down years, which was also probably the time of the Hawaiian theme party with hoolah skirts made from trash bags. God bless my mom and her creativity.) The birthday list goes on and on. The day my kid asks me to have a sleep over with ten other seven year olds I fear I won't be as gracious as my mom always was. Just the thought makes me want to throw up. I'll pry have to pull the dad card on this one and "work late." Pretty sure my dad worked late on every birthday party I had growing up until my 21st. He made it on time for that one.

Well anyway, happy birthday mom. I hope it's a great one, I'll be celebrating for you all night! And all afternoon as soon as I break into the wine stash in my bottom drawer. So basically I'm going to start now. Thank God it's Friday again, secretly drinking at my desk feels so awkward every other day of the week.

 

Thursday, October 27, 2011

In honor of this weekend...Happy Whoreoween.

In honor of the upcoming holiday weekend I thought it might be fun to take a little walk down memory lane and reflect on why this holiday is now ten times better thanks to Facebook. Sluts young and old literally crawl out of the wood works to celebrate this ghoulish time. But for creeps like myself, the fun doesn't even really begin until the photos and status start to pop up, and with the creation of the mini-mini feed this year I think the fun is only going to multiply. So happy halloween from one Facebook whore to another. Let us all sit back, relax, and enjoy such a skanky time of year.

Chapter 4 Regarding Facebook Holidays (Halloween)


It's the most wonderful time of the year (to creep on photo albums.)

Halloween is the December 25th of the Facebook world. Of course other holiday times are celebrated such as Spring Break week, 4th of July and ugly sweater party season, which is a close third to the other two. But sweater parties seem to be wearing out their welcome as of late. What was once a fun time to scavenge Goodwill’s and your mom's closet for sweaters covered in buttons, ribbon, lace and everything Christmas has been cheapened to newly purchased green and red sweatshirts from Wal Mart featuring a Santa Clause hat wearing Jonas trio.

Let's get back to the subject at hand: Halloween. Somewhere along the way I have a sneaking suspicion a Jewish college student confused Hanukkah with Halloween because it has now become a 12 day celebration. Halloween is comparable to the Oscars of Facebook- whatever you choose to wear will be photographed numerous times and will undoubtedly be spoken about, as well. As in most aspects of life, guys are very lucky in this area as they are awarded on the humor and creativity of their costumes. The more politically incorrect and racially inappropriate, the better. Unfortunately for girls, the humorous costume does not win any points. It's what I refer to as the female comedian stigma, you have to either be a lesbian or severely overweight to be considered funny (preferably both.) So we are left with options of a. sexy or b. slutty. And this is a very fine, usually low cut, line. So most of us choose a few fun outfits (cat, witch, fairy) and dress innocently enough for the first few nights and then maybe end with something a bit more on edge like sexy cat, sexy witch, or sexy fairy. But this just doesn't cut it for a Facebook Girl.

I am just waiting for the Halloween law to go into effect making it legal for girls to go out in public completely naked during the Halloween season. I don't think this is too far off. This is the one time of year a Facebook Girl actually has to go out of her way to look more slutty on account of the fact that normal girls are dressed in shorter skirts and lower shirts than normal. I imagine this is a very stressful time of year for Fb girl, and each year only seems to get worse. Just how little of clothes can one wear? And that isn't the only obstacle, the costume must also be appealing to guys' interests. After all, she must be the ultimate "guys gal." Thus enters booty shorts fireman outfit, bra top boxer girl or busty baseball girl, all baring the stomach area. I feel so old fashioned saying this, but I really believe it's the bare stomach that sets a Facebook Girl apart from the rest of the Halloween girls. But like I've said, no judgment, simply admiration.

Once the costume is zipped, the boobs are out and the cheekys are peaking, the next task might be the hardest of all: the perfect "I want to look kinda innocent but also a little naughty" photo is to be captured. If all goes well, this should be the new profile picture for at least the next week.
Rules regarding Halloween photos:

1. Take group shots only when absolutely necessary.
2. Take as many photos as possible before actually going out. Learn how to use the camera's self timer, bathroom mirror or cell phone can be substituted, as well.
3. Never pose fully facing the front, especially if you’re a butter face.
4. As mentioned earlier, try to keep other girls out of photos, but a variety of guys in the photos is most ideal.
5. Alcohol must be present in at all times.
6. Only smile for photos in which mass amount of fun appears to be going on. See rule 10.
7. Take at least five dancing photos- this is a time other girls can be in photo as long as girl on girl grinding is underway.
8. Never take a jello shot with a group of guys without first taking a photo to capture the moment.
9. Hands should always be on hips unless blowing a kiss or putting arm around boys.
10. Most importantly, assume pouty kissy face at ALL times. God forbid a photo appears on FB with flat lips.

FbGirl: "just ordered my 3rd costume. Can't wait for it to be here in 3 weeks!"

How about that. Didn't realise the Deb delivered.

FbGirl: "feels like a fireyyy night good thing I've got my fireman hose!"

Ah yes, if Priscilla's starts on fire tonight you will be the first person to call.

FbGirl: "five nights of costumes...who will I be tonight?! Handcuffs or whips?"

The suspense is killing me.

FbGirl: "eww. Y is DT full of so many skanky costumes. Grosssss."

Due to lack of comment, I'll end on this one.

Happy Whoreoween, let’s make is super slutty this year (as if I have to remind you.)

Monday, October 24, 2011

The Difference between Boys and Girls.

From time to time, Chris and I get into "discussions" regarding my infinite knowledge for celebrities (A list-D list, maybe even a few E listers like Rumor-big chin-Willis or Miley's new Asian impregnated sister-in-law from the Suite Life) and their mundane activities. Or for my incredible skill to recognize people in public I only actually know on Facebook and yet know exactly where they had dinner last night and the funny thing that happened on the car ride home. Chris thinks it's weird, I think it's talent.

I only google images of "Kim Kardashian looking fat" or Taylor Swift "looks like a chipmunk" because I care. I'm just looking out for their well being. Is Jessica Simpson fat or just really fat? Is LeAnn Rimes really super skinny or is she being shown in too many photos next to Jessica Simpson?  And when I talk about Blake and Ryan and why they're not probably not right for each other and should just quit while they're ahead, or refer to Kristen Cavalleri like I know her (which I basically do because my coworker saw her walking around her neighborhood last weekend so we're practically besties now) again, it's because I care. And yes, I'm still convinced Emma Stone and I would really hit it off. To clarify, it's not because I'm "obsessed" as some (Chris) might think. I creep on celebs for the same reason I creep on random weirdos that pop up on my screen under the "you might know" section that I went to high school to. It's just because I do. Go ahead and be a snotty asshole and think, "oh she just creeps because she's bored with her own life," or the standard "she's just jealous." But to that I challenge you to check out some of the gap toothed hillbillys I stumble upon sometimes and then tell me I'm jealous. Bored? Perhaps. Jealous? Sure, but only in a Winter's Bone/Deliverance kind of way.    

I know Chris's ears might bleed every now and again when he happens to catch my friends and I on a particularly high gossip day (fat celeb sighting at the beach, new FbGirl updates about Halloween costumes) but to that I say let the first person who hasn't had a pointless conversation throw the first stone. Point in case: boys talking about football. I've always known that when Chris talks about football, or just sports in general, about 99% of the convo is hypothetical. But I just realized that Chris and his friends talking about football is usually ten times more   imaginary and useless than my friends and I talking about celeb gossip. Boys talk about not only what just happened in a game, but what should have happened, what could have happened, what might have happened, what didn't happen, and what will probably happen next week. They offer each other faux coaching advice, solve problems that haven't even occurred yet, and strategize various  plays that could help. Their convos become so in-depth and full of emotion that I really start to question whether they realize or not that no one is actually taking their advice into consideration... Or are they?

"What we need to do is stop running the option and pull Crick to the front and leave Martinez in the back and do the loop around to Cassidy to run an interception and the old Statue of Liberty for the safety. That's all we have to do."

In case you were curious those aren't necessarily Chris's exact words, I might just be using a mix of the only football terms/players I'm familiar with. But I can't imagine his conversation is all that different. And it doesn't stop with just football games. Dare I even step foot into the positives/negatives of the Big 10 and Big 12? Because this area alone is cause for a lot of talk. You know what the Big 12 should have done? Well I'll tell you. They should have kicked Texas out now that TCU is in. And what happens after that I'm not sure because then my beer came and I got distracted. But it was definitely a lengthy convo that followed.

Bottom-line is this, we all talk about stupid pretend shit that has little to nothing to do with us. And it's not because our own lives are that awful. It's because they're that awesome. You think people in the middle east are over there shooting the shit over a couple of beers about what they saw on their minifeed or who won the donkey race last night? It's doubtful. They're trying not to die.

And today, on another Monday, I'm trying to do the same thing. Just not die. It's not looking so good right now. I might have to snort an extra line of Splenda to get through this one. Wish me luck.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Time has actually stopped.

Dear Diary,

I am scared time has stopped moving today. I started noticing that it was slowing down around about 10:30 a.m. this morning, but I told myself to think nothing of it. So I continued on with my cold calling and reading every article on msnbc.com that caught my eye, which was like only one as usual (the special on haunted house across the U.S.) Less worldy news, more celeb gossip please. When I finished it was only 10:32 a.m. That was my first indicator something was up. The next thing I knew the radio started playing the same two songs over and over and over. My day was turning into a blur of Adele and Oh, this has gotta be the good life, gotta be the good life. Maybe it's because I'm on the edge of glory, but this life is not feeling so good right now. And if I hear that bitch sing about dying young  one more time I am just going to do it for her. Get over it, no one likes a fake suicide.

From the moment I got back from my sushi lunch around 12:30ish the clock has not moved. Not at all.
I just keep staring at it, daring it to get closer to 5:00 p.m. But it refuses. What's going on here? How much more shit does a girl have to endure to get to the weekend? I'm starting to go ape shit crazy twiddling my thumbs and tapping my feet at my tiny confining desk. I can only draw so many hearts and stars and three dimensional boxes before I start to go a little loco. 

Am I the only one going absolutely delirious trapped at work on a Friday afternoon right now? Does everybody else really have as cool of jobs/lives as their Facebook and Linkedin pages portray?  Because if that's the case I'm screwed.  I'm seeing a lot of "shopping!" and "lunch date with sissy!" and "getting my car washed!" updates that are making me pretty jeal. Maybe I just need to spruce up my status updates to share every mundane thing I'm doing that is actually pretty status worthy. "Sending out mass emails with my company brochure attached, holla!" "Heading to the bathroom to hide out for a few moments, :) winks, stars and farts."  "Picking my hang nails, hells to the yeah!"

There's a bottle of Baileys sitting in our break room by the coffee machine that keeps taunting me every time I go in to get more water and gaze out the window. Why is it there if not meant to be drank? Should I ask someone, or would that make me look like an alcy? Maybe it's a trick. I'd hate to get in trouble for drinking the company alcohol. That would really be a new low.

I might be at a new low. I'm starting to pace this back office like a Lion in a zoo. Some animals just aren't meant to be caged I think. Like Sarah Jessica Parker and myself. Or was she a horse that needed to run free? I'll have to check the Facebook quote page of every single girl aged 22-36 to confirm that one. Whatever. I'm just ready for my breakout moment is all. Why does every YouTube star keep beating me to it? The Eharmony cat girl, the tutu girls from Ellen, sneezing baby panda, two girls one... coat... What were you thinking,  perv? One of these days, I'll figure it out.

TGI where the F are you 5:00? I'm in no mood to play around today. You're gonna owe me a strong drink when you finally get here.  Life is so unfair.

Xoxo
Amanda Knox.

@workingirlrants

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Chicago bitch slapped me.

Today has been rough. Like Giuliana Rancic rough. Like trying to find a size 14 blouse at a Dress Barn rough. So for starters it was raining today, no big deal right? This is Seattle, I'm used to rain. But what I'm not used to is having to use a .99 cent umbrella because I left my fancy cheetah print umbrella in Nebraska. So not only was I getting partially wet, but I was also breaking my work's number one rule of wearing at least one article of animal print at all times. Great. But it gets worse. The moment I was walking across the bridge to the Wrigley, the snatchy Chicago wind grabbed by umbrella from me and threw it into the river. 

"Take that bitch, this will teach you to disgrace me by using a .99 cent umbrella in my city."

And then Chicago bitch slapped me right across the face. It was awful. I had to walk the rest of the way to work in the cold pouring rain without any protection from the bitey morning wind. By the time I got to work I looked like a Katrina rescue dog. I tried to fix myself up in the bathroom, but there is only so much baby powder and a teezing comb can do. And to make matters worse, my brand new Tory Burch rain boots were splattered with mud! They're rain boots, not mud boots! And even then I didn't actually want them to get wet.   

Once I got settled at my desk with a cup of coffee (creamer/Splenda) I tried to calm myself down. If Splenda does cause cancer, sign me up because I love those delightful little packets. And what's a cancer scare vs saving like 50 calories? So anyway, about this time  I accidentally dropped my pen onto my skirt and managed to scribble almost the entire alphabet in one drop. Black pen, all over my new work skirt. I looked like Helen Kellar graffiti. Buying work clothes is like pulling teeth. So when I muck up those work clothes I get real pissed. They're supposed to last me until at least 2015, or until I get way too skinny to fit into them...

What else could go wrong today? How about my dog walker forgot to come, our sidewalk is torn up in the front of our house so the package I was expecting has to be picked up at the actual post office, and, well that's it, but that's kind of a lot for a Wednesday. I loathe the post office. I think it's the worst place on earth, the workers come straight from their other jobs in hell and are obviously very pissed they have to be working more hours on top of what they already do down in damnation. But it's not my problem. I'm sorry Shoniqua is so bitter she has to walk her large bottom to the back to get my package, but it's just how it has to be. I need my Shutterfly calendar. I'd come back there and do it myself, but I don't have the navy vest and white badge on. There's a certain line I have to stay behind, you've made that very clear (and obnoxiously loud) with your bedazzled six inch fingernails giving me the "one moment" gesture. So here's your moment, now go get my package.

I don't mean to be such a little Debbie. But on a day like today, it's hard. I'm being dramatic, you want to talk about real problems? How about the fact I found out my favorite professor died on Saturday.  If any of you were lucky enough to have Gerry Shapiro you know what kind of guy he was. He was great. Might have been one of the bigger influences in my life who pushed me in the direction of choosing writing as an actual career. If only he could see me now. I've got a  (self) published book, two twitter accounts (@workingirlrants, look it up you'll love it, or at least marginally like it) and a very successful and influential pop culture blog with almost 68 followers. I think he'd be proud. So Mr. Shapiro, this ones for you. I hope you're doing well in Jewish heaven. You will be missed, thanks for telling me it's okay to follow my passion.  And I'm not just saying that, you were great.

Now I'm even more depressed. I think I need to watch the Sophia Grace video on Ellen again.

Monday, October 17, 2011

Mondays.

Mondays. Monday, Monday, Monday. What an awful day. I can't pinpoint what exactly I don't like about this day, besides everything of course. Maybe it's the fact that it reminds us we're back on the hamster wheel for another five days. We fought so hard to make it to Friday last week and then in the blink of an eye (after numerous drinks, greasy food, and some major couch time) we're suddenly right back at square one. It's a very defeating, monotonous feeling. The morning comes too fast, then it drags on until lunch like an over played, extended episode of the Kardashians, and then the afternoon is just a series of clock watching and self loathing. By the end of it all, I'm far too exhausted to do any of the things I had initially planned to do when I got home when I was strung out on caffeine upon first coming into work. My morning intentions are always so productive until about 10:30. Then it just all goes to shit and the weight of the week kills my spirit.

I wonder if celebrities hate Mondays, too? Very doubtful. They probably don't even realize it's Monday.  It's just another day in their life of constant leisure. Since I already brought up the dreaded Kardash's I'll use them as an example. Oh how dreadful it must be to get up on a Monday and return to their busy life of promoting perfumes, cheap clothing lines, diet pills, and whatever else they think of to include in their whorish brand. 

"Welp, it's Monday. Time to get ready for my hectic, whorish day as an Armenian tranny, only able to communicate via baby talk, while selling anything and everything I can within grasp. Anotha day, anotha soul sold to the devil."

I knew I shouldn't have watched Kim's wedding special yesterday. It just got me all sorts of angry. Jealous much? Yeah a little. But only because this awful family has managed to make a fortune doing absolutely nothing. The day someone figures out why this family is famous they too will probably become famous. Here's my quick breakdown on the Kardashians.

Kim: I just don't get it. What is the attraction to this girl? Her makeup, her hair, her nasty ass, it's all too much. Everything that comes out of her mouth is a complaint about how busssssy she is or how much she cares about being so busssssy. Oh life is soooo hard. Maybe she should just take a nice relaxing trip somewhere exotic... (insert Living Social plug.)

Kourtney: I don't hate her much as the others, except for the way she treats Scott. Scott is the one witty glimmer of light in this show. Let this guy talk please.

Khloe: The root of all evil. This oversized Amazon woman needs to stop. Just stop everything. Babytalk coming out of an Armenian gorilla is not attractive. And the constant, in-your-face, disgusting comments are too much. They were cute like five years ago, when they were coming out of the mouth of Nichole Richie on The Simple Life. And Nichole Richie is pint sized, that's the only reason it was cute. There's a reason Ellen only has tiny YouTube stars on her show. Would SuperBass have been as adorable if it was Rosie O'Donnell rapping it in a pink tu-tu? Ew.

And now I've gone and spent more time than ever intended talking about the Kardashians. I apologize. This Monday just keeps getting worse and worse. I'm ready for Tuesday, I need to wash this bitterness off.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

Got a new haircut.

Getting a haircut and color might be in the top ten list of things that give me anxiety. It's somewhere in the middle of taking my shoes off to go through security at the airport and having to touch a dirty napkin. It's not like I'm super hard to please, either. I'm about as low maintenance as it gets when it comes to my hair. I typically shower at night, sleep on it wet, and then maybe just maybe, if I'm feeling extra fancy the next day I'll blow dry (after sleeping on it for eight hours.)

So why does getting my hair done by a professional have to be so stressful? And by "professional" I mean someone with 3+ tattoos, one of which must be a song lyric, at least three visible colors in their own hair, an ensemble consisting of a loose fitting "dress" adorned with chunky jewelry along side leggings and sassy animal print pumps from DSW, and six piercings (guess where the three non visible ones are... we won't tell if you can't tell.) Oh, and perhaps a hair school certificate. That my friends, is a hair "professional." I'm kidding. It's a serious profession, I know. God only knows where this world would be without hair stylists. Probably at home, in our bathrooms, cutting our own hair as the inventor of scissors intended it. Saving ourselves $200 and a lot of time.

But for real, why must the entire process of coloring and cutting take so damn long? Tucking my hair into 1,000 pieces of foil, awkwardly crossing and uncrossing my legs in the chair while attempting to make small talk with the stylist who is trying to "relate" to me. She offers me a drink, I get nervous because I'm already feeling broke and don't know if the soda is $3 or complimentary. Then she laughs and says "or we have wine if you want to start early." But I do want to start early. And I don't ever think twice about having to pay for alcohol, but since she laughed while suggesting it now I just feel weird. Drinking in the afternoon doesn't have to be a joke, why did she have to go and ruin it? I think it would have really helped take the edge off as I sit in nervous anticipation as she runs her fingers through my hair and snootily asks,

"So... who did your hair last?"
I did. I lie and say,

"My old stylist, Lori Elle."

"Hmmm." Hair lady says as she looks it over disapprovingly.

It wouldn't have mattered if my old stylist was Paul Mitchell. Every hair cutter seems to think they are better than the previous and looks at my hair like it was handled by a blind five year old. It's quite hurtful. And then they start to instruct me on what needs to be done. Low lights and high lights and semi full this and demi half that. It's all very confusing. I just say the same thing every time.

"Keep it blonde and keep it long. But take away the fuzzy hay stack look."

And then they have at it. Whenever they start cutting away at my dead ends they tell me the same shit every time,

"you know if you got trims more often your hair would grow a lot faster."

No, no it wouldn't. That is a bold faced lie. If I trimmed the branches on the tree in my front yard would that also make the grass grow faster? Because it seems like pretty much the same premise here. How on earth would cutting the ends of my hair more frequently effect the roots that are yet to burst through my scalp? I'm failing to see the connection. But what do I know? I didn't spend 18 months at beauty school.

Two and a half hours later, my legs are asleep, my scalp is burning, and my layers are far too short. And I never got that glass of wine I "jokingly" asked for. But my color is looking saucy, if I do say so myself. It's like Adrienne Maloof meets Kendra meets Helga from Hey Arnold. I'm ready for a night out on the town... Or perhaps on the couch. It's a little nippy out, I bought stuff to make chili, and my new sweats from Target are looking pretty nice.

Thanks Huskers for giving me a Saturday off. I was starting to forget what it's like to be sober in the afternoon.

Friday, October 14, 2011

The Soundtrack of My Childhood

This morning as I sat in the dentist chair while the doctor fisted my mouth with a drill I was taken back to childhood. The heinous humming of a dental drill is the soundtrack of my youth. I stared at the tiled ceiling and began making patterns and pictures with the odd markings on the ceiling just like I used to do when I was eight years old sitting through one root canal after the other. It's how I "went away." Just a coping mechanism, something a little kid learns to do when they're being abused. I guess some might argue my lengthy history with the dentist is partially my fault. But how is an 8 year old supposed to realize it's not okay to sleep with a bag of old Halloween candy under their pillow every night of the year? I couldn't trust my brother with it anywhere else. So yeah, it was pretty convenient to suck on a Baby Bottle Pop as I rocked myself to sleep. 

But today's visit wasn't because of candy. I don't think... Last night as I munched on half popped popcorn kernels I accidentally popped my crown out. Boom, I just used the word "pop" three times in one sentence. Walking around Norfolk without a front tooth was fine on occasion (like when I went bowling or to eat at the Granery) but I just didn't think it would be as amusing in downtown Chicago so I made an appointment to get it fixed ASAP. It was a rough morning to say the least. The dentist scraped, drilled, picked, and poked for about forty minutes as drool and blood ran down my chin like Carrie's prom night, to say the most. I took a pic of myself looking like a big city hillbilly before my tooth was restored, but I'm not secure enough to post it. I just don't think people would look at me the same after seeing me in such a vulnerable position. 

And speaking of vulnerable positions, don't get me started on riding the train as of late. Ever sat facing someone's ass? Or had a stomach so close to your face you can actually smell the Chicago deep dish from last night swimming around inside? Of course this is all pretending you actually get a seat, which I'm yet to do.  Gross, I know. But I'm just trying to paint you a picture of what my morning commute entails everyday. I can't wait to take a train to work, I used to think. I'll browse a magazine, read a book, knit a sweater, oh the luxury of not having to drive. What a naive little country girl I was. You can't read on a morning train, you can barely breath without getting a dirty glance shot your way.

 I have more empathy for cattle than ever before. Riding the train in the morning is pure misery. People are literally jammed packed into every single nook and cranny, keeping their eyes fixed on the ground like we're all just waiting for the moment the train is going to come to a sudden stop and a herd of German  Sheppards will flood inside and we're going to be stripped of our clothes and branded with a number on the wrist. It's pretty intense. No one talks or even makes eye contact. When did we stop talking is what I wonder? If it were a train full of school children there would be an abundance of chatter, regardless of if they knew each other. They'd be telling each other about their day ahead, where they got their bookbag, what happened on TV the night before, anything just to talk. We were all those children once, so when did the chatter stop? Probably when we started cold calling.

TGIF. My spirits are low today. I need this weekend like a fat kid needs a talk from Michelle Obama to instruct them on the dangers on childhood obesity. Childhood obesity. Ha. When I was growing up we just called it the funny kid in class.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

I'll Put You Through to Voicemail.

Do you know what I could go for right about now? A good old fashioned fall break. Just a few days off simply for the sake of welcoming the season of fall into our lives. Remember those days? Way back when in college when you were awarded a break on account of all the hard drinking and tailgating you'd been undergoing for the past couple months. It's just another example of something that is stripped from you upon entering the working world, a world where you need that break ten times more than you did in college. Hey college kids, look you get three additional days to do nothing on top of the five days you're already doing nothing. Enjoy.

Real Worlders, get back to your cold calls. And not the Real Worlders like Nick brought back whose "real world" consists of getting into alcohol infused bitchy fights about who likes who while working a faux part time job at a random place like a snow cone hut or a roller rink dressed in Urban Outfitter graphic tees and Ed Hardy jeans. You don't count. I'm talking to those of us who are in the middle of a three minute break right now from our degrading voicemails we leave on machine after machine for the people who are always "away from their desk." Away? But just a second ago you told me they were available, you receptionist whore. What could have changed in those three seconds? Did Phillip and Nancy Garrido swing into his office all of the sudden and take him away? What did I do to raise the red flag that deemed me not good enough to speak to an actual human? Was it because I told you who I was? A "cold caller." A person you can just dismiss because you think you're better than me. Let's not forget I'm the one with the college degree here. And I'm not talking about an online college. I went to a school that doesn't need to advertise with an awkward white girl in pajamas singing a rap during the commercials for Jersey Shore or Teen Mom. But go ahead, put me through to voicemail so I can just leave yet another  message that won't be returned. I don't mind, it's not like a have a soul or anything. I'm just a voice on the other end of the line, right?

What kind of shitty world have we turned into where I get hung up on or sighed heavily to for saying,

"I'm just calling to touch base, see if you're doing okay or see if there is anything I can help with."

Help. I'm offering help and you're the one pissed? So sorry I interrupted your intense Soduku puzzle.  I'm not pretending to be Sally Sunshine, I was never privileged enough to win that Theta award. But one day, I'm gonna be the person on the other end of the phone. And on that day I'm gonna be Sally Sunshine. Mark my words. The day WILL come, and I will be nice. Unless I'm like super busy, but in that case I will make sure my assistant is super nice. 

I need a drink.

Monday, October 10, 2011

The Greatest Comeback Ever.

I'm pretty sure the phrase "hot mess" was coined at the Rail.  I bet one night, someone sober accidentally wandered inside, looked around at all of the red faced young adults running around like it was an adult play ground, sweat dripping from their receding hair lines, tossing back shot after shot, bathrooms flooded, girls dancing and crying all at the same time, and couldn't think of anything else to say but, "this is a hot mess." And thus the phrase was born. 

In every single way possible, that's exactly how it was on Saturday night.  And I, accidentally of course, was that semi sober person walking inside after the game. Sure it was a risky thing to do.  But I knew what I was getting myself into, and I was up for the challenge of playing the deadly game of catch-up. On a game night, and a great game night, no less. Some said it couldn't be done, "but Tay, you're so behind, you'll never catch up. Don't even bother." But I didn't believe the naysayers, I had faith. And so begins the story of the greatest drinking come back ever.

Tailgating started around roughly 12:30 at the Downtown. Lincoln was pretty quiet at first, it was a weird feeling. Our confidence was obviously very down, did we really have it in us after last weekend? So we started pretty hesitantly. Not too many shots, just trying to remain consistent, nothing too showy. I'm not an idiot, I know that people were doubting me, Taylor, after last week's tailgating performance. I really let the team down. The order had to be restored. After a few beers at the DT I made my way to my parents tailgate. I needed to reenergize on Gardettos and turkey wrapped pickles. Things were still moving pretty slow for me at this point. A bloody here, a beer or two there. I could feel the other tailgaters were gaining on me, especially my sister, but I was hesitant still and unwilling to break out just yet. There were too many distractions at my parents T.G., had I allowed myself one more scoop of puppy chow I had a feeling I'd be out for the entire game, so I had to leave.  It was about this time I stopped by the Red House in an effort to get myself back in the game. Big mistake. It was here I started to realize just how large my drinking deficit really was. The party bus that brought the kids from Omaha, the drunk boy stealing the microphone from the band (we all know who) the tornado that is Kari Schafersman pouring the remainder of her mixed drink/beer into my bloody Mary as she skipped off to pee in the bushes telling me "you better get your shit together and start drinking" was just all too much. I needed to regroup. Perhaps it was time to head to the third largest city on game day and get my focus back.

Chris and I entered Memorial a bit earlier than usual on account of our unusual sobriety. At this point I was way behind, I could feel it all around me and the pressure was building. I felt like everyone was talking shit about Taylor. Loser, failure, coward, scared to get hurt, looks like a monkey... Errr. It was painful, why was everyone hating on me so much? I was trying my best, couldn't they see that? 

The tunnel walk started. And it was when that music was blaring and the team came running out behind our glorious American flag that the goosebumps set in. They always do. And then it hit me. All of the negativity, the rude remarks, the doubters, none of it mattered. Because as I looked around the packed stadium full of cheering fans, I saw something that can't be lost, or forgotten, or talked shit about on a Husker website followed by 1,000 comments from asshole idiots who should get off the computer and get ready for their shift at Brothers. I saw tradition. I felt it, I was a part of it. My part is the drinking part. As loyal, hard working fans, not loved enough by God to be graced with the rare ability and talent to play collegiate football, it's our duty to drink until we forget that and thus in turn yell obnoxious things at those lucky enough to actually play regarding how much better we could do given the chance. If only the overweight, 40 year old in striped overalls standing behind me could have really "ran the ball twice as fast as that for a touch down, you pansy ass," we might have pulled ahead much faster. Maybe next time, Farmer Joe, in the meantime, keep pressuring your 8 year old son next to you who looks like he'd rather be watching Glee right now in his "Let's Get Our Gleek On" T-shirt.

I think it was the 4th quarter when there was a change in the game that I'm not going to pretend didn't help us out quite a bit. Jade went down. Too much too fast, she was back at the hotel. Of course I was sad to see her go, but it was an opportunity to pull ahead and I needed to jump on it. This was my time. Taylor's breakout moment.

This is when shit got real, better late than never. I said good bye to Chris as he went back to Fremont, tucked my parents into bed, and set out for the Rail all by my lonesome. A brave act, I know. Downtown Lincoln after the game felt like Mardi Gras. Screaming people, beads everywhere, homeless men making out with sorority girls, it was insane. When I walked into the Rail I thought, oh no hot mess. I quickly found reliable teammates in B Love, Leslie and Kiley to help get shit done and we got right after it.  Hot Carls, Rumples, Goldys. Go, go, go. Must overcome this drinking deficit before it's too late. Love played defense blocking any distractions that might come our way and interfere with our drinking.  More shots, RBVs and Rum and Diets, always keeping our eye on the prize.

Within no time, it was bar time. I was starting to see black at the end of the tunnel, I  knew I was almost there. Beer garden, dancing, more shots, becoming an overly friendly version of myself. Hugs, jumping, poking people, slipping into the state of thinking I'm the most charming person in the world. It was actually happening. I believe it was about the time B Love and I cut the line to the boys bathroom and giggled uncontrollably as we fiercely held the door shut tight from the angry gentlemen outside when I realized I had done it. The greatest drinking come back ever. And what a feeling of accomplishment it was. This was one for the books.

When asked if this was my "breakout game," Taylor would only respond, "Sure, if that's what they're saying. Think whatever you want."

And while everyone talks about the stadium being the third largest city in Nebraska on a game day, what they always seem to forget is that the Brass Rail actually becomes the nation's dirtiest, most awesome hot mess of a bar on game days. You tell me which is more impressive. 

Forever yours,
 
Nebraska's one and only Tay Tay

Friday, October 7, 2011

Be careful what you wish for.

I think I might have gotten in a little over my head moving to Chicago. I'm starting to wonder if maybe I'm just more suited for country living in a shitty town like Topeka where I'm not bothered with silly distractions like having friends or going to concerts or cool new bars and restaurants. Being physically social leaves so little time to be digitally social. My Facebook time has been so minimal this week I don't even want to think about what status updates or mobile uploads I might have missed. Or birthdays. Ugh, I'll just say it because it's weighing on me so heavily, but not only did I not text Kenz "the soccer player" I didn't write on her Facebook wall either. I feel so bad. What's super shitty about this situation is that Kenz and I are like digital BFFs. Real life, pretty good, but digital is where our relationship is at. I'm pretty sure she is always drunk/hungover at work on account of the fact she lives in New Orleans, so this allows for ample day texting. And I can always count on her for a good Facebook post and blog comment. So basically I really dropped the ball. I'm gonna blame it on the fact that yesterday was our first official work happy hour. It was a pretty big deal, around 3:30 our office turned into a sorority house with everyone transforming themselves from work attire to going out glam. Music was blaring, flat irons were plugged in, bronzers were all around, it was like a pre-formal sesh- in an office at the Wrigley building. It was very Gossip Girl of us.

Around 4:30 we headed over to the Trump for drinks on the terrace to enjoy the unusually warm October weather. The Trump was its usual fun self, Asian business and old women in pearls getting crunk off of dirtys. A few $18 glasses of wine later it was time for our reservations at Studio Paris. Yea, I was skeptical too. But SP wasn't nearly as 1980's and white furniture clad as I thought it might be. The drinks were strong, the food was delish and I couldn't help but delight in the fact I was sitting at a table full of my new work friends. I was in a good place. Until the Jameson shots, things started to go downhill after that. I had a pep talk with myself before going out, I could have a good time, but there was absolutely no reason to get sloppy. I don't know these girls good enough to let them see Captain Blackout just yet. We'll save that for the Christmas party.

A few Jameo shots in and suddenly I found myself knee deep in a convo with my coworker Tiffany, I call her Tiffers, about my secret dream to try stand up comedy. Kill me. I even started doing my bit.

"Why does pizza have to be on a bagel to eat it anytime? Who is butter to think it's too good to just sit on a shelf, why does it need it's own flip door?"

You get it. I know it's not good, I know I'm not funny. I don't actually have a bit besides those two incredibly hilarious lines. But I'll be damned when I'm drunk if I don't think I'm Lewis C.K. I hate myself. Luckily, Tiffers is the only one who heard my act. She's the other newbie, looks like a classy cast off of Jersey Shore. But don't call her Schnooky because she will murder you, all 4'8 of her. Tiffers and I took a big step today, I let her into my Facebook circle. I don't usually allow the work place into my online social network, but I'm taking a chance with her. She knows there will be consequences if she screws it up. But anyway, once the comedy act comes out, I know it's time to go home. So I pulled a Houdini, snuck out and grabbed a cab home without saying a word. Probably not the best idea, but I couldn't take the risk of sticking around and pulling out my Westboro material. That's my real bread and butter right there.

Moral of the story, happy late bday Kenz. May your weekend be full of fried frog legs, endless bowls of jambalaya and good looking cajun men. And hopefully a Husker win. I can't take another Saturday like last weekend. Maybe we should just dress our receivers in Ohio State jerseys so T Mart can actually complete a pass. That was mean, Taylor does his best. And ever since his one breakout game eight years ago, that's been pretty damn shitty. Okay, I'm done. Happy weekend!

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Trump Card

Today I died and went to the Trump. Those who say money doesn't buy happiness have obviously never taken a shower in the locker room at the Trump Tower. Thanks to my very generous boss, I now have the pleasure of getting to pretend I'm very wealthy every morning working  out and rubbing elbows with Chicago's finest (worst/most uppity)  at the Trump gym. But I'm not even going to pretend I enjoy the working out part, I motivate myself to get my ass out of bed in the morning with the thought of the luxurious shower that awaits me. 

I grew up at the Norfolk YMCA. The locker room smelt like piss and B.O., bitch or skank was written and poorly scratched out on virtually every orange locker. Children and old women were free (and I think encouraged) to run around naked making everyone else uncomfortable. And don't get me started on the 1970's hot tub that was only available to the men via the men's locker room. YWCA would be so pissed if they only knew the sexist pigs who run the Norfolk YMCA. But this was all I knew for so many years. I had no idea indoor pools weren't supposed to burn your eyes upon entering them. Some gyms actually offered complimentary towels and water?  No way. Yes way.

 Let me tell you about the Trump. My locker doesn't say bitch anywhere on it (yet), the lock can't be picked with a Bobby pin, so no need to worry about another stolen Starter jacket fiasco. And inside hangs the most plush white robe you have ever felt. I love it. I prance around the locker room like I'm Julia Roberts experiencing a life of luxury in exchange for sex. But I don't get it, I seem to be the only person taking full advantage of the robe, no one else seems to wear theirs. Instead, they often stare at me like, well like I'm Julia Roberts experiencing a life a luxury in exchange for sex. On the counter tops there are hair spray bottles and nail files and razors and combs and makeup remover pads all free for the taking! And even though I told myself not to, I loaded up. I just couldn't help it, these are all little items I often need but forget to buy. There are large containers full of the best exfoliants and body lotions and gels just begging to be put on. Inside the walk-in, multiple shower head, shower there is salon style shampoo and conditioner. Now I sometimes splurge and buy myself the good hair products, but when I do this, I'll admit I'm pretty damn stingy with it. If they say use a quarter size, well I'll pry use a dime size, maybe even a peso, depending on the night. But not at the Trump. I literally dowse myself in shampoo and conditioner. Remember the first time Curly Sue got a real shower? That's kinda how I feel, like a homeless kid introduced to soap and hot water for the first time. I've been late the past two days for work and it's not because I've had long workouts. I've had long ass showers. 

And now it's time for a little Foster the People concert tonight. I'm exited, but I want to keep it under control because I would hate to not make it to the Trump tomorrow morning. My small shower at home just isn't the same, it feels so poor to me. The bath soaps are less than par, there is no one waiting by my sink to offer me a cup of hot tea, and my robe isn't white or plush. I don't even own a robe. Wait, that's not true. I do own a lovely pink robe with my initial on it that I was given at the Potter wedding. And that will do, because it's time for Some Pumped Up Kicks. And yes, that's the only song I know. I guess I'm just mainstream like that.

Monday, October 3, 2011

Herbie didn't do your mom, that would be disrespectful.

Where do I even begin... Let's start with the positive, the sun still came up yesterday. I didn't think it would, but as it turns out, life does go on even after a loss like we saw on Saturday. Was it painful to watch? Yes. But it was even more painful just to be there. I want the world to know what asshole fans the Wisconsin people are. I now understand why Greenbay fans are regarded as being among the worst fans in the NFL, it's because they started off as Badgers. Husker fans were taunted, thrown beer on, harassed, and worst of all, one little dick wad left my dad hanging when he offered a friendly high five. It takes a real d bag not to return a high five. And I'm almost too embarrassed to bring up what happened on our drive home yesterday. But I will... So here I am driving my car with my parents, brother and Chris in tow. Our spirits are down, we're almost in mourning even, no one is talking. We feel physically and mentally beat down to say the least, when all of the sudden we look to the car next to us and notice a fat pair of ass cheeks pressed against the drivers window. The DRIVER'S window. How does that even work? Screw texting and driving, there should be a law against mooning and driving. And who "moons" these days, anyway? What were they gonna do next, a Chinese fire drill? So lame. Well next thing we know we pull up to a toll. And there is a long line at the toll, so we all ease to a stop, ass-car right behind me. So what does my bat shit crazy self do? I put the car in park, walk to my trunk, and take out Chris's golf club. I'm in no mood for this shit and I wanted to toss things up a bit. Now I wasn't going to do anything, c'mon, I'm not that crazy... But it's about the time I shut my trunk when my dad starts yelling at me to get back in the car. Reluctantly, I did. But I still can't help but smile at the thought of me actually going up to their car with a golf club in hand. That would have been a good moment for me. But how disrespectful. I mean, my parents were in the car for God's sake. But I shouldn't have been surprised. One should have expected such a lewd act from a fan base that all seemed more than amused by wearing shirts that said, "Bucky did your mom." How completely original. I didn't realize the phrase "did your mom" was even still used. Wasn't it officially retired in 1998 after every single 7th grader on earth had said it ten too many times? The other "clever" shirt that was pretty popular up in Madison featured an outline of the state of Nebraska with the words "worst state ever." Isn't that cute. Again, if you're California, or Oregon or Hawaii, go ahead and make fun of our ugly state. But Wisconsin? You're ugly as shit too. The only difference is your people might actually be fatter. Lay off the beef jerky bloody mary's and cheese filled everything you fat ass Northern hippies. Okay I need to settle down, obviously I'm still a little hot on this state, I'm sorry.

It's done. I need to get over it, I know. I just really hate fan fighting. It's pathetic considering fans really do nothing to contribute to the game. And no, singing "Jump Around" while you jump around like a bunch of awkward white kids does not constitute contributing, Badger fans. So sit down, you look like idiots. This isn't a scene from Mrs. Doubtfire.

It's over though, we lost. But hey, we're Husker fans. We lose with class, and we win with class. Madison, keep talking shit. I just have three words for you. Five and zero. We have five national championships. How many do you have?

 Paul Harvey, good day.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Angry Badgers.

It's 6:30 a.m. and I'm wide awake and ready to go. I thought I drank enough to be able to sleep on the pull-out couch adjacent to my snoring parents and brother, but I was sorely wrong. Jordan literally sounds like he is moving a china hutch on steady intervals of three seconds, my mom is making the noises of a dying Yeti, and my dad is doing the choking-snore, where every so often he seems to wake himself up caught on a large gasp of air trapped in his throat.  I'm dying a slow death here at the Madison Hyatt.

So let me paint you a picture of last night. Imagine downtown Lincoln on a gameday weekend, crawling with, well, not Nebraska people.  That's basically what it's is like in Madison this weekend. And those little badgers are pissed. That's an understatement even. I've never seen a more bitter group of people stomping around, throwing tantrums like a bunch a of five year olds. Every bar last night was absolutely packed with Husker fans. And as more Nebraskys snuck their way in, more and more Wisconsin people sulked out saying things like, "this is such bull shit," and "this place is way too full of Nebraska people." You're preaching to the choir, bitch. Now step aside so we can get in. Wisconsin people were definitely in the minority every place we went, and they were hating it. They wore resentment on their face like a fat ingrown hair. It was great. But I tried to remain polite, I mean imagine if you went to the Rail or the Bar and it was packed with outsiders. And not just GDIs, but full of like Mizzou fans. Oh wait, that would never actually happen in Nebraska. Sucks to suck.

The best part is that Wisconsin girls are painfully ugly. No joke. I felt like I had died and gone to Topeka. At one point I actually looked around for Mark Wahlberg, because I was certain I was surrounded by every one of his sisters from The Fighter. I'm not going to deny that I'm starting to settle into my winter skin a little earlier than I had hoped. But last night I might as well have been Brooklyn Decker walking around. I'm not claiming to be something I'm not, that's just how unfortunate looking the females are around here. Us Nebraska girls stood out in every bar like a brunette in Norfolk. It was a real self esteem booster.

As the night progressed things got uglier (literally and figuratively.) More people came around that looked like they'd just crawled from the woodworks to get a look at all of us glitzy Nebraska fans, that may be the first and last time I refer to Nebraska fans as "glitzy." The badger fans were starting to get nastier and taunting us a little heavier. "Yeah, you better enjoy tonight because tomorrow's going to be hell for you." Thanks for the advice, we'll make sure to do that.

And so "tomorrow" has arrived. D day is here. In less than twelve hours it will all be underway. It's time for a bloody and it's time for some college football. And it's also time for me to put a pillow over Jordan's face and bless it with a cross because the noises coming from his mouth have turned satanic.

Happy game day from Madison, Wisconsin.
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