Some Music

My computer tells me that I came into possession of this song last year but that information was not received by my ADD brain until about three weeks ago and now I'm completely hooked. Please take a moment and listen to Alexander of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros fucking kill this track, Truth:

I have to admit that I feel a tad uneasy about my sexuality when I watch this as he is the epitome of what I gravitate toward in the physical appearance department despite looking a lot like Jesus Christ and acting like the tweaked meth head harmonica player I occasionally see near the McDonald's at South Station. I really hope that my moral compass hasn't become so corroded that I would be down with banging Jesus or a homeless dude. And that's not because he's homeless per se, but more for fear that I could so easily be tempted into the lifestyle. I mean - harmonicas, McDonald's and making out on the train all day - what doesn't sound awesome about that scenario?!? Jesus, on the other hand, well...everything about hanging out with Jesus just sounds super boring...all the "good deeds" part, anyway. I might show up for the annual Water To Wine Party. Actually, who am I kidding? I'd do 'em all. Thank you, Alexander, for providing a jam that reminds us dirty birds that honesty is indeed the best policy and if Jesus is our personal dreamboat, we shouldn't be afraid to shout it from the rooftops! Truth.

On the other end of my obsession with Alexander lies my obsession with The Weeknd's, Wicked Games (nothing actually happens in this video link so just click play and listen while you fold a few pairs of socks or something):

Do y'all remember when One Republic struck teenage angst gold when Apologize was way hot on any and all radio stations containing KISS in their handles shortly after that random Kiera Knightley movie came out a few years ago? Well, the fact of the matter is that I loved that song but I was too embarrassed to admit it because I was still trying to convince the world that I was a some hipster chick that would only ever be caught listening to obscure German house music while debating the intersections of art and social welfare in an ironic t-shirt with a faux turkey feather dangling from my ear. When I looked down to see myself dressed in a smokin' pair of J.Crew office slacks while at a Die Antwoord concert last year, I finally realized the jig was up (ed. note I love Die Antwoord and would never wish to imply otherwise. The "Pretty Wise" tattoo on Ninja's neck is maybe the most bad ass thing I've ever seen)  and I might as well just start claiming the shit I like if I fucking like it and quit worrying about the fact that I most definitely resemble a nondescript, preppy, 32 year-old, white, 9-5'er with a tramp stamp, a college degree and divorced parents. Because that's exactly what I am. We're a dime a dozen and even when I paint my nails blue or put random braids in my hair, I still look the same...just stupider. I'm slowly learning to accept this. To that long winded point, I absolutely adore this number even though I'm pretty sure I'll get made fun of for it and Abel Tesfaye is singing to a stripper about how they're going to do a bunch of drugs together and then she'll grind up on his goods - but not before rinsing off her perfume so his girlfriend doesn't find out?? I don't know, but I'm into it and maybe you will be, too.

Aside from my music indulgences as of late, I guess I could quickly report that life in the Culture Cube bubble is coming along nicely. I hung out with this genius director last weekend, I'll spend my work day  tomorrow with My Brightest Diamond, I'll be in New York next weekend at The Armory and I just bought a ticket to Paris for my 33rd birthday celebrations in July. I say all of this to 1) subtly brag so you're tricked into thinking I'm cooler than you (fact: I'm not) and, 2) in an effort to forget that I also drank 2 beers sitting on my bathroom floor by myself after getting home from the encounter with said director; I have to go to the doctor before the My Brightest Diamond show to check in on the medicated progress of a sexy infected toe nail; last time I went to the Armory I stayed in a hotel that doubled as public housing and George Michael is still trying to ruin my life - this time by forcing me to give him a butthole "haircut" on Tuesday since he keeps shitting all over himself on our walks. That alone earns me a trip to Paris, right?!? Y'all know just as well as I that the majority of that trip will be spent in a hotel room, eating chips or crisps or whatever they call them over there, while watching French re-runs of Who Wants to be a Millionaire?


Also, last night, I fell asleep in bed wearing mittens. And I woke up with an almond halfway in my mouth. I still don't know how or why either of those things  happened.


It was nice catching up with you folks; it's been too long. Oh! And I almost forgot! Better late than never - I hope you each had a fantastic Valentine's Day and were able to spend it with your lovers and The Magnetic Fields. 69 Love Songs is hands down the most Valentine-y album of all time and I leave you with my favorite song off this masterpiece. It's a sad one, but I spent a good portion of my evening talking to a friend on the phone who has recently found herself back in the Land of Single Ladies. While not terribly upset, she was certainly confused when her ex snail mailed a disposable, used razor that she left in his shower before they called it quits. No note, no card - just a razor in a business envelope. That makes sense.

It's moments such as these when I feel like a lot of the time, love can be kinda bullshit. But, when you have it good, it can be pretty fucking amazing, too. So, on whichever side of the fence you may fall, I hope this past Valentine's Day found you in love with something in your life. For me, it was, and will always be, Grand Canyon.

Goodnight. Mwah.

Let's Get Right To It

I’m unemployed. Yes, that’s right; I have been without a job for one full week now and I have about 10-ish days left to go. The good news is that I am willfully unemployed as I have accepted another position at another joint in Boston where I somehow tricked a group of, by all accounts, intelligent people, into hiring my dumb ass, giving me a fancy title, a full staff and an office. The bad news is, in the meantime, I’m so fucking bored I can hardly see straight. This goes against everything I once believed so deeply about myself...that I’m a lazy bag of bones who would love nothing more than to one day never have to work again, but alas, I no longer think this is the case. And I hate myself for it because I fear this can mean only one thing. I am an official adult who (starting to gag...yep, full gag coming on) enjoys her job. Ugh.

Anyway, the list of things I have done to combat said boredom is starting to freak me out. All of my laundry is clean and neatly folded; I’ve been to the tailor and the dry cleaner twice; I’ve grocery shopped (my refrigerator usually consists of a carton of soy milk, an avocado, and during a bountiful week, maybe some leftover Thai); I cooked vegan Sloppy Joes (what.the.fucking.gross.); I’ve given George Michael 3 baths and a haircut; stepped up my running routine - you all have a free punch redeemable at the entrance of my fat mouth for being such a white girl with that statement; vacuumed my windowsills and every other square inch of this apartment; called my grandmother; undertaken a minor but also quite sophisticated plumbing project and finally invested in a new phone after dropping mine outside a CVS last December, shattering the screen and keeping it held together with scotch tape for an entire fucking year. Who am I?!? What have I become!?!?! Someone send a case of Fuzzy Navels, a Benetton tube dress and some caramel flavored condoms my way stat. This ship is sinking fast and if I’m gonna go down, it best be on the Myrtle Beach Booze Cruise and not one of those fucking Disney Family Adventure shit shows.

The laundry room in my apartment building is, like many apartment buildings, located in the basement. The difference between your basement and my basement is that I’d be willing to bet that your basement was built sometime after the turn of the century where as mine was most likely a Revolutionary War bunker, is most definitely haunted and houses a large sink that I’m convinced dispenses congealed animal blood as opposed to actual water. Of course, this hasn’t stopped me from making out in the basement - not once, not twice, but three times and then finding a missing boot and an earring down there after the fact. I also once found a pair of my high heels in the recycle bin post random makeout in the lobby of my building. I decided it was probably a good place to store them during the deed...but that’s a story for another time. Okay, no it’s not. I made out with a guy I deemed too sketchy to bring into my apartment, but totally safe enough to roll around with in the elevator for a few minutes before asking him to get out so I could hitch a ride up to my pad. Brilliant. Just for the record, I have made out in my bed before. I think.

Moving on, and as I had nothing better to do last Monday afternoon at 3pm, I figured I would finally use the laundry room for a different kind of spin cycle and see if this Preemie Baby Placenta  scented Tide I’ve had stashed under my stove for two years was worth all the hype. I gathered up my most delicate of delicates (so like, jeans and t-shirts and a sock), and headed down to the basement with George Michael trotting right alongside me. 

George loves a good adventure and since the laundry room is full of all kinds of crazy, I usually let him come down to hang out while I attend to the 35 quarters required to turn on the washing machine - its power capacity only rivaled by that of my electric toothbrush. We made our way to the bunker and I began the usual sorting, pulling other people’s clothes out of the washer, seeing if there’s anything I like in their load (one can never have too many navy blue washcloths or moth eaten boxer shorts!), transferring to the dryer without their permission and then dumping a bunch of detergent over everything before busting out the fire proof safe full of $1,000,000 in quarters. As I was too preoccupied with shoving my neighbor’s Thanksgiving themed dishtowel down my sweatpants, I had momentarily neglected to keep an eye on George Michael, and sure enough, when I was ready to Bounce (get it!?!? Laundry product placement! Hit me up, Bounce. There’s plenty more where that came from, big guys!), he was nowhere to be found. I called him; he didn’t come. I looked down hallways and in the breaker room; he wasn’t there. I threw a pair of my neighbor’s underwear on the floor for the taking...not even a sniff. He was completely missing in action. Feeling a hint of panic begin to set in as, despite the fact that he was born to destroy me, this dog is the only thing that evokes any sort of emotional reaction in me whatsoever, and should he ever leave, I will immediately crumble into a pile of ash, empty tins of lip gloss and press-on nails, I did the only thing I knew to do. I sat on the stairs, drummed up my sweetest, most obnoxious toddler voice and yelled out, “Treeeeaaaat!!!”

...

.....

.......

And there he was. My love, my little monkey, my Georgie. 

With a fucking mouse in his mouth.

Now, I’ve seen a rodent or 12 in my day. When I was a kid, I have a vivid memory of my mother coming into my bedroom late at night with blood all over the front of her nightgown after our dog, Henry, caught a rat in the kitchen, murdered it and then delivered the kill on my mother’s stomach while she slept in bed. She woke me up so that I could sweep the dead rat into a plastic bag because she was too scared to do it herself. Ah, a mother’s love...

I had a garden level apartment in 2006 (“garden level” is fancy speak for “in the alley”) where the only place I could get cellphone reception was by my living room window which overlooked a large rat den that I became quite familiar with over the course of my lease. Like, I could tell them apart and stuff. Not my finest hour...or annual compensation package. 

And a few years ago, I was peeing at a friend’s lake house when a mouse ran out of the shower and made a mad dash for my feet before I was able to drop the lid, stand on top of the toilet with my XL tankini bottoms in hand and scream bloody murder until my boyfriend came to rescue me. My other friend heard my shrieking and thought someone in my family had died. No, it was much worse than that. 

All of these events pale in comparison to watching George Michael chew on a dead mouse, blood squirting out the sides of his mouth, the sound of tiny bones breaking and popping through flesh permeating my eardrums while I began to softly squeal and slowly back away from the little dog who was now more than happy to follow me up the stairs in the hopes that I had a Cool Ranch Dorito in my pocket.

I know my neighbors have seen me at my best (lie and never) and very worst (truth and daily). But I think none of them were quite prepared to see me dominate four flights of stairs in approximately 7 seconds while being chased by a dog that could fit in a fucking Kardashian carry all, only pausing to yell, “Drop it! You’re an adopted lunatic asshole! I hate you!!”, before diving into my apartment and slamming the door in his face. One neighbor in particular (he actually moved out two days ago...hmmm...weird), who lived across the hall from me has come to my aid on several occasions. There was the time I got trapped in the elevator and he had to pull me out in my pajamas but only after I made sure he got my Slurpee first, there was the second time I got trapped in the elevator and he decided it best to call the landlord then go through that mess again. There was the time I left my keys on the train so I woke him up at 1am for my spare set, the time I blew our circuits when I was drying my hair, while listening to my iPod, with the TV, both airconditioning units, and all my lights on and he came over to reset my breakers. There was that other time when I thought I heard a burglar in my house so I asked him to go look but it was just George caught under a blanket randomly bumping into things. And finally, the time when my boyfriend got stuck in the elevator and we pulled him out but not before he insisted I get his bottle of whiskey out of his coat first.

Sure enough, my poor neighbor was home, heard the commotion and came out to assist me (or kill me. either/or). I cracked my door open while he blocked George Michael from alternative escape routes as I threw candy corns in the hallway to entice him into dropping the mouse. After a few minutes, 20-30 candy corns littering the common area, and my neighbor instructing me to “aim for his mouth! Or maybe his eyes! Yeah, try to hit him right in the eye!”, our efforts paid off. George dropped the mouse and ate some candy while I snuck up behind him with a garbage bag, scooped him up (not like, in the bag. I didn’t want to suffocate him. Not yet, anyway. Just sort of wrap it around his body so my hands wouldn’t touch his freshly infected AIDS fur) and rushed him to the bathtub where I doused him in hot water for the better part of an hour. I also brushed his teeth. Twice. And forgot about my neighbor. He told me the next day that he had cleaned up the mouse. Oops. So, I bought him a cookie. I just forgot he already had moved out.

I’ve taken to calling George by a new name - George Mouse Mouth Michael - and he is forever banned from the laundry room. Me, however, that’s harder to say. If I don’t get back to work soon, it’s quite likely I’ll drag some bum down there again for a little afternoon delight...and then slip a 10 spot in his pocket for wrangling up any loose vermin by way of the blue cheese dressing matted in his dreads from our earlier dinner date at the Outback Steakhouse dumpster.

Hey, what was the point of this post again? Oh yeah...I’m outta work and fucking bored. Any of you play Words with Friends? It’s my new jam since I’ve come to realize I suck at Fruit Ninja (like most anything else that requires the most basic eye-hand coordination). Yes, I know I’m late to the party, but remember my old phone that was made out of scotch tape? 

I’m Culturecube. Bring it. 

Friday Night

I was supposed to go out to meet a friend for drinks this evening. And then I came home and decided I would slip into a new comfy pair of yoga pants I bought a few days ago (which I did not actually buy to practice any yoga in but rather to sit on my ass on Sunday afternoons because the pair I used to wear for that weekly activity got eaten. And I think we all know who is responsible for that mishap). After I put the pants on, I thought I should go to 7-Eleven for a pre-drink snack to get the belly lined up with cheap carbs and saturated fats. I met a nice old man in 7-Eleven who asked me if I knew how much a single banana cost these days. We both scoured the bananas for price tags, but couldn't figure it out - so I apologized and began to walk away when he shouted after me, "Hey, lady! You may look decent these days, but I can tell by the shape of your body that you're not getting enough potassium. And you're goin' downhill fast, honey." Soooo....not the nice old man I initially credited him to be. With that, I bagged my Coke and my Healthy Life Rice Cracker Mix (that's right - Healthy Life brand, you withered little bastard) and came back home. Nothing goes better with a snack then some mindless television and wouldn't you know, I found The L Word on my Showtime on Demand. With that, I have canceled my drink plans and can currently be found couch bound, with crumbs all over my lap and four episodes deep into a ten episode season show about cool lesbians living the high life in Los Angeles.

I'm not a lesbian but I like them a lot. Because this show clearly proves that they all have great hair and rad jobs at movie studios and art galleries. Lesbians of the internets, if you're looking for a strange broad with hair that is at the total mercy of the outside dew point (best if we hang on the 65% and below days), won't be able to have sex with you but does have a job that found her at a garden party yesterday with a bunch of 80 year-old women shoving tea sandwiches in her purse when they got distracted by a tulip, and later, in the same day, ran into a lamp post and simultaneously broke her shoe when she was trying to look sexy upon catching the eye of a bike messenger (seriously, fucking grow up, Allie), get in touch! Teach me the ways of your hip lesbian world - or at least how to properly apply the Toni & Guy pomade.

Man, I'm getting old and lame. Tomorrow night I'm hosting a dinner party. Worse, when I invited my guests, I referenced it as such - a dinner party. I mean, damn. I used to invite people over to get fucked up on spiked Orange Crush  and Hot Pockets. And now I actually put stuff in a pot and spring for the boxed wine. I guess it's the same invite in a preppier costume, but I'm not liking the domestic 30-something that I see emerging here. So hurry up, lesbians and bike messenger boys. Come style me right (gals) and whip me into shape (boys) before I turn into my worst nightmare. A normal woman.

Wherever this particular Friday night finds you, I hope it finds you well. Party on, people.

If I were to list my top five favorite things in this world, people included, it would go a lil' somethin' like this:

1) Crab rangoon

2) Quarters

3) George Michael

4) My bathtub

5) Breakfast burritos

Oops...guess no actual person(s) made the final cut. Oh well. People come and go. Quarters are forever. 

Last week I had an early meeting at the office. It was my job, the day before, to call in the standard coffee and bagel order to be delivered promptly at 7:45am the following morning. I've done this dance a million times over. I know the drill. Coffee and bagels for 5 and try not to jump through the phone when the woman on the other end asks if you'd like "all the fixins". As if sugar, milk and cream cheese have any right to be called fixins. A true, blue blooded American knows that proper fixins can only be found at a Golden Corral buffet or in your grandmother's medicine cabinet in the form of Hydrocodone and  Xanax to crush up and sprinkle upon your morning mug of lukewarm Coors Light. Don't get a girl all excited only so she can find out that your idea of fun is a few packets of Splenda and a stir straw. 

Anyway, I guess I was feeling pretty frisky when I phoned in because for some reason, after I confirmed the basics, I felt compelled to get it on with a breakfast burrito. As previously stated, I love, love, love a good breakfast burrito. Thus far, Boston has proved a big disappointment in this area as I have yet to sample one here that I have any real desire to visit again. Generally, it seems the concept is unnecessarily complicated when simplicity is what ultimately always reigns supreme. I don't need bell peppers, jalapenos, fancy cheese, steak tips or chorizo in my breakfast burrito. While all of these ingredients certainly have their place, it is not inside of my standard flour tortilla with scrambled eggs, a slice of Kraft yellow and some crumbled Jimmy Dean. If you live in the Boston/Cambridge area and know where I can find such a burrito, please email me immediately. I'll trade you George Michael or my neighbor's exotic slipper collection that she insists on displaying in the hallway as opposed to her closet. 

So like I was saying, just as I was about to wrap it all up, I figured I would inquire about the breakfast burrito situation with the caterer on the other end of the line. If they did offer such a treat, I could easily slip it in with the order and then eat it after the meeting. The perfect plan. 

Me: Um, you know, now that I think about it, do y'all have breakfast burritos?

Lady (such a cheery thing): We sure do!! Can I interest you in an order?!?

Me: Yeah - that would be great. Add on the breakfast burrito. 

Lady: Super! What a yummy way to start the day!! We'll have everything there by 7:45 tomorrow! Fixins included!

Me (what I wanted to say): For the love of God, I'm going to get off the phone now, come to wherever it is that you are and forcibly remove that word from your vocabulary with my (unattractive, but often useful in situations like this) enormous, pummeling man hands. 

Me (what I did say): That's fine. Thanks. If you could just email me a receipt, I think we'll be set. 

Lady: Will do!!! Thank you so much for your loyalty and continued patron...

Me: Nothing because by this point, I'd hung up on her. 

I went along with the rest of the afternoon...yelling for Assistant Whitney to show me how to load a picture to Facebook, coming up with a new nickname for my friend John (he also happens to be gay so I landed on Jomo - which is short for Johnmosexual. Big hit!), drawing a face and putting jewelry on the grapefruit I brought for breakfast but had no desire to eat, and oh, some work. Yeah, I did some work too.  And then, around 3pm, I opened my email to find the receipt for the meeting in my inbox. Let's just say I was a tiny bit taken aback when my eyes fell upon the total cost of $280 for a meeting with 5 people in attendance. Something had gone terribly wrong. Anyone care to take a guess what that might have been? 

After a quick scan of email, I noticed that instead of one unassuming breakfast burrito that I planned to enjoy all by my lonesome in the privacy of my cube, I had been billed for 50 "Supreme n' Tasty" breakfast burritos. Sweet.


Okay, so no big deal, a simple mistake that could surely be corrected with a simple phone call to the catering company. I did a few short breathing exercises in anticipation of what I knew would be another peppy and grossly enthusiastic conversation and got on the horn. 


Lady: Good afternoon!! How I can assist you with your catering needs today!?!?

Me: Hey, this is Allie. We spoke earlier about an order I placed for tomorrow morning.

Lady: Allie!! Hi!! We sure did!! What can I do for you?!? A variety of fresh pastries or some soy milk we need to add on for the hungry bunch?!?

Me: Uh, no. I was calling because it looks like there was a small error on the invoice you mailed over. I ordered a breakfast burrito but have been charged for 50. Can y'all just correct that and resend?

Lady (clearly on script): Oh, Allie. I'm so very sorry if there has been a misunderstanding between us. As you know, we are a catering company. So we do large food orders only. When you said one breakfast burrito, I naturally assumed you meant one order...which consists of 50. You understand, right?

Me: Ummmm, no. Not really. But, okay. Can you just cancel that order then? I don't need that many.

Lady (needs to update the script): Oh, Allie. I'm so very sorry. As you know, we are a catering company. Since we're dealing with a bulk order of breakfast burritos, we've already begun prep and simply cannot cancel the order with such late notice.

Me: It's 3pm. The meeting is tomorrow at 8am. Y'all are already cooking these things?

Lady: We put a lot of time into our food. So, yes. Yes, we are.

First of all, am I the only idiot in the room who didn't know that catering companies (which, in my defense, the name of this place has the word "restaurant" in it. In no materials I could find was the word"caterer" or "catering" mentioned) can only make things in batches of 100 or more? Sure, when I think about it, it kinda makes sense. But, please, honey...you really thought I wanted 50 burritos for a meeting with 5 people in it?? Do you think I'm carbo loading a bunch of teenage boys so we can fuel up and kick  ass at the small town football game later??

Since I am mature and accept responsibility for my mistakes, I went into full panic mode and began to devise a plan so no one would ever have to find out  I was trying to sneak one by Big Brother when karma decided to intervene and punch me in the face.

I arrived at the office promptly at 7:45am in the morning and as soon as I entered the building, I was knocked over by the delightful, and not at all nauseating, smell of room temperature eggs. Not only that, but the delivery boy had included two large picnic table cloths, several sets of oversized tongs, and three festive, Mexican themed platters on which to display the burritos. After I got over the horror of envisioning a bunch of suits showing up to my meeting to find the boardroom looking like the exploded innards of an obese donkey pinata, I quickly loaded everything onto a dolly (I'm not fucking kidding you. This shit had to be transported on a dolly) and took in up to my office. I had fifteen minutes to hide my stash, set up the coffee and bagels and squirt on my signature scent, Debbie Gibson's, Electric Youth, to mask the stench of burrito that had done a superb job of seeping its way into the cotton blend of my sensible and professional Banana Republic button down.

With so little time, I knew I only had one option for the burritos. I had to hide them under Jomo's desk in the very back corner of the office. I carted everything over, threw his personal belongings out of my way and mostly into the common hall area, shoved the goods beneath his chair, tossed some paper on top and then went back to my desk to email him.

Dear Jomo, 


When you get to work today, you're going to notice some burritos under your desk. Don't ask stupid questions and don't move them until I say you can.


Love, 


Allie

And with that, I had cleaned up the crime scene and pulled off the meeting without a hitch.

I wish I could say that I learned some sort of lesson and I will never make such a stupid mistake again. Afterwards, with John's help, I took the burritos to a staff lounge on another floor where, within 15 minutes, they were all gobbled up and gone. I got away with it and lots of people had a delicious breakfast burrito on the house which probably made them happier, nicer and fatter people that day. I see nothing wrong here.

Several years ago, I was on a work trip in Miami Beach for a week. My place of employment had put me up in a posh hotel with the most glorious minibar I had ever seen. It was both a refrigerator and a full size pantry of fun snacks and treats. As I'm sure was true for you as well, when I was a child, removing anything from the minibar was strictly prohibited when on family vacation. I firmly believe that this has had a significant impact on me as an adult. When I see a minibar, I have to eat stuff out of it. If I were in a hotel room with a 7-Eleven located in the fucking bathroom, and I could go in there and buy Cheetos and a Coke for a total of $1.50, or get the Cheetos and the Coke out of the minibar for $7.00, I would, no question about it, go the route of the minibar. I love them so very much.

A week in Miami is quite a long time for one to be in the same hotel room night after night. By the time we left for home, I had eaten every last item and drank every last drink out of the minibar. There was nothing left except for a few nips of gin (I prefer vodka) and a granola bar (because, yeah right. Like I'm eating a granola bar).

I returned to work and settled back in to the same 'ol routine after getting over no longer being able to flaunt my tight ass in a gold thong on the beach everyday while shoving street tacos in my mouth and simotaniously blowing kisses to cute Cuban boys...a sight not to be missed. Trust.

And then, one afternoon, my boss stopped in to review the Amex bill from our time away in Florida. It seemed my minibar affair had not been a cheap one at all. Rather, she was a high profile vixen with expensive taste and her services had cost us something like...oh, I don't know...$450??

There is no way out of that awkward and embarrassing conversation with your boss when you must admit to an addiction so strange and twisted...and then leave them no option except to politely ask that next time you travel on the company dime, it would be helpful if you could buy your Dorritos and Bloody Mary mix at the corner store, or even pack them in your bags if they're such a dire necessity, instead of raping the minibar in your hotel room. Check and check, sir. You can expect nothing less from me! Unless, of course, there's a breakfast burrito involved.

This shit never ends. And that's what you have to accept when you invite me, or more accurately, I break the door down with a sledge hammer and catapult my way into your life. It's a lose/lose, baby. Get used to it.

Hope y'all had a lovely weekend and a Happy Mother's Day. If you've got one and you like her, be sure to give her a buzz today and let her know, that despite the accident she and your father had when they conceived you, you're still quite grateful to them for deciding to "keep it" and at least say to your face that they love you even if, behind your back, they're quietly sobbing as you kidnap the remote control and deviled eggs during holiday visits and drink all the nice wine before passing out in their bed.


And in the spirit of Mother's Day, while I do loathe humans who refer to themselves as parents of their pets, I couldn't resist sharing the closest thing I gots to a real little guy. A few days ago, George Michael and I had our first family picture taken by my good friend, Catherine. Look how cute we are!

And then look what happened when he thought the session was over. A more accurate depiction of our relationship.

How Could I Know, My Morning Jacket - it has been getting the best of me lately. Maybe it'll stir you up a bit too.

Later.

P.S. I still haven't gotten over the Twitter fight we're having. Come on.

Seriously?

I have a Twitter account and only 7 of you are actually following me? And I've had to individually email each one of those 7 to force them to do so? For real? Really?

Look, I'll be back later tonight or tomorrow. In the meantime, do mama a favor for once and follow me. I need more fake friends so I start dumping my real ones. Thanks.

To Do

I had a doctor's appointment at Planned Parenthood after work tonight. Don't worry, mama ain't a mama, but Planned Parenthood is like the drive-thru of anything and everything vagina. In and out, quick and easy, and pun absolutely intended. I switch birth control each year mostly because I'm easily bored and just want to try new drugs. One might call that a "unique hobby" and I might call one who feels compelled to care a "unique asshole".  I've tried knitting and book clubs. They're boring. I like playing with medication and eating Chinese food in my bathtub. Different kicks for different chicks, you dig? So instead of calling my real doctor and having to wait 6 weeks before I can see her, and then upon seeing her, having to answer stupid questions like, "Any big life changes we need to talk about today? Are you sad? Tell me what makes you sad." or "You've gained weight since your last visit. Have you considered adding a brisk morning walk to your workout routine?" Instead of having to deal with that shit (the answers to those questions always being the same, 1) You make me sad and, 2) No, I haven't considered that. Also, I won't.) I go to Planned Parenthood where you make a same day appointment, whiz through the standard exam,  get asked if you're currently banging someone who shoots with needles and if you need 75 complimentary condoms in your to-go bag.  You answer correctly (no and yes...or is it yes and no? I can't remember the correct order exactly, but you've got a 50% chance of hitting the bulls eye so just spit something out and hope for the best) and they'll hook you up with patches or pills or rings or whatever else your warped little ovaries desire. 30 minutes later, you walk out the door and hit up the Chipotle around the corner for a burrito the size of a real-life baby and the only baby shaped thing you'll have to handle for a long time to come.  Everybody wins!

Anyway, the reason I bring up the visit is because getting to the particular clinic I fancy is a pretty long train ride from my office. I hopped the T around 6pm to make a 7pm appointment about 20 minutes into the trip, I realized I was bored to death by everything on my iPod and that book I've been reading wasn't doing much for me either (probably because I'm not reading a book...). I started looking at other stuff on my phone - like 100 pictures of George Michael doing nothing, or 100 pictures of food stuffs I should've never been eating (I orally assaulted a White Castle on a recent road trip), or 100 pictures of shirtless gay guys dancing (I don't know), and maybe one picture of me pretending to breast feed a bag of chips. When that strangely exciting, and simultaneously really depressing, activity was exhausted, I remembered I had created a to-do list for the upcoming weekend. The fact that I even put a to-do list together, much less recalled its existence is beyond out of character. I don't do lists. I don't do calendars. I don't do anything that might actually be helpful to the order of my life. I prefer chaos and mayhem. Or, maybe that's not true, but it's the only way I function and understand my place in this world, so I roll best with instability. I imagine my brain to look like the insides of a hoarder's garage. There's stuff everywhere, 99% of it completely useless, but I know everything that's hanging around, where it came from, and how to find it. You can come in and try to teach me how to purge and file and clean and organize, but the second you leave, I'm pulling it all back out and throwing in a new collection of stuffed animals and old VHS tapes just because I can. So lists and the like are generally lost on me. This list was likely created during a meeting to trick people into thinking I knew what we were talking about and I'm sure I said something like, "Hey team, just logging some info for my follow-up matrix graph worksheet spreadsheet matrix." Something like that...

What I loved about this list when I first saw it again was how absolutely pointless and seriously juvenile it is. If these are the things I have to remind myself to do this weekend, if these are the tasks that are central to the being that I am, then the issues run much deeper than originally thought.

So I have a haircut appointment tomorrow. And after that I have to get my bikini and legs waxed. Awesome that a decent portion of my most urgent needs revolve around my excessive body hair. I also quite enjoy that at some point this week, I thought the perfect gift for my friend's upcoming birthday was a mask. I have no recollection whatsoever of coming up with the mask idea, or seeing a mask, or her ever saying in the entire time I've known her that she has any desire to own a mask. But I think we have a winner.

I most definitely am considering the purchase of a goldfish. I think the question mark just means I haven't decided if I'll get him this weekend or next weekend. But yeah, I'm getting a goldfish. And no, I don't really know why. I have decided  I'll be calling him Rose.

Finally, since I obviously listed stuff in order of its importance, I noted my taxes. Which I still haven't done and reminded myself again today to do by writing, in black Sharpie on both hands, "TAXES!". It's almost midnight now. Safe to assume the reminders didn't work.

If I were to make a separate list of the 24 hour period that began at 7pm tonight and will end at 7pm tomorrow, it would include a trip to Planned Parenthood followed by a trip to Chipotle followed by the updating of a blog that 3 people read (me, someone that got here on accident, me again) followed by waxing my bikini line and finally, buying a goldfish. Oh, and not doing my taxes. This is the list I should start referencing more often than not. If for no other reason to be reminded that I need some new hobbies. Which I will start seeking out just as soon as I pick up Anna's birthday mask.

Happy Weekend. I like Mobb Deep - Shook Ones, Pt. II. Do you?

Later.

My Girl

I have a full-time job. With health insurance. And a steady paycheck that is directly deposited into my checking account every two weeks. I have a desk with a computer on it. I know; I don't get it either. And here's the cherry on top of my 9-5 sundae with shredded file sprinkles and whipped cubicle cream...I have, for lack of a better word, an assistant. Actually, it is quite a disservice to call her an assistant when the more appropriate and fitting title is Allie's Whole World, Both Professionally and Personally, Would Fall Apart Without Me Life Manager.

Whitney is ten years my junior and about twenty years my senior in every developmental way imaginable. She's smart, organized, never loses her cool, manages stress by actually addressing it, she's a home owner, she and her husband just refinanced their mortgage (I have no idea what that means but I do know adults do it), and she's already filed her taxes when there are still 3 days to go until she actually has to do so! She is everything I am not and thank Rebecca Black because I simply don't know how I would get by...

It was decided long ago that I needed help when, while working in an Excel document, I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to delete a row of data. I know it's bad...I do...but you have to recognize that, 1) I have no understanding of anything that happens inside of a computer and, 2) they didn't teach Excel and Power Point and whatever else is living inside of a keyboard when I was in school. Or they did and I was too busy failing out to show up for that particular session. Whatever. Anyway, when my boss, kindly but with some genuine concern, basically asked what my fucking problem was, I recanted the following story. 

My first job out of college, I was hired as a grant writer for a small non-profit. Part of that job, aside from just writing (which is all I thought I had to do at the tender and naive age of 22) unfortunately entailed tracking grant cycles, evaluation schedules, etc. I figured I could handle that enough...in my own database stored within my imagination, of course. So one day, my supervisor asked me to bring in a copy of my grant tracking...the copy that was obviously was being kept in an Excel sheet I had been updating on a regular basis. Well, as we now know, I wasn't doing that. Because I didn't have a fucking clue as to how to use Excel. So, in about 45 frantic minutes, I got in there, threw in all my prospects, deadlines, projections and evaluations. And you know what?? On the computer screen, it looked pretty good! But here's the thing with Excel...it may look nice on the screen, but when you print it all out, it can be like, 50 pages long with 1 column on this page, 2 random rows popping up on another, a title mysteriously appearing in a totally different spot than it was supposed to...it's that whole, crazy formatting bit. That word meant nothing to me...kinda still doesn't. What I thought would be a 3 page, beautiful Excel synopsis of my work, turned out to be thirty pages of disaster and mess. Naturally, as my denseness allows for much ignorance and therefore much bliss, I assumed this was what was supposed to happen when you printed Excel documents. Then I went further in assuming that everyone must just tape the pages together until they fit all pretty and stuff.  Like a big, fun puzzle game! Hehehehe! How neat! A puzzle game! Yay!

I got down on the floor, laid out all the pages and used a roll of scotch tape to meticulously stick each page together until it shaped itself into this enormous spreadsheet that I then proceeded to roll into a scroll and deliver to my supervisor's office. To this day, I can still see the look of sheer terror and disbelief on her face as I proudly unrolled a scotch tape Excel scroll onto her desk with a huge smile on my face. I...I just...I just can't even believe I was/ever have been employable. 

So back to my present day boss and my inability to delete a row of data and his inquisition as to why and my above story and final plea, "I will never be able to do this. I've tried. I can't. Please send help."

A few months later, the clouds parted and a sweet little stork dropped a Tumi briefcase at my feet with my very own Whitney inside. And my life was forever changed. 

It is unfortunate for Whitney that her broad skill set is limited to dealing with my dumb ass. We typically have slight variations of the same conversations each day:

Example 1:

Me (yelling for her from across the office - she sits maybe 10 yards away): WHITNEY! HELP! POWER POINT!

Whitney: I'll be right there.

Me (after she calmly makes her way to my desk while I'm pounding on the keyboard and throwing papers around in a panic): HOW DO I MAKE A BULLET?!?! WHERE'S THE BULLET?!?! THERE'S NO BULLET ON THIS THING!!!

Whitney (inserting a bullet point): It's okay. I'll take care of it. See? All better.

Me: Thank you, Whitney. I love you. 

Example 2:

Me (emailing Whitney): Subject: HELP! EMERGENCY! HELP!

Whitney: I'll be right there. 

Whitney (arriving at my desk): What's wrong?

Me (pounding on the keyboard and throwing papers around in a panic): HOW DO I DIVIDE IN EXCEL!?!? WHO EVEN DOES THAT ANYMORE!?!? DIVIDING!?!? IS THIS FUCKING MIDDLE SCHOOL?? HELP!!!

Whitney (inserting a formula, dividing): It's okay. I'll take care of it. See? All better. 

Me:

Example 3:

Me (standing up and flailing my arms wildly until Whitney sees me): HELP!!! HURRY!!! OH MY GOD!!! 

Whitney (professionally getting up from her chair and quietly coming to my aid): What happened, Allie?

Me (pounding on the keyboard and well..you know): THE PRINTER WON'T PRINT! I HAVE A MEETING! I'M GONNA DIE!

Whitney (adjusting print settings, hitting print, things printing): It's okay. See? I fixed it. You'll be fine. Don't worry. 

Me: Thank you, Whitney. I lo..

Whitney (walking away): I know. Thanks. 

You're probably wondering why Whitney doesn't loathe me, talk shit to her husband and friends about me, curse and hate me...and to that I would say, I wonder the same thing too. She should despise me. I know what I'm like to live with - a total pain in the ass. I get that and I believe with every ounce of me that Whitney deserves sooo much more. In time, she'll absolutely be the woman telling women like me to shut the fuck up and get it done. But by some fluke in the cosmos, I ended up with her today and by an even greater fluke, she actually does like me. Yeah, it's true, she likes me. And I like her.

Aside from my daily meltdowns, we have a very friendly relationship. We find the same people annoying, we find the same people cool, we have the same outlook on most every issue we've ever talked about, we have honest discussions concerning work and her future and mine...we're buds. We balance. Well, to the extent that I entertain her while she manages almost everything I do...sure, we totally balance. 

The other day she was showing me a new, fancy vacuum cleaner she was purchasing on Amazon. Wouldn't you know, when she pulled it up - it was the exact same vacuum cleaner I own (let's just ignore how lame it is that we were getting off on discussing home cleaning products). 

Me: "Oh my god. You're going to love that thing. It's awesome."

Whitney: "I've wanted one forever. I can't wait to get it."

Me: "What are those other things you have in the cart with it?"

Whitney: "Vacuum cleaner bags."

Me: "What?"

Whitney: "Allie, you have vacuum cleaner bags, right? You have to change those things. Tell me you have some."

Me: "I don't have some. I don't know what those are! I don't know what you're talking about!! HELP!"

Whitney: "How long have you had your vacuum cleaner?"

Me: "Um, 2 years, I guess?!?"

Whitney: "Go get your credit card right now. You need to take care of this."

Me: "Okay. But what do I do when I get them?"

Whitney: "I'll have to come over and teach you. Just go get your credit card."

And that's where the Life Manager part kicks in. Not only does she keep me in check at the office - she keeps me in check at home as well. Who knew anything about vacuum bags!?!? I'll tell you who...Whitney. Whitney knows vacuum bags. 

Whitney has also been helping me with my diet lately. And a few months ago, I decided it would be funny to start sexually harassing Whitney too. Hold on...these things will come together in two shakes. Let me start by explaining the harassment part right quick. We work for a non-profit organization. Our HR department consists of 1 part-time employee. Most of us are friends with her. You know that corporate environment you likely exist in day-to-day? Well, we don't operate like that. We roll pretty loose. And while that might be fun and all, take comfort in knowing that even as a corporate slave, you'll always be much, much richer than we'll ever be in our wildest dreams as non-profit worker bees. Because of the somewhat laid back, casual pace of our office...we can maybe joke around a bit more than what might be acceptable at your office...or any life situation in general, I guess. Okay, the more I'm trying to preface this, the more I realize it's never going to sound appropriate...so whatever...yes, I sometimes call Whitney "sugar tits" and "sweet ass". And maybe, one time, I told her it would be in her best interest to wear more pleather to work. I, of course, fell out of my chair laughing myself to tears, while Whitney just walked off and said, very rightly, "You're absurd."

This past weekend, while Whitney was off the clock and therefore had no obligation to deal with me at all, I sent her an email which was nothing more than me just freaking out, as usual, because I couldn't figure out how to roast a beet. I considered this to be Whitney's problem since she was the one that told me I needed more beets in my diet and to that end, I felt entitled to her attention and her proposed solution for the trouble she had brought on me by recommending such a stupid vegetable. 

Three long hours (inexcusable!) after I emailed her, she replied with the roasting instructions. I replied to that email via text. I'm including a snapshot of our conversation, and our wonderfully dysfunctional relationship, below (and yes, I was asking her about wheat gluten. It's complicated). 

There you have it. The consummate professional and her Life Manager. So, for Whitney, who will likely never see this here blog, I dedicate the most classic office jam of all time. Someday, we'll hold hands and skip our way to the big time, baby. Until then, don't forget the short shorts.