Introducing a new feature: a field guide to the weirdo types I meet in the city: the rush hour preacher, the utterly confused tourists, the date-rapey, frat boy Cubs fans, the crackheads that fall asleep on my landing and piss themselves, etc. I’ll do the first one sometime this weekend – the PROFILE, I mean. Brr. I think I just made myself sick.
So, as some of you might know, I collect Barbie dolls. And one of the dolls I’m on a search for is the 1989-era Superstar Barbie, who has apparently been chewed up and spit out by Hollywood, like so many before her:
After all, she’s whoring herself out on Ebay for only $4.99. Sad.
The Backstreet Boys visited my work today. And, all things considered, the Boys were pretty good, just not how I remembered, since the fifth guy was missing. It was like trying to get into the Spice Girls’ last album even though Ginger wasn’t there. Sad, and just not the same.
Also, they look EXACTLY like their posters (and folders and 8×10s and postcards and buttons and stickers and…), just shorter. It was hard to believe they were there in person, because they looked so perfect: white teeth, chiseled cheekbones, shiny hair.
Even the acoustic versions of their hits (“I Want It That Way” was sung along to by EVERY under-30 female in the office) were pitch-perfect. But in the end, even though they were *the Backstreet Boys!*, I just couldn’t get into it like I once did.
All grown up? Maybe. But then, explain why I still find farts funny.
This is the second morning in a row where I have found myself trapped on a train car with a man that feels the need to loudly preach to fellow passengers. I really don’t care to hear about someone else’s religious beliefs first thing in the morning – if I did, I’d go to church.
I am beyond disgusted with this practice, especially when this guy starts in about how he “found” God after spending a few years doing drugs and breaking into cars. Like MINE, you mean? Get the fuck out of here, take that Bible and sit down somewhere to think about what the hell someone like YOU is trying to teach someone like ME.
People like this need to spend more time with kids who are already starting to find their way down a similar path and guide them in a different direction – and less time talking to people like me, who are already behaving and believing on their own.
What a waste of a day.
I heard some talk about me that I shouldn’t have and it pissed me OFF. And I really can’t say much about it, because it was likely drunk talk anyway. And folks in my family expect you to brush off that sort of talk and get over it.
I really can’t, though. Because, WHOA.
A relative of mine told my best friend that if she, me and my cousin were each on the street with a baby, she and my cousin would survive and I wouldn’t.
I KNOW. Like my kid would EVER be on the street in the first place.
Look. I get where this is coming from: I have chosen not to have kids for the time being. Right now, I don’t want the responsibility that comes with motherhood plus trying to juggle a career. I’ve made my decision and I’m okay with it, but apparently other people are not, and can’t accept that I don’t share their interest in parenthood. Especially because they have just recently become someone’s grandmother. But really? I’m not an idiot. If I had a kid, we wouldn’t be on the street, I wouldn’t put it in a dumpster, and, unlike my retarded redneck cousin, I’d actually have a JOB so the kid would have FOOD and CLOTHES and SHELTER, instead of mooching off everyone else all the time.
What. The. FUCK.
‘Nuf said. Next topic.
This weekend, I spent a lot of time with family, particularly the Grandmothers Joan (they share the name, by some strange coincidence). It was nice. I played Bingo with Nonnie and took Gramma to Penney’s, and got some sage advice along the way.
Turns out I’m doing just fine. Also, bonus from Papa: “I wish the rest of the kids were more like you.” GLOAT
Every August 15, St. Jerome’s Church on the city’s South Side hosts Velika Gospa, an Assumption Feast that Catholic Croatians attend.
I’m told that it’s the wildest church party ever. At least, that’s the impression I’ve gotten over the years from my father, who’d attend with my Pops and uncle Kevin, and stumble home at 2AM, sweaty and hoarsely whispering “Woo!” as he fell onto the couch.
I’ve been wanting to go for the last two years. And now Dad has to work late. This is BULLSHIT. Where is my complementary lamb sandwich and bucket o’ booze? When do I get to get to pass out at 2AM yelling “Woo!”
Um. Oh. That’s right. Every damn Saturday. Never mind. Carry on.
But still. I wanna go at some point.
We found a house.
Not a house we’re going to BUY. Or even consider looking at again.
A house that has stopped us in our tracks from making such a purchase. Or ever committing ourselves to doing so again.
I speak of the House of Deat Rat.
Our realtor took us to the West Siiiiide a few weeks ago to check out a house that sounded great on paper. We were waiting to see what would be wrong with it, naturally, but we didn’t expect to get a full-on crack house. When we approached, I was sure there was going to be a dead body floating in the neighbor’s pool. Still, I tried to look on the bright side: perhaps we’d get a free 8-ball at closing?
We walked in and immediately the smell of stale cat piss hit me. This made the house a shoo-in for the Hell No category, but at this point, I just HAD to see the rest.
Besides having rooms that were smaller than the average casket, there were unidentifiable reddish stains on the floor (Kool-Aid? Blood? Your guess is as good as mine) and entire pieces of glass missing from the bathroom mirror. Brrr. I hate to think that maybe some of these things are connected in a sequence of events resembling a Stephen King bestseller.
Maybe we can get a Someone Was Brutally Murdered Here Discount? I think to myself. But then, would I really want to live here? HmmmmmmNO.
I stepped outside the Murder Room and discovered a sad little mousie who crawled out from the heat vent to find a suitable place inside this house to die. Too bad he didn’t – COULDN’T – succeed.
This home was listed for $260K.
Dixon and I are waiting until these kinds of people either admit to their own denial about their (crack)house’s worth or get foreclosed on, so we can actually afford something decent.
Sad, really. I mean, for them. Not me.
*pockets down payment money and walks away, debt-free and whistling*
So, I’m no big fan of Jennifer Love Hewitt, but after seeing her newly trim figure on Jezebel.com, I had to say something.
Yes, Jennifer, your new body makes your head look fat.
I love how she got one cover by being true to herself and loving her body the way it is, and another for doing exactly the opposite. Well played, Jennifer. Now let’s hope you can stave off those hunger pangs.
Right now, I’m totally rocking out to the Eagles. I know, I KNOW.
But it’s “Life in the Fast Lane,” which, come on. That’s me all over. Especially the part about staying home with the cat on Friday nights. What? Oh. Wrong song. I see.
