B.I.G. overdrive

Christ. It's 2:15 on Sunday and my weekend has been a complete waste. My house still looks like a furry mammal exploded in it, I have no clean clothes, no food in the house, and I just remembered I volunteered to draft a letter of support for a worthy neighborhood organization over the weekend. That's in addition to the work for the jackass self-absorbed lawyer who wants to pay me to write an article about him that will only be published on his website, and the freaking hell-project that I need to print and organize at work because it turns out the freaking governor's actually reading it and so the president of the company has decided maybe he should see what it says. And, oh yeah, parts of it may not actually be finished, because frankly I figured it was going to gather dust on a shelf at the Statehouse and no one would really notice if tiny little soul-sucking chunks of it are missing. I figured wrong, apparently.

Fuck.

However, the part of me that would ordinarily be doing all of those things has been engaged all weekend in a Sisyphean struggle with Bad Influence Girl, meaning that what I've actually been doing is listening to a lot of CDs and wishing I were somewhere else. Because there are far, far better places to be.

Right now, in fact, I'm having beer for lunch, because really, why the fuck not? (and yes, while I have no food in the house, the beer fridge is well-stocked. Christ again.) In a couple of minutes, I'm going to go to the gas station on the corner and get a pack of cigarettes, because I've smoked all I have and it's a nice day to sit on the porch and have a beer and a smoke, and if I have a couple more beers I'll be buzzed enough that it'll be out of the question for me to get in the Jeep and drive somewhere like, hell, I dunno, Boston or New York, maybe. And maybe I'll actually be productive and make my 8 a.m. appointment tomorrow and get everything done I need to do today.

And maybe monkeys will fly out of my ass.

overheard

I ended up in Broad Ripple tonight. I was sitting on my sofa, in my jammies, dicking around with my guitar and petting my dogs, when CK called and summoned me.

You know, when you're relatively sober in Broad Ripple at 2 a.m., you hear (and more important, can remember) some good stuff. To wit, the following conversation, as heard by me in the bathroom stall. And I am not making this up.

Girl #1: What was up with Lindsay, buying everybody all those drinks?

Girl #2: Oh, Lindsay... when we were in college her stepdad...

Girl #1: I'm 2 months pregnant.

Girl #2: You are not.

Girl #1: No, really, I am. I'm 2 months pregnant.

Girl #2: No you're not. If you were you wouldn't be drinking.

Girl #1: I'm drinking myself into oblivion.

Girl #2: When Lindsay and I were in college, her stepdad died...

Girl #1: Oh no!

And then I stopped paying attention, because really, who gives a shit about Lindsay and her stepdad after hearing that?

You know I stuck around to get a look at drunk pregnant girl. She stood next to me at the mirror and told me how she hated the highlights in her hair. I took out my lip gloss and put it on.

"Oh, that's my favorite lip gloss! I love that stuff! You know, if you put like 2 drops of clear nail polish in it, it like lasts a really long time!"

I'll bet it does.

I had to post this so that the next time I start thinking my life is kinda fucked up, I'll have some perspective.

Wait....does this make us groupies?

Allow me to apologize in advance for any semi-congealed thoughts or incoherent babblings. I don't know who the hell I think I am, but if I don't get some sleep and quick, I may have to be hospitalized for rock-star-like "exhaustion," which, if you have neither the fame, fortune, talent nor notoriety of a rock star, is pretty much just sad and pathetic. Come to think of it, it's sad and pathetic even if you do have those things.

To the recap. Monday: As I said earlier, I went to a show--Steve Poltz, with the Truckee Brothers opening. Seriously, it was more fun than should be legal. So much great music, so much energy, such cool-ass guys who were pretty convincing that they were having a good time talking to everybody. Peat bought C's Assbag painting, which is a great story--but her's, not mine, so she'll have to tell that one. All of us--Nora, C and I--were in such a great mood we couldn't go to sleep till the wee hours.

Tuesday: Tired. But happy. At least 2 coworkers thought I must have gotten me some based on the goofy grin plastered on my face. Nope. Just still buzzing from how much fun I had Monday.

A guy who joined the company not long ago and who mostly works out of his home e-mailed to ask if I wanted an after-work beverage. I said sure, because in this company, it's damn near grounds for getting fired to not drink with the new guy. I walked into the restaurant's bar--nice place, not too swanky, not too beer-covered--and immediately got a bad vibe. It could not have been more obvious unless there had been candlelight and a string quartet that I had just walked into a date ambush. Fuck.

Gotta give the guy props for guessing that if he just kept ordering booze without asking me if I wanted another drink, that he might get somewhere. And he might have, had he not, oh, relayed tales of his experience with federal law enforcement authorities, or, maybe, not broken down into tears at one point. Suddenly, it was 1 a.m. and I was trashed and telling him "No" in about 50 different ways and at least 3 languages.

Side note: Lizzie, what is it you said once about my love life being feast or famine, saltines or Ritz crackers, top shelf vodka or Natural Light? Yeah. It's baffling. Must be the sap rising in the trees.

Wednesday: Still tired, and now hungover to boot. C and I had been mulling going to Dayton to see Poltz and the Truckees again, just because it was so much fucking fun seeing them Monday. (Not sure if I mentioned how much fun it was.)

But that would be crazy, right? Nobody in their sane, rational mind would drive 2 hours to see a show they just saw on Monday, right? On a weekday? C and I weren't sure what qualifies as groupie behavior. She said if we'd maybe been Ratt groupies in high school, we'd know. I pointed out my high school wardrobe of flannel shirts and yellow Chuck Taylors probably wouldn't have gotten me backstage.

So yeah, long story short, I said, "Fuck it, I can sleep when I'm dead," and we got home from Dayton at 4:30 this morning. All day various parts of my body have been wigging out/shutting down from lack of sleep and solid food. Was the show good? You know it. Did I get what compelled me go to Dayton out of my system? Not even close.

Oh, and the CFO called me into his office today to "start a dialogue" about what I'd be doing at the company now that this soul-sucking, creativity-sapping, alcohol abuse-fostering project I've been working on is wrapping up. I was too tired to even try to spin it. I told him I was already looking for something else, because in another couple weeks I'd pretty much just be taking up space. The good news is that they don't have a date for kicking me out. So, anybody know who's hiring? Flexible morning arrival time preferred.

Smelling "rain fresh"

Today I pulled up to a neighborhood association planning meeting on my lunch hour and thought, “Shit. I still reek of smoke and bar from last night.”

I’m way past the point of caring about that where I work, but these people are my neighbors, for god’s sake. My part of the ‘hood needs way too much help for them to be thinking I’m a drunken sot who hangs out in bars all night. That’s only partially true, anyway. Last night, for instance, I only had 3 beers and was home by 1:30. I just had such a freaking great time at this show and was so keyed up that I couldn't fall asleep till 4 a.m. Thus, no shower this morning.

So, I rooted around in the Jeep floorboards and pulled out a can of Febreeze air freshener. Without giving it a second thought, I sprayed it on me like it was Aqua-Net and I was a beehive hairdo.

And then I went inside and started talking about crime and code enforcement and shit.

The fact that I even carry around a can of air freshener, much less that I’m willing to spray myself with it, may quite possibly be some kind of sign. I'll put that on my list of things to think about.

The best laid plans to get laid

The NFL Combine was in town this weekend.

For die-hard football fans, the Combine is a chance to get the scoop on new talent, see which teams are looking for what, and probably a bunch of other shit I don't really care about.

For myself and hundreds, nay, thousands of thirsty women, it means the streets of downtown are crawling with men with big fat expense accounts.

Frankly, I consider it nothing more than Hoosier Hospitality to extend a warm welcome to visitors to our city. Especially tall, athletic male visitors who may or may not have access to Colts tickets when their team plays here.

Thursday night, it was a guy from Minneapolis who got my number and said he'd call Friday. He didn't. No matter. Friday night the bars downtown were absolutely packed with eye candy the likes of which I've never seen.

CK and I hit a trendy nightspot, the kind I generally avoid because I end up drinking vodka, which is not my friend. The last time I went to this place I woke up the next morning naked on the floor of the Westin. I took the Walk of Shame through downtown, which was packed with clean-scrubbed families in town for the state high school basketball championships, all looking at me like I was a living, breathing cautionary tale for their youngsters.

But I digress. Not long after the Nike guy brought a bottle of Grey Goose to the table, I went looking for Gunther, a hulking linebacker of a guy who works for some sports-related company in Chicago. Things were going well for a while, and then not long before closing time, the conversation deteriorated. And I realized, "Wait a minute. These guys, expense accounts or not, are still dumb jocks. So much so, that I can't even make it to the next morning without realizing what idiots they are, even after 6 vodka tonics."

To hell with the Combine, anyway. That's just tragic.

The best laid plans to NOT get laid

So, I had a date with the Chocolate Polisher last night.

I'd been dreading it for days. It was time to let him know in no uncertain terms that his chances of ever polishing my chocolate, so to speak, were slim and getting slimmer.

He's a really nice guy, so I didn't want to be brutal. I'd discussed strategies with C. She suggested I tell him he reminds me too much of my brother and therefore, I could never do him. I filed that away as Plan C.

Maybe, I said, I'd try to scare him away. I've done that plenty of times unintentionally, it should be easy enough to do it on purpose. I could bring up my views on marriage as an outdated patriarchal institution that everyone should nonetheless try once. I mean, that didn't work on Bob Sanders, but he's a freak. It should work on a normal man.

C mentioned the Chocolate Polisher gets really riled up about politics. Ding ding ding! If there's any subject about which I have more opinions, I don't know what it would be, except maybe how other people should live their lives. My hope brightened.

At 7 p.m. sharp, the fucker showed up at my door with flowers and a bag of goodies. Not goodies from the chocolate polishing factory, goodies. Maps, for god's sake. If there's one thing I like as much as flowers, it's maps. Eventually I hope to know how to get anywhere from everywhere, sort of like a human GPS system.

He'd picked up a bunch of shit about Alabama--maps, travel guides, etc.--from the Boat, Sport & Travel show last week, because I'd told him that I'm driving to Alabama for a wedding in May. He also brought me a copy of a CD of the bluegrass band we went to see a few weeks ago. And a pair of gloves, free from the travel show, because "a spare pair of gloves is always handy."

What the fuck? Does he have some kind of sixth sense about getting dumped, or was he just thinking that he might get lucky if he showed up bearing gifts? And what the hell is wrong with me? A guy like this shows up and I'm just going to kick him to the fucking curb? My conscience (I think that's what it was, anyway) rose from its slumber and starting gnawing at the inside of my skull.

Nevertheless, he still had to go. The fact is, I have no desire to see the man naked, and eventually he was going to try to disrobe in front of me and I'd just end up yelling "Ew!" and running out of the room. Best to end it before that happened. I mean, shit, I do have a (bad) reputation to protect, after all.

I can't remember who brought up politics first, but I jumped on the opportunity. Turns out, we fucking agree on everything. Gay marriage? Yep. The presidential race? Check. Indiana State Rep. Pat Bauer's toupee? You betcha.

I was completely unprepared. The trouble with politics is that I have such strong opinions that I can't lie about them. How fucking likely is it that someone agrees with me?? Jesus!

Sigh. I soldiered on. After dinner and drinks I invited him into my house for a beer. We sat on the couch and talked.

"Chocolate Polisher," I said, "I just have to say that while I like hanging out with you, I can't promise that we'll ever be more than friends. I don't want to hurt somebody who doesn't deserve it, blah blah blah, don't want to lead you on, yada yada yada, don't really know each other, etc. etc."

"Yeah," he said. "That makes sense."

And then I fell asleep on the sofa with my head on his shoulder while he stroked my hair. Fuck. Where did this all go so horribly wrong? Why couldn't something familiar and easy to deal with happen, like, I dunno, a cute 28-year-old boy who works in politics being all into me? Instead I get a 46-year-old guy who's been polishing chocolate for 27 years bringing me flowers and maps.

The Chocolate Polisher left me a message earlier today to just say hi and see how I was doing. C suggested I start using racial slurs. If I thought I could, I might just try it. If I squint a little, he could resemble my brother...

Thanks, it's BEAN a wonderful time!

Before you even start, I know. I've been lax in posting. Thanks to all the readers--OK, reader--who reminded me that my audience awaits a Chicago post. Crazy Cat Lady, here ya go.

As an aside, I just have to say that the only thing that could make the new downtown library better is if it served beer. OK, and was open till midnight or so. But then I guess I'd be sitting right now in a bar with books, and not the library.

Anywhich, they gots Herman Miller chairs and I think I could work here if I weren't afraid someone would steal my laptop every time I got up to pee. I just picked up a book called "Dead Dog." that promises to be "a riotous road trip from an Arizona trailer park to hell." I love this place.

Chicago, as it turns out, was just what the doctor ordered for the post-holiday funk. I've had bloggers' block on what to say about it, and I just can't think of one damn thing negative to say, which means I'm just gonna post some pictures and tell you I had a really, really good time.

Here, of course, is the main feature of our trip. Behold, the bean: (cue angels singing)

How cool is that? On a snowy-but-not-frigid day? Are you kidding? It was like buttah. Here's C and I geeking out (and her brother with his girlfriend, who were slightly taken aback by our geekiness) over our reflections:

And what I can only say must be the bean's butt, as seen from the underside:

That is one awesome piece of polished stainless steel, lemme tell ya.

Eventually, we were able to tear ourselves away to go have a snack and a drink at the nearest bar, conveniently located underneath the Bean in Millennium Park and adjacent to the skating rink, all the better to watch people bursting their arses.

Then we went to the Art Institute. Fabulous. Masterpieces by every Famous Dead Artist you can think of, all up close and personal. My favorite thing? The dolphin ride:

I don't remember what it's really called or who did it, but when I get rich I'm going to have an artist make me one of these for my yard. It was all I could do to not jump on it. (In my defense, it has been a while since I've ridden anything. I mean anything.)

From the Art Institute, we went to another bar and had some more drinks and an appetizer. We picked up my good friend from his Printer's Row condo (ooh la la) and headed to Chinatown for dinner.

I do not have a picture of this, but trust me when I say the restaurant served deep-fried pigeon. There was a picture on the menu. I am about 90 percent certain that they went out on the sidewalk, kicked a pigeon in the head, plucked it, took it inside and dropped it in the Fry-Grandaddy, beak and all, fresh to order. I did not order that, nor did I order the duck tongue entree. The spicy green beans were delicious.

Sunday, we had a fabulous breakfast of Chinese leftovers with eggs (sans whole pigeon or parts of duck) and went shopping. Of course, we started with a brief repast at Quartino (where wine is cheaper than water), then hit the stores where dresses came sized conveniently in 0-8 and cost more than my first car.

After shopping, we were thirsty again. We found a friendly looking and clean-smelling place called Mike's near our parking lot, and had a cool refreshing beverage. Apparently it's the kind of place that wants to make sure their patrons can always wash their hands. Or dishes, or whatever:

Annnd, there you have it. That was Chicago. We'll return shortly to our regular bitter, sardonic posting schedule.