Fat

My boss, Rosie, took me out to dinner last night for Employee Appreciation. I am the only Employee she has. It was cute though.
Back to the story. So we have a Margarita-a-piece ( good, but nowhere near as amazing as the Margarita's at Adobo) and a bottle of white wine. When alcohol is involved, inhibitions go out the window. This is especially true with food inhibitions. Thing's I don't allow myself to eat normally are consumed in large portions, at rapid speed. Who wants to eat a salad ( dressing on the side, light on cheese) when they are inebriated? Not I.
I crave all things greasy and friend and yellow in color. Example. We shared a plate of waffle fries, drenched in cheddar cheese with a delicate sprinkling of caramelized onions, sour cream, scallions and pulled pork. Heavenly. The sweetness of the onions beautifully complimented the salty cheese and pork, all pulled together by the king of all delicious meals, fried potatoes.
So here I am today, feeling totally gluttonous. I am looking at the door frame and hoping that my immense hips and thighs can fit through it. Every time I inhale, I can feel the layers and mountains of fat ripple. I dare not wave to anyone for fear that my flapping arms will create a tornado-like breeze.
Ugh. I hate myself. I've also noted that in latest facebook pictures I appear very round. Round face, round body, round, round, round. Whereas I want to be more square and angular. It's gotten to the point when I look at paintings done my the Old Masters, I compare myself to the models. Example : "Do I weigh more than the Mona Lisa?" or I will envy the tiny, wasp waists of the women in Seurat's "Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte".
Ughhh. This is not good.

Ooo just saw Skyler ride by on his moped. Heeeeeeeeeyyyyyyy.

Love in tha club?

No.
Remind me not to let Janie out of the house. Even though she doesn't really leave it in the first place...but anyways. Janie borrowed Jen's fake ID Saturday night so we could partake in the festivities at Lava Lounge.
Bad idea.
She wore a dress (mine) that barely covered her groin. The entire night I had to remind her to keep her legs closed.
Also, she drank.
Bad idea.
So there we are in this dark cave of a club when Janie simply disappears. I'm in total big sister mode and immediately track her down.
I find her sitting down on a couch, flanked by Rastafarian's on each side. Their names are of metal ores ( i.e. platinum, silver, gold, copper). They are bewitched by some story she is spinning. Her groin is showing. Lisa becomes concerned that she has rubbed off on Janie, cuz we all know what Lisa is like when she drinks. Anyways.
After this incident, Lisa and I drag her back to the dance floor where she is (temporarily) safe from unplanned pregnancies.
So then Mic Terror arrives (YAY!).
I introduce him to Janie who totally wigs out. I mean lets face it, he is the biggest celebrity of all time.
Soon Janie's thirst for trouble beckons her. Once again, Janie is again missing in action.
I find her snuggled up to some random Murder Clubber ( they're trouble ladies, stay awayyyyyy). Sweet nothings are being whispered. No good can come of this. Mic Terror sees whats going down. He doesn't wholly disapprove however. A small wrinkle of a smile appears on his face.
"How old is yo sisturr?" he inquires.
"19" I respond ( she actually 20, but i forget these things easily).
"Oh well that's a good age for making babies" he states matter-of-factly ( he knows these things).
To make a long story short, Janie was totally OOC that night, and also a total babe magnet.

Now the question is, with Lollapalooza weekend approaching and our schedule jam packed with after parties, do I allow Janie to come? Will she channel Katy Perry and explore lesbianism (is that a word?)? Will she forgo underwear and pull a Lezlo? Will she find herself "with child"? All of these are interesting options, and for the sake of the entertainment level of this blog, lets hope.
My inspiration is running pretty thin.

Boiiz

Whats that old adage about how guys are like parking spaces? "All the good ones are taken?" Or is it "All the good ones are like...at parking meters and you have to pay to use them?" Whatever. It's so true though. Example: went to Moped store today. Hot guy helped me and Rosie out. Total dreamboat, catch of the century etc. So later on I manage to find him on Myspace ( it's not that creepy! I swear! He told me what Moped gang he rolls with so I simply located the gang on myspace, and voila! there he is). Click on his profile. "In a relationship". Gross. Moving on. Met a guy at the clerb a while ago. Super successful, fashion designer, creative director, jetsetter, hobknobs with Kanye ( Not Gay!! SWEAR!). Lurk him today on Facebook. Engaged! Grossssssssss. There was this semi attractive Guido who used to visit the store every other day just to say hi ( he lives next door). He has stopped coming by. I'm wondering if I scared him off?
The only guy I can count on is the dreadlocked postman whom I see everyday. Is this because he is (federally) obligated to deliver the mail or does he love me? Heres hoping.

Life without cable...

So the roomies and I (Lisa and Janie) have made it over 1.5 months with no cable. This is not as impressive as it sounds however due to the easy access of most shows via tha internetz. Anyways...to pass the time we have spent many an hour staring out of our living room windows onto Division. We are at a crucial corner on Division where the Humboldt park hipsters must pass through when accessing the city. This includes members of our favorite moped gang, murder club. We spot at least one murder clubber each day, all made (in)famous by the club banger "Throw A Kit" courtesy of Hollywood Holt.
Our new game is called "Moped vs Hooptie". We have to determine, without looking, if the dull, mechanical buzz we hear from a block away is coming from a Moped or a really shitty car. Thus far the game has provided endless minutes of entertainment.

Confessions of a shopgurrrl

As someone who toils in a boutique as a living ( I mean, if you could call this living...waaahh) I have observed bizarre behavioral patterns of the average customer.

There is the beastly shopper, the woman who tears through the store with hunger, not examining any garment for more than 4 seconds before making her way to the next rack. Another telltale sign of this type of customer is the sound of hangers screeching as they are dragged from one side of the rack to the other. Basically she is a fucking bitch with no regard to the fact that I just spent 15 minutes spacing each hanger 2 inches apart.

There is the idiot-who- likes- to- waste- time shopper, who tries on everything in the entire store and then after 3 hours of me assuring her that she looks "amazing" and "gorgeous" decides that she doesn't want to buy anything. Really?

Name Dropper shoppers like to brag about purchases from other stores that are waaaay more fabulous than anything in my store. Ex: "Well I would get this but I just bought a shirt from Gucci yesterday that is too similar...".
My response: "Wonderful".

Miserable-anti life shoppers are always a treat. These are the people who consider shopping to be as fun as a jaunt through Auschwitz. Like, why are they even shopping? Just go home and do something that you would consider more enjoyable ( pulling out your own teeth is just one suggestion). These are also closely related to the afformentioned beastly shopper.

Ok, one more thing I have observed. Whenever a customer comes in with a beverage and asks if they can leave the drink on the cashwrap while they look around, they NEVER buy anything. What is up? Anyone have any clue? It must be some deep, psychological insecurity they have. Like, maybe they know they have no intention of buying anything and to absolve themselves of guilt they are extra cautious and respectful to the boutique by not giving themselves the chance to spill...

Love

Wanted: Roomate

So the search is on for the third roommate (needed by Mid August/Sept 1., spread the word). So Lisa and I took a risk and put out an ad on craigslist. I think we secretly did it so that we could get responses and feel popular receiving tons and tons of emails.
So the responses have been overwhelming. They range from scam artists to people who write in Japanese symbols to burly chicks who ride motorcycles to Ricky Martin knockoffs (even though we specified we were looking for female roommates). One girl wrote a response and used it as a therapy session and told me about how her father and brother died in a car accident and how her faith in Catholicism saved her from a life of despair, blah,blah,blah, i deleted it.
Here is what we are looking for in a roommate (no sugar coating):
-Cleanliness (see post below)
-Non Craziness
-Lisa has requested that all potential roommates speak English, for she is hard of hearing and cant decipher words when they are said in an accent
-Not a hoe (more than Lisa or I are...anyways...)
-Not an axe murderer/child molester
-has a car that they want to give us
-has lots of money that they also want to give us
-possibly a celebrity (Olsen twins, wuddup!?)
-not cooler than us. i mean, then again, who is....
-good taste in music. I refuse to hear any nickleback, creed, or matchbox 20 within the walls of my home

Travellin'

Im venturing home for the 4th of July. Traveling for me is a brutal and rigorous process, mainly because of my self imposed OCD and germapohobia.
Phase 1: The trip from my apartment to the airport via the el.
I do not sit on the train or the bus. I refuse. Who KNOWS what creatures have sat in the seats prior to me and what bodily fluids have leaked out of their body. In addition to this, the edges of the seats are lined in crust and bacterium. SO theres the whole procedure of leaning upon the side of the train and preventing any part of said train from touching my body. The CTA is gross, I could go on and on ( people dying, pooping, peeing, eating chicken wings, spitting, vomiting aboard trains and busses) but I choose not to because I might vom thinking about it.
Phase 2: The airport/security process
So theres this whole business with removing ones shoes and stepping on the germ infested ground barefoot. E to the WWW. EWW. Gross. Who KNOWS what fungus and mildew is crumbling from peoples feet. Also, the filthy, horrid plastic trays that one is forced to put their belongings in. I refuse. I was going through security, content with allowing my laptop to pass through the x-rays on the belt with no tray. The security guy forced me to put it in a tray. I reluctantly pick up the tray. A big black hair has made its home in the tray. My computer refuses to bunk with this disgusting strand of hair. I have to search through the trays until I can find a somewhat presentable specimen.
Phase 3: The whole communal thing
The very fact that thousands of people stream through the airport daily and we are all forced to share tables, chairs, toilets, etc is so so nasty. Ewww. I refuse to sit in the chairs that are provided for your wait in the terminal. Have you ever looked at them? So filthy. Crust galore. Also, there is always a stinky, crying baby. Babies are fine (sometimes) but when they cry and carry on in public they deserve to be shaken profusely. Also, do not get me started on the bathrooms.
Phase 4: The actual air travel
People are gross. End of story.