People, I am tired. I really didn’t mean to keep that Neti post up there for so long, especially since I was like “I have the best story and I can’t tell you!” And Ali is all “NICE PLOY TO GET TRAFFIC AND COMMENTS, KRISTIN!” It really wasn’t. It’s just that the story was SO good! RIGHT? So funny! If you know me in person, it’s even funnier because I’m an asshole with no filter and a brain that doesn’t work!

Anyway, I’m tired because man oh man I had an exhausting weekend. One of these days I will remember that I am indeed 32 and that 32 year olds, who still have a lingering cold, need rest. And rest does not mean 1,700 gallons of alcohol.

Like I said, ONE of these days I’ll remember that!

So this weekend, Rhi was in town with her lovely fiancée Bill. It was the first time I got to meet Bill and let me just say, he’s a winner, winner, chicken dinner! He’s nice and funny and smart and will sit around for an entire evening while two bloggers sit around and talk about the internet and Twitter and stuff I’m pretty sure most people who don’t blog, don’t care one lick about.

But we do! And I love, love, love getting together with bloggers. One, because you can Twitter while you are with them and they do not get offended, and two, they GET it. I mean, I understand a lot of my non-blogger friends understand that I have a blog, but they don’t really care about the intricacies and the people. Other bloggers, they care. And it is nice to talk about those things in PERSON, rather than over email or an IM chat box.

I mean, it’s the same with any hobby. Say you’re a knitter. I understand the general concept, but I’ve never knitted anything in my life. So while I would understand your passion for knitting, a fellow knitter would GET it and talk about needle size and knits and pearls or whatever.

Anyway, we three had an awesome dinner and then went to a wine bar (a wine bar that I’ve taken EVERY blogger who has come to visit me to), where we decided to drink 17 flights of wine. Right after having a whole conversation about how we’re OLD now and we can’t/shouldn’t drink like we used to. WE ARE ALL TALK!

Saturday morning we both woke up with horrible hangovers. But Rhi had an appointment to go look at wedding dresses, so I donned my best t-shirt and met her downtown so we could commiserate about being hungover together.

I’ve never been wedding dress shopping. It was fun and Rhi more than likely found her dress and it was beautiful and fit her like a glove and she will make a lovely bride, no matter which dress she chooses! I’m so glad I could be there to help take photos and everything so she didn’t have to do it alone.

On Sunday, I had plans to go to the Bears game. I usually try to go to one a year, generally against a team where I know people. And since my friend Cindy works for the Cardinals, I had an “in” with getting tickets. Be-Tee-Dub, an “in” means that you can buy them for face value and sit two rows from the top of the stadium.

Anyway, there was a group of 8 of us, which included my sister, her boyfriend, my friend Jess, my stepmom, her boyfriend (not my dad), his brother and his son. It was a good group. We met at a bar near Soldier Field to get our drink on that morning. I rode down to the stadium with a cup of half coffee, half Bailey’s. Which turned out to be good because we were at the bar a WHOLE HALF HOUR before they started serving booze. That was a long 30 minutes, let me tell you.

The game was fun. The Bears are horrible. We sat behind the Cardinals head coach’s wife. I think we scared her. It’s probably a good thing the Cardinals won.

My sister’s boyfriend nearly got us kicked out when the beer vendor told him to slide the beer down to the person who BOUGHT it and he has apparently never been to a sporting event and thought that meant to SLIDE IT DOWN HIS THROAT. FOR FREE. That was, um, not cool.

Thankfully the vendor had enough beer for the people who wanted it in the FIRST place.

After the game we went back to the same bar. Since there is like nothing around Soldier Field except a convention center and museums. And a whole shit ton of water. This bar was clearly the best part of the night, as you’ve heard.

The best part of going to a bar that is filled mostly with people who went to the game is that said people have been drinking since early morning. So said people are all wasted and jovial and fun to be around. Seriously, I would like to make it a point to go down on the South Side to watch Bears games in a bar more often when the Bears are at home.

(I’m pretty sure my sober sister didn’t enjoy it, though. Especially when I was constantly saying “is he cute? Do I have beer goggles on? IS HE CUTE?” Which is just weird because our taste in guys is pretty different.)

Anyway, it was at this bar that I met a nice fellow. He’s a cop. And I’m smitten. What is it about cops? I mean, just the fact he was a cop, made him 1,000 times hotter. And let me tell you, he was already very good looking. He’s very atypical South Side Chicagoan and SWOON.

We exchanged digits. He kept telling me that he was going to be in my neighborhood on Tuesday. And being drunk, stupid and completely oblivious (there is a reason I’m still single), I was like “why are you going to be in my neighborhood? It’s so far north! What are you going to be doing up there? That’s so weird!” Until finally he just gave me this adorable look and I was like “Oooooh! OK! We’ll hang out!”

Well, last night was Tuesday. And he didn’t call. Which, is fine. I mean he had been drinking too. Maybe he didn’t remember saying that. Or maybe I didn’t actually hear him say that. Except my friend Jess, who was with me all night, sent me a text this morning and was all “DID HE CALL LAST NIGHT?” So at least I didn’t dream it. And Jess was pretty much sober. And she told me I didn’t imagine him being into me either.

So, yeah. I have his phone number. When I didn’t hear from him last night, I figured maybe I would call or text him. Because I didn’t want to have any regrets and always wonder “what if”. So I decided (with the help of Twitter and like 17 people on gchat) to send witty text! Witty texts! I can do witty texts! And if he doesn’t respond, then I don’t have to leave an awkward NON-WITTY voicemail.

So this is what I sent:

“Crime in my neighborhood seems to be on the rise. I guess you didn’t make it to my neighborhood last night”

Hat tip to Dotty for the suggestion!

I shall keep you all posted. Or probably not blog about it. WHATEVER.

See, I have a funny time of day. A time where I’m more creative and my writing is at its best. This time is generally in the later afternoon and evening. It’s why I write my blog posts at night. Because in the morning, I can’t even speak without drooling, let alone be witty and creative. But come afternoon, boy watch out! I can hit you with the zingers! SHAZAM!

And now I’m sure I’m building the already-written post up to be so awesome, when in reality it probably isn’t and mostly, I’m just lazy and I don’t want to even attempt to re-create it when, oh, IT IS ALREADY WRITTEN. And I took a Benedryl. And Benedryl is a killer of the funny time. Because Benedryl = drooling time.

But stay tuned tomorrow night! I shall tell you all about my drunken weekend! Rhi was in town! And we drank all the wine in Chicago! And looked at wedding dresses (for her)! And I met a cop!

Who I’m totally smitten with! And I may be overly excited about the idea of seeing him in his uniform. WHEN he calls. (See, I’m trying to be positive! No ifs! Just WHENS!) (Also, seriously, what is it about cops that makes them inherently sexy?) (Oh, just me then?)

So instead, you tell me Internet, do you have a funny time? Or a more creative time? Distract me from my phone! And its whole not ringing business!

Anyway, it’s nothing serious (NO, NOT H1N1, but a big thank you to my brother for asking and assuming, even though he doesn’t know my symptoms! You can just have a cold without it being H1N1, asshat!), just a little bit of a sore throat and a stuffy head. But it is just enough to be annoying and make me whiney and complaining. Or should I say more whiney and complainy.

You’ve all heard the term man cold, yes? Because men don’t know how to be sick and there is no worse sickness than whatever a man has. Just like when a man gets a cut on his leg, it is way worse than the time you cut your leg so deep you could see the bone and his is just SUPERFICIAL. (My brother once had a tiny cut on his leg when he was like 16 and then he cried “NO STITCHES, NO STITCHES!” We still make fun of him to this day.)

I have something I’ve determined to be the Spinster Cold. Or Singleton Cold. Or Crazy Cat Lady Cold. See, because I live alone and have no one to take care of me when I’m sick, I find it perfectly reasonable to whine and complain and play tiny violins. Because I’m SICK! SIIIICCCCKKKK! WHERE IS MY MOMMY? HOW WILL I STAY HYDRATED? THE WATER FAUCET IS OH SO FAR AWAY FROM THE COUCH! WHAT IF I FAINT ON THE WAY? WHO WILL FIND ME? I AM HUNGRY AND HAVE NO FOOD IN MY HOUSE! ALSO, I WANT POPSICLES! THAT I DON’T HAVE! WHY AM I SHOUTING? WAH!

I usually manage just fine. I mean, minus the “I’m sick!” texts I send to my mom as a reminder. Because the cats really get tired of the whining and then they hide under the bed so they can’t hear me. Until it is time to get them out so they can lick my forehead and tell me if I’ve got a fever since I don’t own a thermometer and there is no app for that. I’ve been taking care of myself since I left for college, which was like almost 15 years ago. So it’s not that I can’t manage. I just like to whine about it. HOW DO YOU MOMS DO IT?

This cold isn’t even that bad. Apart from the sometimes runny nose and the dry, sore throat, it’s more just being really tired. Like anything more than hitting fast forward on the DVR remote gets me winded. It’s a good thing I sit at a desk, staring at a computer all day, instead of operating large machinery or lifting heavy boxes. The worst part of it is being in that sickness fog. Where your attention span reverts to that of a kitten and you get distracted by shadows and noises and what was that shiny thing over there in the corner, IS THAT A LADY BUG? I LOVE LADY BUGS! YAY! STRING!

For instance, today at work I had an email conversation with a co-worker, like a series of 3 or 4 emails, the whole time thinking she was someone completely different. I was so confused. I couldn’t figure out why this person was asking for what they were asking for. Well, turns out because it was a totally different person making the request. And the only similarity? Their first names both begin with the same letter.

I should go to bed now. Because I don’t even think this was the post I had in mind to write. And before someone tells me to get a damn Neti Pot. Because you know what people? I WOULD DROWN.

Remember this tweet?

And I did. And then hours later, after several alcoholic beverages, I didn’t want to leave you all hanging, so I gave you a preview.

Now, I’ve never had a psychic reading or a tarot card reading or any of that black magic. But I figured, if it worked for the Gin Blossoms, who is to say it can’t work for me?

(All of you people who are not from Arizona just went “Gin Blossoms what?” The Gin Blossoms song, Mrs. Rita, is about a palm reader on University Avenue in Tempe who told the boys they would be a famous band one day. So they wrote a song about her. And then she laughed and was like “I didn’t say you’d be famous for long, SUCKAS!”)

Honestly, I figured if you were going to pay money for this stuff, why not in New Orleans? That should be the best place to find out your future. Right?

I wasn’t going to do it. My co-worker really wanted to. She kind of coerced me into doing it. But I don’t want to know bad things. I’m fine living in my little bubble thinking I’m going to live to be 100. I don’t want to know if I’m going to die on the plane trip back to Chicago.

Figuring that this was all for show, we asked the psychic “you just tell the good stuff, right?” And she was all “oh no, honey. I tell it all, good and bad.” So I made my co-worker go first.

After she was finished, we asked her how it was. My co-worker seemed to be kind of shocked. She said this psychic was very good. Maybe not worth $50, but she definitely was good. I figured WHY NOT? When in Rome. So I plopped down in chair, prepared to be underwhelmed and skeptical.

Well color me a semi-believer! That chick was kind of spot on with a few things. Everything I’ve ever heard about Miss Cleo and other psychics is that they basically ask probing questions. So they are all “are you worried about your Grandma passing” And then you’re all “yes! How did you know?” And then the psychic is all “I feel you are very worried about your Grandma passing.”

This wasn’t like this. And believe me, I’m a born skeptic. The only thing I believe in is booze and that every chick lit book will end in a happy ending.

She first read my palms, told me I was going to live to be 95, would be healthy/am healthy and won’t be rich. She apologized for that. I was just glad she didn’t tell me I’d be living in a cardboard box by the river.

Then she tells me “this ex boyfriend you’re holding on to, you have to let him go. He’s no good and a negative influence. Let him go honey.”

I think this was the point I gasped. Yes, you could probably say this to most single girls, no? But she didn’t know I was single. I mean she probably knew, but she didn’t ask. And regardless, I have been holding on to my ex boyfriend for no apparent reason at all. Last time we saw each other, it didn’t end well and I realized he’s a douchebag. (Who also has this blog address, so I wonder if he still reads? What’s up Mike?) But there was always this little part of me who wouldn’t let him go. And wow, I’m still kind of shocked she said that.

She then said some other things, how I used to be very driven at work and that lately I’ve been dragging myself to be that driven person again. She also mentioned that I am  always a happy person, always smiling on the outside, but on the inside I wasn’t smiling and I am sad. Which is very true, I even mentioned it here a little. She touched on my being insecure (also true because I’m a fat ass now and no man will love someone as fat as me) (no need to comment that this isn’t true yada, yada, yada. I know it is stupid to think that way, but that’s how I feel.)

Then she told me that there’s a goal I have, something I’m really trying to accomplish, something I’m working towards. She said that I need to stop forcing it and need to just let it happen. I need to stop stressing and just go with the flow and it will happen. It’s meant to happen so it will. (Obviously this could be taken ANY number of ways, but to me, this was my novel I want to write. I’m always putting pressure on myself to write it and that I have to do it NOW, but maybe I don’t. And I don’t have to feel bad that my novel is just a notebook full of ideas and notes right now.) (It actually kind of lifted a weight off my shoulders when she said it.)

And then she went into what I really wanted to hear, my love life. And whooo boy, did she have some promising news. I was going to meet someone in July or August, probably August. This was going to be my future husband. He was going to be 5-11, 5-12 (yes, she said 5-12) and have dar hair and light eyes and be light complected. His name would start with M. We would be married in the next two years. And we would have a good, strong marriage. And we would have two kids, a boy and a girl.

I was elated. I admit that as I get older, I wonder if marriage is in the cards for me. I know babies will. I will have a child, one way or another, in my life. Even if I have to do it on my own. (My mom even said she’d come over and clean my cat box for me so I wouldn’t harm the baby if I was single and preggo.) But it would be nice to have a hubby in the equation too. Honestly, I was worried that the worst news the psychic would tell me was that I wasn’t going to get married or ever have kids. (Oh, hi! I’m from the 1950s!)

Anyway, this is a long way to get around to the bullet point from my post yesterday. Only a few of you even commented on it. My SIL has been trying to set me up with this dude for awhile. He’s the uncle of one of my nephew’s friends. We tried in April and the weather screwed it up. And then the next time, I had my other nephew’s birthday party. So it was finally going to happen on 4th of July.

It was casual. He didn’t even know it was a set-up. He just figured he was coming to his sister’s house for a BBQ. Anyway, he’s kind of cute. (He does actually look like an older Robert Pattinson.) He’s 39 and guess what? He’s 5-11 and has dark hair and light eyes. His name starts with a C. But we found out, his middle name starts with M. I SHOULD RUN OUT AND MARRY HIM NOW, NO?

He’s a nice guy. Has a very dry sense of humor. (Bonus!) But he’s quiet and doesn’t seem to be very outgoing. He’s an old 39, where I’m an immature 31.

But I’m trying to ditch my Seinfeldian ways and give it a shot. Maybe he was like that in front of his family and a bunch of strangers. Maybe he’s really a party animal. I’m willing to give it a shot and find out. I am learning to not be so quick to judge and not write him off because he is very anti-fake sugars and has a disdain for all things NutraSweet.

Maybe I’ll at least get a free meal out of it.

(And wouldn’t it be funny if I just eat crow 6 months down the road if I’m all “remember that dude I was kind of meh about? NOT SO MEH NOW!”)

Only the Romanian psychic in NOLA knows for sure!

I’ve actually very rarely been friendly with any of my neighbors. Through the years I have realized that this is because I don’t smoke. Because smokers hang out on their porches or decks and they meet their neighbors. I do not hang out anywhere besides my couch or bed because I’m lazy and totally anti-social and unfriendly. Also, if I meet you and befriend you, you probably will get mad when I talk about your stupid ass on my blog.

We all know my feelings on my old pot-smoking neighbors. I HATED THEM. While they were nice kids, they were just fuckwits with the world’s stupidest, fat-fingered friends that pushed the WRONG BUZZER ALL THE TIME. (Side note: I saw the one pot head dude when I was moving the last of my stuff out on Monday night. Thankfully he was on the phone and I didn’t have to tell him I was moving out all because of him and his inconsiderateness!) (Which I so would have never said because I avoid confrontation like Paris Hilton avoids panties.)

Back in California, I didn’t like any of my neighbors in the million places I lived. At one apartment, we lived below two whores who had sex ALL THE TIME. RIGHT ABOVE ME. My roomie was friends with them because she is nice and also needed someone to chat with while smoking on the patio.

At the first place I ever lived in alone, a converted garage behind a house, I moved out after six months because of the jackasses who lived in that house. They put the pot smokers to shame. They were loud. ALL THE TIME. And ALWAYS parked in my parking space. One time, while watching the Cubs in the playoffs, I screamed quite loudly at a good play. And the loud-ass neighbors were all “SHUT UP!” And then I yelled back “FUCK OFF!” They left me alone after that. And probably put water in my gas tank.

I figured I need to be nicer this time around. Since I live in a condo and we have board meetings and such. And I’m almost 32 so it is about time I am nice to someone I live near.

I haven’t met any of my neighbors really. My mom did. Because she smokes and she talked to someone outside. NOTE TO SELF – START SMOKING. But they seem to be nice. The one couple next to me, they have a dog. It’s a pretty big dog and it barks a lot. The cats are just now finally getting used to it.

Across the hall is an Indian/Middle Eastern couple. I only know 1) because of the name on the mailbox, 2) because of the sign on their front door that is written in what looks to be Arabic and 3) because they cook stinky food that smells up the hallway. Thankfully, that smell doesn’t make it into my house, otherwise I might be puking on the carpet next to the cats. I’m sure they won’t like it when I cook bacon, so we’re probably even.

The only other people I have met was a couple that I rode in the elevator with. I was in the process of bringing down a bunch of empty boxes that were cut down to throw into the recycling bin. In an effort to be the “nice neighbor”, I decided to make small talk on the two-floor ride down.

Him: Are you moving in or out?

ME: (Do not be a smart ass and point out you wouldn’t be taking empty boxes from your condo if you were moving in.) *smile* Moving in.

Him: Moving in? Then what are you doing with those boxes?

ME: (What is wrong with this person?) Yep, I moved in a few weeks ago. I’m throwing the boxes away. Well, recycling them. (Way to clarify, jackass. You clearly don’t want them to think you’re not green.)

Him: Oh yeah, I saw your truck. Why are you throwing them away?

ME: ……. *blink* *blink* Um, because I don’t need them anymore.

Him: So do you have a two bedroom? Or one and a half bedroom? How much did you pay?

ME: (Did he just ask me, totally nonchalantly, how much I paid? And what the fuck is a one and a half bedroom? My second bedroom is small, but it is a bedroom with a DOOR and a CLOSET.) Um, a two-bedroom.

Him: Oh. We’re moving out.

ME: DO YOU NEED ANY BOXES?

I know that purchase price and all that is public. I know this because I know what other people paid. And how much less than them that I paid. (One good thing about the recession!) But this is the SECOND stranger to ask me. The dude who came out for a blinds consultation asked too. So I told him I paid like some ridiculously low price. And then he was like “oh, are there any open units in the building?” And then I pretended I heard my phone ringing so that I didn’t have to talk to him anymore about housing prices and him moving into my condo building and criticizing me daily about not buying $1000 blinds from him.

You know, if this is what being a good neighbor and being nice is all about, I’m not sure I want any part of it. I think I prefer my typical curmudgeonly, snarky, drunk 30 something self instead.

My weekend was busy, had me making an ass out of myself and was filled with plenty of drinking. And further evidence that I am indeed in my 30s and that I cannot drink heavily one night and plan to get back to the drinking the next night. My liver and stomach revolt and then I get sleepy.

On Friday night, a friend of mine was guest bartending at a bar in my neighborhood. It was actually the same bar that we went to every Monday for the trivia tournament. Which we won, by the way. My friend was giving half of his tips from the night to charity, so it was drinking for a good cause. Although I don’t ever actually need a reason to drink.

They had a wristband deal, where for $30 you could drink all the beer and well drinks you could down in three hours. But knowing myself and knowing I had another party to go to on Saturday night, I opted against the wristband. Which was just really stupid because I drank way more than $30 worth. Chalk one up to stupidity. I know myself better than that. That many hours in a bar will usually equal a drunk Kristin.

So because I’m familiar with this bar from weeks of trivia, I’m also familiar with the people who work there. The guy who buses tables knows me, as does the bar manager guy. We’ll call him Sven. We had a running joke where every week when I came in to grab a table for my team was going to be the week he remembered my team name. I would always quiz him and he’d never remember it. So I would give him shit every week for not remembering (we sat at nearly the same table every week and HELLO, I’m also cute and tall!). He did finally remember on the last week, which was good since he handed us over our cash winnings.

Anyway, I have a wee little crush on Sven. I mentioned it to a few people, noting that I had never seen him without a hat on. And since he has a beard, I had these visions of him being totally bald with a beard, like a charachter on a Guess Who? tile. And well, as my mom says “I can find very Seinfeldian reasons to not be attracted to someone.”

Since I knew I would see him on Friday night, I made sure I put on deodorant and may have even brushed my teeth. I tried to wear flattering clothes, but then I remembered I am fat and my face looks like it was inflated with air like a hot air balloon. So I did the best I could do. Remembering that it is really dark in that bar.

As I was walking up to the bar, I saw him through the window and I may have squeed on the inside because NO HAT! AND he has hair! BONUS! And then I played it cool. Mostly because I was catching up with my friend Jess and also because I wasn’t sure he’d recognize me outside of trivia. Even though we were always pretty flirty with each other. Also, I’m a chicken. But I figured I would just do my patented “tell everyone around me that I think aguy is cute, stare at him across the dark bar and hope he comes to talk to me” move since that is clearly a strategy that works for me.

We had a fun night. I drank a lot of beer. The liquid courage was flowing. My friend Lara was enlisted on the cause. She was on my trivia team and we were both kind of mesmerized at the hotness of Sven without a hat on. Which made me feel better and that I’m not just so desperate that a man with hair gets my motor running. Also, I can’t believe I just typed that.

After the guest bartending ended, we made plans to go to another bar. As Jess and I were leaving, it was decided (by Jess) that I was going to go back in and give him my phone number. (We left the bar, stood outside in front of the windows for all to see, and then went back inside. Which I’m sure everyone witnessed.) I think I’ve given out my number a total of 3 times in my whole life. All while drunk. All in bars. And all ending with no one ever calling me. So I gave Jess a pen and she wrote my number on a napkin and then I had to figure out something sexy and flirty to say to him when I gave it to him. Because after 10 beers, sexy and flirty are so the things that describe me. Hell, that doesn’t even describe me sober.

Earlier in the night we talked to Sven about trivia and it took everything in my power not to run my fingers through his hair. (Seriously, I was so EXCITED he had hair! And was so damn adorable!) I went in to lick his face mid-conversation, but thankfully Jess stopped me and he was none the wiser.

So we figured when I handed him my number, I should say something about trivia, since it was something we had in common and had talked about it. Before I did it, I asked my guy friend if that would be a good in, or a stupid line. He seemed to think it would be good, something we have in common, but also with a PHONE NUMBER so hopefully it would be implied that I wasn’t talking about TRIVIA at all.

After Jess wrote out a second napkin because she spelled my name wrong the first time, I marched my nervous, drunk ass up to him and slurred “When you know something about the trivia dates, give me a call.” And then I probably winked or tried to do something “sexy” with my eyes, which again, 10 beers in, isn’t going to be hot at all. (It all makes me cringe days later.)

And then I think I ran out squealing like a school girl because I’m just an asshole. And this is why I don’t ever give my phone number to people in bars. (And also why no one ever calls back.) Especially people who work at the bar. At bars I would like to go back to. And bars that I will be going back to when trivia stars up again.

My eyebrow wax lady says I should be all about The Secret and the positive energy and thinking it will happen and all that crap. I’m trying. But I’m Full of Snark, not Full of Sunshine and Puppies and Rainbows.

And as I sat on my couch all day today in my pajamas, still wearing last night’s make-up, drinking sugar-free Kool-Aid, eating cheese out of a can and watching endless reality television, including Real Housewives, I Love Money and Rock of Love WhoreBus, I realized maybe there’s a reason why I’m still single. Maybe I smell of Spinster.

So how was your weekend?

:::

Finally, do any of you know someone who needs a roommate for BlogHer? My internet buddy Darceyis looking for a roommate and I told her I would spread the word for her. I’ve never met her in person, but I can vouch that through many emails and IMs, she is not crazy. Let me know in the comments if you know of anyone!

I was walking in the snow that was coming down sideways, right into my face, which was really not pleasant at all. It wasn’t those big, puffy white flakes. No, those always come down straight. It was the partially frozen, little snow BBs that explode into your skin. And I kid you not, EVERY time the snow comes down sideways, the wind is blowing in my face. I’m constantly walking in the same direction, apparently. Or maybe in a circle. Like a hamster in a ball.

Anyway, the reason for telling you all this is because I have very few brain cells, apparently, and cannot remember a damn thing unless I write it down. Because on my walk to the train, I constructed a post in my head that was so hilarious, I actually laughed out loud. To myself. In the dark, in an empty parking, while walking to the blue line. 

And now I don’t remember most of it. But it was funny. Unlike this post.

The one funny thing I did want to share with you is this photo. Just click on it. I promise, you’ll smile. Or you may giggle uncontrollably at your desk like I did. Or on your walk to the train just thinking about it, like I did. I don’t know why it is so funny, but it is. And I’m going to keep this link for the next time I get really mad and want to shout obscenities at someone. (I know. I’m linking to Dooce. But still, just click.)

That was one of the funny things I remember. The other thing I wanted to share with you is a moment in my life, a quick glance of what it is like to live in my world, that of a spinster with cats who drinks too much booze and shouts obscenities far too often.

Yesterday when I came home, after I fed the cats, I went in my room to change into my PJs. I would have done that first, but they start biting my ankles and then it bleeds and it’s just a big mess. It’s just better to feed them first thing. Anyway, I walked into my room and I saw this.

This is my bed. And look! I made it! (Actually, total tangent, I make it every day because about 6 years ago, I read something that said it takes 21 days to make a habit. And I made it my mission to PROVE IT WRONG. So I started making my bed every day. Six years later, I make my bed every day. It works. Try it.)

That little shiny thing on my bed? That’s a cat toy. And no, I did not put it there. This actually happens quite often. When I’m gone during the day, I often come home to this toy on my bed, on my side of the bed no less. It is a present. My cat leaves me presents.

It’s actually pretty normal, I guess, for cats (and probably dogs). It is their way of showing you they love you, or so the “experts” say. Normal outdoor cats, they’ll bring you DEAD things and leave them for you. As a present. And this is why my cats are not allowed outside. (Although, if they are that scared of a dog, I’m pretty sure they would hide from a squirrel.)

Sometimes, Simba leaves these presents for me in the middle of the night. And this toy? It crinkles. It makes a lot of noise. Especially when you roll over in bed at 3 AM and hear that damn crinkling and freak the fuck out because WHO IS IN THE HOUSE? CRINKLING THINGS? WHERE IS MY PHONE? WHAT IF HE’S UNDER MY BED AND IS GOING TO CUT MY ACHILLES? And then I roll over and see the cat staring, nay smirking, at me and remember it is just a fucking toy and fall back asleep.

The other cat, she leaves me presents too. Just not in my bed. If I get any kind of take out (i.e. Chinese food or Taco Bell) and I get any kind of sauce packet with said meal, I will find said sauce packet chewed to shreds in the living room soon thereafter. Which means she jumps up on the kitchen counter in the middle of the night, grabs the sauce packet, chews enough holes in it so it leaks, and then drags it around the house with her. Last Friday morning I woke up to a trail of soy sauce on my living room floor.

I’m not entirely convinced that this isn’t all part of their grand plan. Lull me into a feeling of bliss with their cuteness and their “presents” when all the while they have plans to leave me a present of the pipe bomb that they are currently creating in their secret laboratory when I’m at work. “Oh she thinks we’re cute now,” they’ll say. “But just wait until we give her this present and then KAHBLOOOIE! She’ll be blasted to smithereens! And we’ll be licking her tiny pieces of flesh off the walls for months to come. We need to get her before she starts that diet so there’s more of her to go around! Mwahahahahaha!”

And now you all know and can tell the proper authorities when the time comes. I am counting on you all to avenge my death.

Before I get into the real point of this post, I just had to share that my cat is licking the glue off an envelope right now. He’s been doing it all day. Where the fuck was that kind of help when I was mailing 140 Christmas cards?

Anyway, back before New Year’s Eve, I got a bug up my butt and really wanted to go out. I’m not a big fan of New Year’s because it is usually a big let down because you pay a lot of money and you can’t get to the bar and you’re not as drunk as you should be for forking over all that cash. But for some reason, I was itching to go out this year.

Thankfully, that bug was gone shortly thereafter. I shat him out in the toilet or something. So I ended up spending New Year’s at home with my friend Michelle, my friend wine and a lot of yummy food. We had a great night and it was much better than going out. Plus, Michelle brought her dog over, which freaked the fuck out of my cats. They hid all night, away from the dog, and it was nice not to have them around for once.

So instead of going out on December 31st, I decided that Saturday night would be a good night to go out. It would be cheaper (in theory) and we would still have a kick ass time. I went out with my friend Schwerer to her favorite place in the whole world, Howl at the Moon. Her mom recently passed away and I think she needed a girl’s night out filled with drunken debauchery. I was happy to help.

Since I didn’t go out on Wednesday night, I decided that the dress I was going to wear out if I had gone out was to be worn to Howl. Which is funny because Howl is not a dressy place. But I didn’t care! The ladies of The Working Closet are rubbing off on me. And turning me into a proper lady. It’s like Flickr Charm School!

I needed to get dressed up to match my sexy bangs! (It’s hard to tell in that photo because the light in my house sucks, but the dress is a darker purple.)

We had a really good time out. We danced and sung and acted like drunk fools. Normally I get pretty drunk while I’m there, but only on beer so I’m in control. I have done stupid things there like give my number to the bartender, but who hasn’t done that?

But last night the dude at the table next to us bought us three rounds of shots (or it might have been four. I lost count.) So that coupled with the endless buckets of beer, and Drunkabella was out in full force!

(That same dude actually grabbed my boobs and my friend’s boobs multiple times. He got me by catching me off guard when I was coming up from the bathroom and he was leaving. He got a two-handed grab and wouldn’t let go. Good thing I was drunk. Oh who am I kidding? Who doesn’t like a random boob grab?)

The thing about Howl at the Moon is that my inner band geek/groupie comes out. Because about four beers in I’m always like “I LOVE MUSICANS! Want to date piano player!” And then that’s all I talk about the whole night because OMG! Did he just look right at me?

For some reason I was feeling extra ballsy last night. After my friend handed said piano player my phone number on a song request sheet, I went up and talked to said piano player after he was taking a break and apologized for my friend doing it. He was all happy and cute and was like “no need to apologize.” Then I saw him a few times after that on my way to and from the bathroom. Because if I didn’t mention it, I drank A LOT. And he looked at me and SMILED! Swoon! Maybe that bitch in that stupid book was right! I had him at hello!

So at the end of the night, he was at the bar and I went up and bought him a drink. It was a shot of Jager. Which would explain the major hangover I had today. (I was going to say this morning, but let’s be honest, after a certain age, the hangovers, they last all day.) I tried talking to him and was in this awkward spot at the corner of the bar by the waitress area and he basically didn’t talk to me at all. He was pretty much kind of a douche. Thankfully I was too drunk to be offended.

I did end up talking to one of the other piano players who was a nice guy and answered all my burning questions like “don’t you ever get sick of playing the same songs over and over?” and “what happens if you don’t know a song?” and “how do you know all of those songs??” If he hadn’t been married, I would have given him a sloppy, drunken kiss.

I hardly ever go up to guys in bars. It usually ends up the same way, where I put myself out there and get SHUT DOWN. But I’m glad that I did it. I mean, how else would I have known he was such a douche? And I know back a few years ago, I wouldn’t have been that ballsy, even with all the added liquid courage.

So it was his loss for turning me down. In that dress! IDIOT!

Also, I will not be drinking like that in quite some time. Even watching the skanks on Rock of Love do shots made me nauseous.

Before you start commenting that I have to give it time and be active, yada, yada, yada, just calm down. I AM giving it time. I am being active. I’m staying positive. Even when there are few people to be positive about. But I’m letting Chemistry work their magic and match me with me Mr. Right. Or Mr. Right Now. I’m not picky. (That’s a lie. I am picky. Nothing wrong with being picky, says the 30-something singleton with two cats.)

But I have had some um, let’s say interesting matches. We may have similar personalities and match up, but I can’t get past these weirdos to even explore it. (Go ahead and call me shallow. It won’t hurt.)

First up was the dude who was cute and nice and the right age. But then when I got to his profile he revealed he lived with his parents. At first I thought maybe I could get past that. But then I realized that really, if you’re 31 and living at home without extenuating circumstances, then it is time to grow up and move out. The way he put it was all “I still live at home, so if this is an issue, good luck with your search YOU SHALLOW, HEARTLESS TROLL!” My thought was if you’re going to mention it in the profile (which, good on you for being honest) and you are living at home for a good reason (like you’re taking care of your sick parent, etc.) then you would probably also mention that., no? So I judged (possibly wrongly so) that he was just lazy and didn’t want to pay rent and a mama’s boy.

Judgey McJudgerson, party of one.

NEXT!

So then there is Zak. Zak claims to be a former actor and model. ZAK ALSO LIKES TO WRITE IN ALL CAPS. I imagine he’s quite SHOUTY in person. Also, he freaked me out. Freaky whitish-blonde hair ahead!

Zak is also sucking in his stomach in that photo. I CANNOT GET PAST THE WHITE HAIR AND EYEBROWS! Or that he calls himself ICEMAN.

NEXT!

And then there is my most favorite of all. His name is Michael. He actually seemed like a good fit. We seemed to have the same interests and he was decent looking. Just to make sure he wasn’t posting photos from years ago, I made sure to scroll through all the photos he had put up in his profile. And then I hit the jackpot!

Oh yes, that right there is a photo of HIS HAIRY STOMACH. Please, someone tell me why. I laughed so hard when I saw this. It’s not a bad stomach, but it isn’t Michael Phelps’ stomach. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND. Michael, this doesn’t make me want to date you. This makes me want to point and laugh at you.

Michael and His Stomach actually top the guy who I was matched with on eHarmony years ago whose profile photo was him eating ribs, complete with plastic bib and BBQ sauce all over his face.

I think these relationship matching sites are trying to tell me something. I think that something is CUT YOUR LOSSES! GET OUT NOW!

But until my subscription runs out, I will continue to be amused by these “matches” Chemistry.com. Thanks for the laughs.

So instead, I’m going to tell you about my boring weekend, in which I realized I am fat and I really need to stop with the excuses and just start eating better and working out.

The weekend was actually pretty uneventful. I got like one-third of the things done that I wanted to get accomplished this weekend. Thankfully, a few of the things I didn’t get around to involved spending large sums of money, so it is OK.

Saturday night I met a friend out at a bar on the South side. I work with her and we’ve been to this townie bar quite a few times because every time we go, we always have a blast and run into some of the most interesting characters in Chicago.

We usually meet another co-worker there who has been going there for so long she literally knows everyone there. She went to school with the owner.

On Saturday nights this bar has karaoke. Last time we were there, there was a whole mess of 20 year olds in the bar, having some sort of neighborhood reunion. We had a lot of fun looking at the pretty, young eye candy.

This past Saturday wasn’t much different. There were a lot of the locals, but there was also a bunch of young kids. And by young, I mean they looked like they just turned 21. (Which we learned later was in fact true when a guy told us he was 21 and three weeks. And here I was under the impression that we stopped counting our ages in weeks when we hit like three months old.)

The best thing about this place is the people watching, the great pizza and the cheap drinks. We always have a good time.

This Saturday night, I decided that I was going to give the karaoke a shot. I had enough liquid courage flowing through my bloodstream and the group seemed like a good group.

I decided on my stand by karaoke song, which is Baby Got Back. And, as always, I sang the hell out of the song. Until about halfway through where I get winded from SCREAMING into the mic and not really breathing and then saying a lot of words strung together.

I made the other ladies in my party get out on the dance floor and shake what their mamas gave them. I don’t do this song without a back-up group. It was awesome and everyone was dancing and it really got the party started.

So we spent the rest of the night dancing and drinking and chatting. It was great. At one point, one of the young-ins was bouncing up and down like he was on a pogo stick. He was literally bouncing off the walls. I decided that this kid was clearly high on something other than life. So I asked him.

Me: Excuse me young man, are you on cocaine?

Him: No. No drugs. I just love Saturday!

Me: Um, OK crazy druggie man.

As is par for the course, I didn’t get hit on. I actually had a bit of a semi-drunken break down about it after I got home. (At 4 AM!) Because the one lady I was with, who is older than I am, got hit on by a guy almost half her age. They exchanged numbers and I’m sure she’ll never go out with him because he’s too young. But he seemed nice.

Oh, I lie. I did get hit on. By a short, fugly man with a porn star moustache and a comb over. He FOLLOWED me out the door when we left to tell me, in a drunken slurring kind of way, that I was the most real and genuine person he’s ever seen. And that I don’t put on a facade or anything. (Which, he pronounced fuh-cod.) And all I could say was “thank you.” And then I walked ran away across four lanes of traffic.

Driving home I started wondering if this is what I’m destined for – taxis drivers and unattractive drunks in bars. Since those seem to be the only people who hit on me or approach me. Like I’m some ugly leper with only one eyeball.

Do I not get hit on because people aren’t looking for real and genuine? Like I’m too real right off the bat that I’m not even attractive or worth pursuing? Or are the only people who see this “realness” CREEPY GUYS THAT I DON’T WANT TO DATE?

Normally, it doesn’t bother me. I mean, especially at this bar where a lot of the regulars are older than my mom and don’t usually have all their teeth. But something about last night, where I was already feeling horribly self-conscious because I’ve put on so much weight and I’m unattractive and no one will even want to talk to me at BlogHer, made it a hundred times worse.

Now, I don’t actually think I will meet my future mate in a bar. I mean, those things generally don’t end with long-term commitments. I KNOW this. But last night, with the booze flowing, it was a BIG DEAL. And I was upset about it. Because I want what all women on the verge of spinsterhood want – no more cats and someone to settle down with. I want my happy ending. And sometimes when I’m already in that lower point, it doesn’t help when short people who don’t know it is fuh-sahd are my only options.

So don’t worry, I’m not going all melodramatic on your asses (although,  so much for no Debbie Downer post). I am sure we all go through these low times in our lives.

And if you don’t struggle with things like this, don’t comment and tell me any of this because I will punch you in the face through the computer screen with my fat fist.