Saturday, October 18, 2003


I just cleaned the entire Blonde Bachelorette Pad. Toilet. Kitchen. Mirrors. Shelves. Even the inside of the microwave (O you insidious, leaky Blast 'O Butter popcorn!) Took two hours. Completely sucked. I fail to understand how one person who spends the bulk of her time here sacked out can generate so much flung toothpaste.

The remainder of my Saturday will be engaged in running errands-- bank, grocery, strip club. I wish I had someone to help me with this crap. Then again... if I were married, I'd be doing exactly the same thing, only cleaning up for two. Never mind.

Friday, October 17, 2003

I'm A Girl

I'm a BLONDE GIRL, and even I know that you don't leave your starting pitcher in through the 8th inning in GAME SEVEN for the CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WHOLE ENTIRE AMERICAN LEAGUE. Honey, when an English major who thinks that North is always the direction she is currently facing can out-manage you, it's time to consider another profession. You dumbass. Enjoy the Most Who-Cares World Series In the History of Ever, America.

Thursday, October 16, 2003

The Deuce

Time for a shout-out to Pope John Paul II, or as I affectionately refer to His Holiness, The Deuce. He is the Pope of these young years of mine, true child of my homegirl, the Blessed Virgin, and occasionally wrong about certain Iraqi wars, but he is my Deuce nontheless. Special props go out to his recent smack-down on liturgical dancing in the Mass. Yaaaaaaaaaay, Deuce!

Wednesday, October 15, 2003

Oh.... did you want to catch this?

Are stadium ushers going to have to interview fans now before seating them along the foul lines? Is it going to have to be like an airline exit row? "If you are unwilling or unable to not catch the damn ball when a member of your own team is attempting to make an out in post-season play, please alert the management and we will reseat you to the 7,259th row."

You can't blame the Cubs' horrific collapse all on The Guy Who Caught The Foul Ball, though. They did some fine self-immolation of their own, and frankly I'm not all that sure they deserve to be in the Series after what I saw last night. I don't know if I want the Cubs representing the best of America's Pastime if they're going to fold up, shrieking, every time a foul ball doesn't go their way.

My mother had a Psychic Moment last night about the game. We talked on the phone in the 8th, and she said, "I think I'll turn it off. They're making me nervous because they can still blow it." This is her strategy in dealing with any sporting event that becomes the least bit in question for the favored team: Flee. (She saw exactly four seconds of Super Bowl XXIII, then went into the living room and watched State Fair for the rest of the night.)

It's an inherited trait. I will never forget visiting my grandparents' house on the night the Reds swept the World Series in 1990. At the beginning of the game, some guy on the A's got a hit, and as he watched the ball bounce between two Reds my grandfather shook his head and reached for the remote, saying, "They're going to lose it, the A's will win four in a row, and that's gonna be it." Oh, it's nothing but fun, when you grow up in a German family.
I told my mother there was no need for this kind of behavior, and right that second The Guy Who Caught the Foul Ball caught the foul ball. All the commotion rattled the pitcher and there was a passed ball. She said, "I'm turning it off." I said, "Okay, Clete," (that was my grandfather's name) because the score was still 3-0.

And then we hung up and then I blinked and then it was 7-3. I grew up in Cincinnati, and brother, I have never seen a team self destruct so firmly so fast. (Glenn Beck polled his listeners today to see if the Cubs are cursed or if they just simply suck. One guy said, "They suck so much that God cursed them.")

This all leads back, obviously, to Gary Stevens. Gary recently said that he thinks that what caused Storming Home to shy and dump him in the Arlington Million was the distraction of a photographer alongside the course. "If his location can be found," Gary said, "well, let's just say there's a bounty on his head." See, it's all coming together now. Where did the Million take place? CHICAGO. Where did The Guy Who Caught the Foul Ball catch the foul ball? CHICAGO. Clearly it's the SAME GUY.

Get him, Gary.

Tuesday, October 14, 2003

Shake Senora

The dress code of my office is this highly amorphous manifestation of "office casual," which I choose to define as "restricting undergarments as much as humanly possible." Which means, when I can get away with it, I will appear in my office bra-less.

Not in the sense of WHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOO IT'S JUGGY TIME or IAmWomanSeeMyNipples, but in the sense of: I'm wearing a camisole with a built-in shelf bra which is basically the same as a strapless bra which is highly, highly uncomfortable for me and bulky-looking for you, so this whole camisole thing is a win-win situation, am I right?


Today I was running late due to unforseen circumstances (read: Tink arises at 5AM. Tink stands in the bathroom wondering why she has arisen at 5AM. Tink returns to bed until precisely one hour before she is expected to report, bra'ed or not, to the Graph Paper Paradise.) I had to pull together an outfit in like four seconds, which I hate doing; outfit-pulling-together is a highly stressful task for a person who spent twelve years in Catholic school uniforms and the four after that almost exclusively in a "Ballroom Dance Like a Champion Today" tshirt and Umbros. It's been unseasonably and of course disgustingly humid the past couple of days, so I pulled on a black tank top with the shelf-bra and a gauzy college skirt that is absolutely one of my favorites, largely because it still fits. I paused for just a second over the tank top, debated wearing a little sweater over it for .0000001 miliseconds, then decided not to because 1) I hate little sweaters 2) I hate any sweaters 3) It's Florida. Also many of the women in this office fling cleavage around like nobody's business, so I'm figuring that a whole bunch of bare shoulder isn't going to be an issue.


I saw my supervisor very briefly this morning as she whirled through my office, and then later on in the day I passed her in the break room as I claimed my 57,824th water refill of the morning. She looked up at me, her eyes went huge, and she went "WOAH!" and I froze, like, did I leave the house with a rabid wombat in my hair and nobody thought to drop me a memo about it? And she said, "You have NO clothes on today, woman!"

"I don't?" I said.

“I bet you’re hearing that from everyone today,” she said.


“Not… really,” I said, because not... really.

But still.

I took my water on a field trip to the bathroom and as I washed my hands I happened to look up into the mirror and HOLY CRAP YOU CAN SO TOTALLY SEE EVERYTHING. Hooray for flourescent lighting!!!! Hooray for Everything!!!!! Hooray!

So I took lunch in my office and am navigating through the day by fleeing through the corridors with a strategicially placed file folder. It's like that whole I-showed-up-at-work-naked-nightmare, only I really did show up at work naked and the alarm clock ain't ringin'.

(I just had a brief meeting with my superviser, and totally did the whole holding-my-arms-up-over-my-boobs thing with my hands clasped up by my chin as if I am really a very very holy altar girl instead of this, like, braless, gauzy skirt-wearing floozy.)

I hate working in an office.

I felt much better

about living in Florida after I saw the following actual sign on a very major highway:


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