Chicken Little

There’s a big room and a little room. I want the big room. I always want the big room. This morning was time to decide who gets the big room and who gets the little room. Sometimes, it doesn’t really matter because the big room is like a half a foot bigger than the little room and so it’s basically the same. Not the case here. Big room is quite a bit bigger than little room. Little room is also painted this pukey seafoam green color. I want the big room.

So we decide we are going to have the boss draw to decide who gets which room. On one slip of paper we write big, and on the other, small. We try to decide who the boss is drawing for first when roommate says, wait, how about if she draws big you get the big room because you like Big, from SATC. And if she draws small, I get the big room, well, because you’re already big. Okay fine. Whatever, roommate.

Boss draws small.

So small gets the big room.

Big gets the small room. Are you confused yet?

Me too.

I would like to send a shoutout here to boss for ruining the next year of my life. It's really been a freakin' treat working for you.

The point is, I get the pukey seafoam green small closet of a room that will barely fit my bed and maybe my shoes. I will have to jump from my door to my bed because there will be no room to walk around anything to get anywhere. I’ll have to put my dresser on the side of the bed I don’t sleep on since there will be no floor room, which also means no one will be sharing my bed. I have no idea where the rest of my clothes and books and everything else a girl needs on a daily basis—NOPE, I have no idea where any of that will go.

Wish me luck. Family + Moving + Cleaning + Baby + Packing + Going down 4 flights of stairs = recipe for familial disaster. Oy ve.

Temper Tantrum

I was with my niece this weekend, and I learned two things: dirty diapers are seriously disgusting, and sometimes I just want to throw a good old fashioned temper tantrum.

Seriously. Some days, I want to throw myself on the sidewalk, kicking and screaming so I don’t have to go into the office. If I didn’t feel like going there one day, would it work if I just wigged out on the concrete? Would someone come running and coddle me while I held my breath and turned red face in refusal of my daily routine? Then they would direct me towards a new activity that didn’t involve the one I reacted so violently to.

Or what if I went to someone’s house for dinner and decided that I didn’t like what they were serving? What if they busted out the mousaka and blue cheese crumbles? Could I just take my hand and whip the food all over the dining room because I didn’t want it? That would be sweet. I never would have had to train my gag reflex to go into sleep mode whilst I choked down food and held my breath.

It would be sweet. And no one would really yell, because you don’t yell at screaming, crying babies, right? And people just expect them to wig out at times—when did we lose that privilege? And why, as adults, are we denied the ability to express our emotions in the purest form? If we were sobbing hysterically because we didn’t want to sit in our chair, why doesn’t anyone pick you up, carry you bouncing around and rub your back until you stop crying?

Some days, I seriously just want to stomp around, kicking and screaming to make sure that someone realizes I am NOT pleased. Oh well. I suppose that’s why they invented alcohol.

If I didn't do this...

So today I was thinking—what would I do if I didn’t do what I do? If there were no limits, money was not a concern nor a consideration, and I could follow the actual path that my heart and my head compromisingly agreed upon—rather than the one I have convinced them both to go along with…

What would I do?

I would write and I would travel. I would stock up on notebooks, and I would fly all over with nothing but a backpack. I would spend my down time in airports or train stations waiting for my next opportunity to walk down the jetway and board the way to my next destination. I would probably go to Africa and spend several weeks there, and then maybe I would head to India, and back to Italy, followed by a trip to Australia after which I would go back and spend more time in Thailand, followed with more time in Greece. I would write a book, and I would eat my way through each and every one of these countries. I would meet the locals, I would dance in the streets, and I would spend my time in big sunglasses while drinking coffee from little cafes. I would have no cell phone and I would check my email only a couple times a week—just to let people know I was alive!

I would open a winery in California.

I would go back to Thailand and spend a year working in the AIDS orphanage I visited for only a few hours. I would see if the baby I met three years ago had made it through, or if she, too, was taken.

I would let myself fall in love. (Preferably with a Scottish man with a fantastic accent--I'm willing to relocate.)

I would go to graduate school. If I was doing what I wanted to do I wouldn’t have to pick a focus which would make it that much easier to get there. I would probably combine a degree in Women’s Studies, Literature, International Relations and History. And in my ideal world, it would work. I wouldn’t have to choose. And I wouldn’t have to take the GRE to get accepted, either! J

I would adopt a baby. (Maybe, first, I would start with a dog.)

I would train to run a marathon. I would make that my full time job. And someone else would cook for me, and all the crap food I would have to eat to stay healthy and in shape would taste amazing. And beer would also be on the nutrition plan.

If I didn't do this, I would do a lot of things...

Your Mom

I've been absent for a couple of days, but never fear, I am back! I've been off at a conference for work in Madison, Wisconsin. Six of us from the office went, and let me tell you, it was interesting.

First of all, there were four women and two men. You can imagine they were a little out numbered as far as conversation went in the vehicle. We voted them to drive, so they took the front seats, and let us chat in the back. We were supposed to have a minivan, but they were out, so we were stuck in a Yukon with A. squished in the very back surrounded by all our luggage. Anyway, at one point, that Miley song came on--I've got my sight set on you...you know the one. So, S says, turn it up! And they do, but we realize that the speakers aren't on in the back. S asks if they'll turn them on in the back and why they weren't on in the first place. One of the boys says, "if we turned them on back there, you'd just TALK LOUDER."

The easiest way to irritate the hell out of a man, I've decided, is to stick him in a car full of women, friends at that, for six hours. They'll be ready to eat their own ears so they don't have to listen any longer.

Boys also talk with their eyes just as much if not more often than gals do. Every time we chicas would start a hysterically stupid conversation and the giggles would take off, the boys would give each other this look. The look that says, "OMG I am going to die if someone doesn't shut these women up, aren't they tired of talking to each other yet, and how can we drug them to get them to go to sleep?"

There were many good conversations that took place over the last several days, but my favorites would probably be the ones that don't even make sense but you can't stop laughing over. For instance, this week, the comeback of choice was "Your Mom." (If you don't know it, I'm sorry but I don't think I can really explain it over this blog. I mean, Your Mom covers everything-- Q:"where'd you get that t-shirt?" A:"Your Mom." Q:"What time is it?" A:"Your Mom." Q:"Who are you talking to?" A:"Your Mom." Q:"What was that song called?" A:"Your Mom." You get the picture.) Anyway, back to the conversation. So, we are in the car on the way home today, and S decides to drop the Tu Mama, rather than Your Mom. Yes. At the time, it was hysterical. You musta had to be there.

Anyway, I don't think the boys were sad to see us go. In fact, I'd be willing to bet they both decide to take the day off tomorrow in an attempt to regain their sanity!

I just think girls have more fun.

This s*^# is bananas

If any of you have an extra couple hundred dollars to spend, I've got just the thing for you to do with it. Go hang out with my sister.

I took Friday off and spent a couple of days over at her house babysitting my sweet little niece, Emerson. She's 13 months old. Her mom and dad were at a track meet out of town, so my little Bug and I hung out and spent some good old quality time together. We went shopping, and out to lunch; we visited the park and shared a swing. We watched a couple movies she had been wanting to see, and we took a nice long nap. She's a cool little kid, and try as I might, the word Jamie was not going to escape her lips. She's more focused on things like puppy, mommy, daddy, uppy, no, cheese, what's that-- you know, the fundamental words of a toddler.

Anyway, my sister came back after the track meet. She came back and I was telling her about how when Emerson and I went shopping, the last store we went to was really the ONLY one I LOVE to shop in (Banana Republic). Emerson got pissed and threw a huge fit. So I missed my store. My sister was certain that we would find time to go back. And we did.

We always do.

And I always spend way too much money.

And I make irrational purchases.

And she talks me in to shoes I don't need.

And shirts I could live without.

And sandals like the ones she let me borrow.

No, dear sister, I am not blaming you for my uncontrollable monetary spending when you are around. I'm not. Seriously. I'm just offering up your services to the blogosphere--to those women who have the extra cash burning a hole in their pockets. You could be a great help to them!

Let me know if you'd like to benefit from her services. I'll put you in touch.

In a year.

It's been a year. One year since I hauled all of my stuff up three flights of stairs into this apartment only to take it up one more flight of windy spiral steps. One year, and I am preparing to do it all over, only in reverse order.

In one year I have accumulated a ton of crap. I have a stack of bills that needs shredding, and far more clothes than I moved in with. And, you can bet I have more shoes! I have stacks and stacks of books, and artwork that is new to me. I have two new scars, and lots of hand-me-down KitchenAid. I got contacts. I've gained a little weight and lost a little innocence. I've updated music, and upgraded computers. I've watched my bank account deflate monthly as I watch the student loans being taken out--but I would never have spent my college years differently. I've accumulated more life, and with that, more wisdom.

In one year I have not learned the names of my neighbors. In fact, I only know what one person living on this floor actually looks like (aside from my roommates, of course). I do not know which apartment the old lady I met during the fire lives in, although I do know where the single mom who drives the light blue Crown Victoria and has a young son who skateboards, I know where they live...or where they used to live, at least. They moved out last weekend. Someone new was taking their place today. I know there are teenagers here. Just yesterday, one was sitting on the curb by the door eating a bowl of AppleJacks with her friend--neither looked up to say hello. There's also a young boy who plays soccer at his high school--he rides the bus, I watched him walk to the road the other day. There are two middle-aged single women who live on the first floor--they both like to drink in the middle of the afternoon on their patios. Last summer, after a huge storm, they invited me down for a beer. I didn't go. I should have.

In a year, I have spent many a late night laughing with friends. I have graduated from college and had two jobs. I have met so many great friends--the best of friends, and I became a God Mother. I went to the concert of one of my favorite artists. I have been to five states, and I have dated four men. I haven't fallen in love, but I haven't fallen in hate, either. I've gotten drunk, and been hungover--but those get togethers were priceless! I have driven thousands of miles, and run many less. I've watched my niece go from a helpless little seven pound baby, to a toddler who clearly says words like Mommy and Puppy. I've celebrated a birthday, and been to a funeral. I watched a good friend get married, and I watched my grandparents celebrate their millionth anniversary. And it's gone extremely fast.

It's interesting, to me. To think about the people I have passed over the past year--the opportunities for friendship and conversation that I didn't take, and the things I could have learned. Would my life be different, would I be on a different path, and would these people have had any affect on the person I am now if I had taken the chance to get to know them--or them, me?

What will the next year bring? Time goes far too quickly.

No Deal!

Compromise? What kind of a compromise was that!?! All I got out of the deal was some dirty nachos from a non-Mexican restaurant and a guilt trip about making you endanger your child by settling the little Bean down in a radio flyer behind a moped—a radio flyer you know you have no chance of getting her to stay in without a five-point harness.

And, I do feel bad. I mean, I should have known when I knocked on your office door this morning and you didn’t answer that I shouldn’t have opened the door. I did though, and when I saw what a sad sight you were sitting in your chair hurling your intestines into your trash can, I really did feel a little guilty that I’ve been razzing you so much.

But, friend, if we’re going to compromise, we’re going to compromise. I can’t let you ruin my entire life for 9 straight months. And in that, I will be taking up on the one reasonable compromise you came up with--Coyote Ugly-ing this evening. As you know, it’s a work night out, and you, sillily agreed to attend days ago. An invitation you know I will not, under any circumstances, allow your pregnant arse to rescind. And, with the blogosphere as my witness, you offered to dance on a bar—a feat you will succeed in this very evening. Bwahahahahahaha! I get to pick the exact time—and you best know I will wait until the boss arrives! Hehe!

It’s not my fault you spent your disposable income on your child, of all things! Psh. A turtle sandbox? Please, just put her in that box your furnace came in and dump a bag of sand in. It will work just the same and momma will save that money and use it to NOT go binge drinking with Auntie Jamie. Save up, momma, cus you got a hell of a lot of catching up to do!

Also, E is correct—nails and massages are a must. Your treat? Great! Thanks!

Dear friend, you're ruining my life.

Good news: I'm not pregnant. Bad news: she is.

My very good friend got pregnant, and it's ruining my life. No longer can I count on her to be in to go out for drinks after a long, stressful day at the office. It's turned from, "Yeah, that sounds good, sweet dude, let's go get beers" to "Oh, I would, but I can't drink and it's smoky and I'll just be a downer." Awesome.

Then there's the whole puking thing. The other day, said friend came into my office to chat, and in the middle of conversation, she walks over, grabs my garbage can, and sits back down with the trash bin between her knees. Now, I don't know about you, but that makes it a little hard to carry on a conversation. I'm interested in talking about hotties and the latest drama on our favorite tv shows, but that's extremely hard when I am constantly concerned about the fact that she is going to barf in my garbage can, subsequently, I'll do the same thing as my gag reflex is the weakest imaginable at which point I don't know what I will do as the trash can is no longer within my reach since she's taken it across the room. Sheesh.

On top of that, she has decided that she loathes our favorite Mexican restaurant. This restaurant is our caloric touchstone--the place that we sometimes at 3 times a week; the place with the best salsa, and warm chips; the place where the waiters knew us and what kinds of special needs we required. Yep. She decided to puke it out her nose and then, poof, Amazing Mexican Restaurant ran far far away from our list of lunching options. Since then, she's decided that she dislikes my 2nd food weakness--Chinese. At the mention of Chinese today, she said, "you have to stop saying that word," in a voice that made it obvious she was fighting off the urge to hurl the grapes she'd just eaten.

On top of all of these pregnancy symptoms, she's decided to tighten her budget. Essentially, this means that anything we used to be able to do for fun during this pregnancy which didn't involve booze, Mexican or Chinese food is now stricken from the list. Yep, all the fun stuff, gone. Movies, popcorn, binge eating, mid-day trips for ice cream...gone. Budget smudget.

Dear friend, you're ruining my life.

I only kid, dear friend. You know that I cannot wait for this little baby to enter the world and be my new friend, and I really actually do like to talk about baby names and trying to convince you to buy this baby new bedding, and I do feel bad that you're sick all the time and want to harf your guts out on a daily basis. I do. So, I hope that this blog doesn't affect the relationship we have during your pregnancy--it was intended for entertainment purposes only! I swear. Love you friend.

And dear baby, hurry up and get here so me and momma can go get shit-faced!

Oh, and get this dear reader. She has NOW DECIDED THAT SHE CAN'T EVEN TALK SHIT ABOUT LIFE WITH ME. She's on this whole, "I'm going to be positive and not have a black heart and be nicer to people and now everything we used to do is shot and now everything we used to spend money on is shot and now everything we used to bitch about is also shot because I am focusing my energy on finding my center and being a more positve person" kick.

Wow. My life is ruined. Have you ever tried to talk shit about life when no one talks back? Not nearly as gratifying.

Friend, call me in November.

Half Baked

I know. I know I have been bitching and moaning for the last 6 months about the cold ass, bitter, nasty, wet, dirty, icy, cold, windy, frigid weather. Guilty as charged. I get it. And I'm always begging dear mother nature to lighten up and give us some sun and warmth. Again, I realize this. So, dear reader, please do not roll your eyes in ridiculous irritation as I say the following:

I'M HOT!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm not kidding. I'm dying right now. It was like 79 degrees today and humid as all get out. That's the thing about Iowa--the hot isn't only hot...it's wet. It's so stinkin' humid here that your skin always feels gross, and you never really stop sweating.

I was in getting a haircut today, and they hadn't turned the air on in the salon. I was in my work clothes and was covered in that lovely little cape. After she washed my hair with hot water and sat me back in the chair, I realized I was warm. Snip snip snip, and a blow dryer later, I was certain I was going to die. She must have seen the exasperation on my face, and she went and opened the door in an attempt to circulate some air. Anyway, the point of the story is that it didn't work. I had boob sweat, and a little river of salty body water working it's way down my butt-crack. I know. I'm cute.

Now, I sit in my apartment praying for this thunderstorm to actually happen. I hope it will wash some of the heat and humidity out of the air. We have a rule in the apartment--no AC until it's 78 degrees in here. It's only 76. I'm suffering. We're cheap. Just out of college gals. We don't have the extra money to be blowing on creature comforts like AIR CONDITIONING--that money is better spent on things like clothes and booze. At least we have our priorities in line.

If you don't hear from me sometime soon, please alert the authorities and send them to my apartment--odds are I baked to death.