Kristabella: Full of Snark Since 1977

Posted By Kristabella on May 8, 2007

Because I was 22 then. And sometimes I like to pretend I can party like that. Until I wake up the next morning. Feeling like I got run over by a truck. More than likely a truck with thunder thighs.

Saturday night was supposed to be quite a low-key evening for yours truly. On tap was a going-away party for a friend of mine who is moving to St. Louis later this month. It was going to be a few drinks at Harry Caray’s and then home to bed. Somehow? Didn’t really go as planned.

It started off like that. I took the train down to the restaurant for a few drinks. Which was an experience in itself. Riding the Red Line after a Cubs game and on a weekend brings out all kinds. (Especially when you’re one of the sober ones.) Including the couple who decided to make out about one inch from the train at the Fullerton stop. They were garbed in their Cubs jerseys. I secretly giggled to myself. Because so “been there, done that.” I thought to myself “it’s so nice to be a grown up.” HA! During their make-out session, chick knocked dude’s hat off. It took them a full minute to realize that when you stand that close to the train? The only place for it to go is on to the tracks. Under the train. That you’re standing so close to! Heeeheeeheee.

Then there was this dude on the train. Who decided he thought he knew everyone getting on the train. Every guy that got on, he greeted with a “hey homey!” (didn’t realize people still said homey) and then attempted some new fangled hand slap/shake/fist bumpity thingy. That apparently only he knew how to do. He about scared the pants off some 12-year old kid who rightly had a look of “I don’t know this homey. Nor do I know where those hands have been.”

Once I got downtown, it was a good time. I had a great pasta dish for dinner. Met some nice people. Including this lady. She used to work in Tucson. And didn’t appreciate me calling it the armpit of America. Truth hurts, honey. No, actually, she was really nice. I told her the blog story. Secretly hoping she’d want to do an expose.

I didn’t know anyone besides the guy who was leaving. And one other dude that he works with. While sitting there chatting with some people, I met these two girls. Both very nice. The one is dating Walter Payton’s son, Jarrett. We hit it off and they were planning on heading out on the town. And asked if I wanted to join up. Correct answer? “No. I’m 29. You are not.” Answer given? “Giddy Up!”

So we went to some swanky place. Jarrett’s girlfriend had a friend who was an “industry” girl. Which I assumed groupie or something? All I know still is that she knows a lot of bar people and we didn’t have to pay cover at swanky place. And got a free drink. Which was good, since they were $9! For a drink! You know how much wine you could get for that? (As my friend said, that’s 3 bottles of Three-Buck Chuck at Trader Joe’s!)

After the swanky place, we headed to a new swanky place. It’s located on Weed Street. For those of you who don’t live here, I’ll just say I’m too old to be down there. So we get in line and “industry” girl and Jarrett’s girl get in. No cover. No problem. Me and the other girl? We just stood there. Apparently we weren’t going to be so lucky. And were expected to pay $20 to get in. I stopped paying $20 covers, well, I’ve tried never to pay that. Ever.

So we left. Because she too did not want to pay that much. So this other girl is pissed. Rightfully so. Her friend just ditched her and left her with a complete stranger. A totally awesome stranger. But a stranger nonetheless.

We hit one bar around there and then decided to head to Bucktown. Because it made complete sense to me to go even further from home at this point in the evening. Because? What do I care? Am 22-year old! No cares in the world! Am fucking moron is what I am.

But there was some good. I met a dude at this bar. And he was nice. And not 22, which is good. Because when you look like you’re 24 (I have a young face!), that’s about all you tend to attract. At least I do. So to fit with the theme of the evening, I made out like a 22-year old right there by the bar. In front of everyone! Woooooooo!

And then I woke up Sunday. In a gutter. Wearing a toga. And was supposed to go to the race track to meet Schwerer and Jenn. (I made it and won $14!) And I was pretty drunk through 80% of the afternoon. Which was displayed every time they announced someone at the track named James Brown. (I think it might have been the announcer or trumpet player dude.) And every time I was all “James Brown is here?” to then only remember “oh, he’s dead.” And then followed up every time with “maybe they are going to finally bury him here? Did he like the horsies?”

And this seriously happened every time. Out loud. And was always hysterical. Mostly to me.

Maybe being 29 ain’t so bad. If I could just act like it. One of these days.

Category: A Day in the Life of Me, General, Hooch Hilarity | 10 Comments »
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Posted By Kristabella on May 7, 2007

So Wednesday night after the booze cruise, I went with Shelly to meet a friend of her’s who was out celebrating his 30th birthday. And it was, um, interesting, to say the least.

First off, I feel a little bad for this dude. He was celebrating his 30th with 3 other people. That’s it. I’m hoping he had a huge party planned last weekend or the weekend after since most people don’t want to celebrate on a Wednesday night. But I’m pretty sure he didn’t.

So Shelly has been friends with him since they were freshmen at DePaul. And this dude has a huge case of Shelly-itis. And I don’t think there’s a cure. At least in his case.

We meet them around 9:30 that night at a nice restaurant in the Gold Coast. (Also referred to as The Viagra Triangle. Because well, do I really need to explain it? It’s where all the dirty, old, rich men hang out.) The four-some is finished with dinner and Shelly and I are meeting them for ONE drink and some carrot cake. (Dude, this isn’t even the weirdest part.)

We join them at their table, where there is only one dude from the party sitting. We’ll call him Sven. Because I don’t remember his name. Sven’s girlfriend is in the bathroom, apparently sick. And with Sven’s girl is birthday boy’s girl. Who? Is married with kids at home. We’ll call her Hester. Because I think that’s the character’s name in The Scarlet Letter. (From what I remember from the movie with John Heard.)

(To which I naturally ask Birthday Boy, “is she like in the process of getting a divorce or something?” And he says “no.” So it’s just good old honest to goodness adultery.) (And did I mention they work together? And what did she tell her husband? So. Many. Questions.)

So we’re just sitting there, enjoying our one drink. Birthday Boy is all kinds of flirting with Shelly. Which she diffuses pretty well. It’s an awkward situation to say the least. That is until the other ladies come back from the bathroom.

I spot them immediately, because anyone in the restaurant could tell that this one woman was NOT pleased there were two hot blondes occupying their table. (Me and Shelly. Geesh.)

When they come to the table, we learn that Bitchy McDrunkerson is the fiancee of the other dude at the table, Sven. She’s the one that is “sick.” You know, from all the al-key-hall. And she? Is NOT pleased we are sitting there. (To which I think “why is she the one that’s mad? She’s not even the one ‘dating’ Birthday Boy?”)

More weirdness ensues when Shelly says we should sing “Happy Birthday” to Birthday Boy. (Harmless, I assume.) Bitchy McSlurerson goes ape shit! She’s telling us that he doesn’t want to be sung to. And he doesn’t want carrot cake! (Fine! More for us, skank!) And Bitchy is ready to throw down with Shelly. (At which point, I lean over to Shelly and say “I’ll beat this bitch’s ass down, if you’d like.”) It wasn’t necessary. Because Bitchy’s fiancee finally escorts her from the building. Whew! Close one.

We leave to go to another bar. Because we were only having ONE drink, but no more than five. We go to the swanky bar in The Peninsula Hotel. It was nice. And definitely not a place to wear flip-flops to. I totally classed up the joint. And not just with my flip-flops.

So we sit there, drink some more. (My teeth must be a loverly shade of “grape” at this point.) Next to us are some nice Asian tourists. I say that because I can’t remember if they were from Japan or China. It was one of those. They told us. But I? Was past remembering anything besides wanting to beat Bitchy’s ass.

These tourists are getting harrassed a little by some pompous ass. (No, it wasn’t Tom Brokaw. But he did use to live in Seattle. HA!) I don’t know what this fucktard is going on and on about, but you can tell the tourists just want to sit, enjoy their drinks and have a nice evening. And this guy isn’t letting them.

Something happens. I don’t know what. (Again, loads and loads of Cabernet.) But somehow we’re sitting there and this guy talks about how he lives in Scottsdale. (I think we were all talking to him at one point. Are a friendly bunch, remember.) And (I’m drunk, remember) I am all “GO DEVILS!” and flashing the pitchfork. Repeatedly. Which causes Douchebag McGee to yell out “my son went to ASU and became an alcoholic!”

Whaaa?

My response? “Um, maybe that had more to do with you than ASU. I went there. Graduated in 4 years. And am NOT an alcoholic!” (HA!)

So we yell back and forth. Because you. Do. Not. Disrespect. My. Alma. Mater. EVER!

(And I’m not a belligerent drunk. I’m happy! And huggy! And kissy!)

Finally, I get my senses about me. And realize this is stupid. And so is the drunk jackass with the alcoholic son. So I ignore him. (Which, yes, I know, I should have done from the beginning!)

To which he whispers yells to his weird-looking buddy “My shoes cost more than they make in a month!”

Durr. I’m unemployed! And wearing Target flip-flops! Geesh.

So I don’t think I should go back there. Because of that. And because Shelly and I took pictures in the bathroom. Camera + alcohol is never good.

And then I came home and took about 30 photos of my non-boating outfit. And my new hair do. At 1:30 AM. And most of them ended up like this:

Seriously, woman. Get your ass to the gym and get rid of the arm flab! And hide the camera when you’ve been drinking!

Category: A Dash of the Crazy, A Day in the Life of Me, General, Hooch Hilarity | 6 Comments »
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Posted By Kristabella on May 5, 2007

And not for my many rolls of flab. Or for the pasty white skin. (Both true.)

So Friday morning I had a third interview with this company. That I won’t tell you anything about. Because I don’t know how many other CEOs with really thin skin and huge egos are out there. I really want this job. And obviously, they are pretty interested. (Natch.) I think this was the last one and I’m hoping they make a decision soon. I’m getting quite used to sleeping in and not wearing heels.

You’ll recall (or you won’t) that during my job search last fall (which extended from the summer through the winter) I had to come up with plenty of lies for my interviews. Working in the suburbs and trying to get to the City causes you to leave plenty of time. More time than needed for any normal excuse.

And My Name Is Earl because karma slapped me in the head with a big old fucking stick yesterday.

As I was driving to the interview (it’s about 5 miles from my house, but it’s all on main streets, so it takes about 30 minutes, which beats the shit out of the 90-minute commute to the Dirt People Company.) I totally fucking hit the curb about 2 blocks from my house. It’s like this small side street and they let people park on both sides and there’s not enough room for two cars driving, let alone two cars driving AND two cars parked on the sides (four cars total. Keep up.) So as I turned onto this street, I saw the biggest pick-up truck coming towards me. Like one of those trucks with “thunder thighs” because the back-end-sidey-things-above-the-wheel-wells sticks out much further than the rest of it. (It was probably a Miata.) (If I was a monster truck, I would be shaped that way.) (I may start telling people that I have all this flab around my hips to accommodate my wheel wells.) (No, I don’t know what that means.)

So I cut the turn close. And in the process, I completely take out the cement from the curb. I don’t just nudge up against it. I hit it so hard I think I’ve either lost a tire or have run over a dead body.

First thought: That’s going to be a flat tire.

Second thought: Please don’t go flat until I get to the interview.

Third thought: It will be fine. Hellooooo, I tend to overreact.

So I go on my merry way. I’ve obviously left in plenty of time because I can’t afford to be late for an interview. (That happened once and my head about exploded.) I leave early so that in case there is some freak accident, like the Earth opening up and destroying the intersection of Western and Diversey, I have plenty of time to get to my destination. And to arrive five minutes early so future employer is all impressed with my promptness. Since it will never happen like this once I get the job.

Or, if I get a flat tire. Which I did. Hello Karma? Just call me Earl.

I didn’t actually notice right away. But after sitting at a stoplight about a mile into the commute, when I pulled away I smelled the burning rubber and the “thurumpt-thurumpt-thurumpt” of driving on your wheel. (Which I heard over Drex going on and on about something. (Wheel of Trash Fridays!) Which means, it was loud.) I had no choice but to pull over and do something about this. I think they would understand me being late with a flat tire, right?

So I pull down a side street and thankfully find a parking spot with enough space for me to change a tire. (Yes! I’m a woman! I can change a tire! Just like Pam on The Office! And I heart Jim too!)

What makes it difficult is that I’m in a suit. And I can’t get dirty. And heels. So I would like to say, the next time you have to change a tire, try doing it without kneeling on the ground. And just squatting. One hell of a leg workout.

I picked this side street because there were some businesses around. And people. Because I could see me trying to change the tire and getting thrown in my own trunk and someone driving off with me. And then I would be pissed I didn’t remember how to get help when locked in your own trunk from that email going around. (Why didn’t I read it and send to 50 of my women friends? Must make note to research how to escape from own trunk.)

There was some random dude. Standing on the corner. By his (??) mini-van. With the door open. He offered to help, but I didn’t take it. (Um, durr.) I knew what I was doing. If I could just find the jack! (Why is it in some super-secret-squirrel pocket in the truck? And what else is in my trunk that I don’t know about? And is there something in there that would help me escape being locked in my own trunk?)

So I got the tire changed. In less than 10 minutes! (Did I mention I was in heels? And a suit? Rock on with your bad self!) And was on my merry way to my interview.

And I wasn’t a minute late! Not! One! I was right on time. So according to Mr. Snoeck, I was late because “Early is on time and on time is late.” Suck it, Maestro.

The interview went really well. I called my mom on my way to tell her all about karma and changing my name to Earl (and I so don’t look anything like an Earl and don’t want to move into a hotel.) And she said “this is a good thing. Think of the stories you can tell them! And don’t wash your hands! Show them proof!”

Mom was right. It really helped. Look at my dedication! And my ability to think on my feet! And my willingness to get things done! In a timely manner! The VP lady was super impressed. The other person was just impressed that I didn’t immediately call AAA and a taxi. (Which I think overshadowed the fact that I actually said “ginormous” in the interview. Seriously.)

So woot to me. Because I rule.

And please give me the job.

Category: A Dash of the Crazy, A Day in the Life of Me, General, Job Search | 7 Comments »
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Posted By Kristabella on May 3, 2007

So when you’re on the verge of becoming a homeless person (no, not really), time becomes irrelevant. You no longer have to be up by a certain time or be anywhere. Your weeks turn into days on top of days on top of days of sitting around. (Well, actually, my life is always like that. But at least I got dressed and left every so often.) With interviews thrown in every now and then.

So drinking on a Wednesday night is completely acceptable. (Yesterday was Wednesday, right?) Because, really? I don’t have to get up on Thursday. I can sleep it off all day. And mostly I’m just excited to be doing something that involves something other than pajama pants and talking to the cats.

Back when I had a job, I bought tickets to go on a boat cruise on Lake Michigan with my friend Shelly. It was for charity, for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. And it was all you can eat and drink for like $30. I was all over that. So this booze cruise was last night. I was pleased as punch that not only was I leaving the house! To see other people! Conversations! But that I didn’t have to go anywhere today. So I could drink! My money’s worth!

So since I stay inside all day. And the last time I was out was like Sunday, when it was like 85, I figured it was like that, right? (No, I am not this stupid. For one, I’ve turned into an old person and watch like 6 newscasts a day. For two, I read the paper. And for three, I go to weather.com And for four, I’m wearing a sweatshirt inside since I think it is still 85 out and the windows are open and it is clearly NOT 85.)

Well, I think it was 60 yesterday. Maybe. And windy as shit. But since I’m jobless, I’m not putting on heels if I don’t have to. So what did I wear to the boat? Boating attire. (Read flip flops.) Stupid girl!

As I walked to catch the bus to Shelly’s, I realized this was a horrible, horrible mistake. But there was no turning back. I also realized as I got to Shelly’s, which is right by the Lake, that it was FREEZING by the Lake! (Duh. And yes, I’m aware it’s always cooler by the Lake. Apparently talking to my cats has made me stupid. But it’s spring! It’s May! Am idiot!) (Oh, and did I mention with the flip flops, I was also wearing the thinnest shirt, which was short-sleeved. (Again, spring! May! 60 degrees! Idiot!) Oh, and a thin spring jacket. Slaps forehead at stupidity.)

The email from the outing people said that there was no dress code. And that the norm was business casual, since most people come right from work. Except me, of course.

Well, the email lied! LIARS! Because everyone in there was all dressed up. And trendy! And unemployed casual is a lot different than business casual and we were on A BOAT PEOPLE! I don’t think 3 1/2 inch stilettos are acceptable on a rocky ship!

Whatever, I was fine after my first glass of wine. And we stayed on the indoors part of the boat. So I was all warm and toasty. With a lovely Cabernet glow. And purple teeth.

And I’m hoping this headache goes away soon. And I could really go for a burrito right about now.

Category: A Dash of the Crazy, A Day in the Life of Me, General, Hooch Hilarity | 4 Comments »
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Posted By Kristabella on May 1, 2007

Tonight, some friends and I headed to Barnes & Noble for a book reading/signing event. We got to meet the Jen Lancaster! The author! The blogger! The person I might now start stalking! (Kidding.) (Maybe.)

Jen’s new book, Bright Lights, Big Ass came out today. And you should all go out and buy it. Right NOW! And she’s not even paying me to tell you that. I am just that big of a fan! (where fan = crazeeee!) And if it’s anywhere as near as good as Bitter is the New Black, then it’s going to be all kinds of awesome. I’ve already heard/read two excerpts from it. And? Awesome. Toe. Tah. Lee.

And I am also the world’s biggest nerd! Because we got there like 2 hours early. To get good seats. (Seriously.) And people didn’t show up until about 45 minutes before the reading. Thank God I wasn’t by myself. Because then I would have been talking to the magazine racks.

But I anticipated all kinds of crowds. And lines out the door. Because, um, hello? It’s Jen! She’s a celebrity. (I’m pretty sure I should get out more.)

She read a high-larious excerpt and took questions from the audience. And I asked one. (Me!) And then proceeded to turn a lovely shade of blood red. And then passed out in my chair. (No, not really.)

And Fletch was there. In the back. Standing right next to this week’s issue of In Touch, with the headline “Surprise BOOB JOBS!” (Heeeheee.)

(And then I totally had to pull out my little blog notebook. Because that added to the awesomeness. Fletch! And Jen! Live and in person! Holy shit!)

Two of my friends totally cut to the front of the line when she started signing. Which was good. One, because they invited her to our book club this month! A whole night with Jen. To drink and talk about celebrity gossip and reality TV. Oh, and the book, of course. I may pass out from the excitement. And two, my friend happened to mention that I had a blog and had an interesting story to go along with it.

So when I got up to the front (after law-abidingly going to the end of the line) I told her about it. I was all confident and said “I am a fellow blogger. And I got fired. And will move on to much bigger and better things. And that company blows. And can you believe the absurdity of it all? And how dumb is Slalom?”

Actually, in reality, I was slouching, fidgeting, talking whispering to my shoes, all shades of crimson and don’t think I actually looked her in the eye when I talked to her. It came out more like “heeee blogging Slalom sucks heeeeee guessed the name pompous ass heeeee Tom Brokaw third interview Friday happens reason OH MY GOD I lurrrrve you heeeeeee!”

(Really? Me? Not suitable to be out in public.)

And the best part? This is what she signed in my book: “Kristin – Your old job sucks & you rock. Best – Jen Lancaster.”

Oh. My. God! Eeeeeeeeeeeeee! And awesome.

And will spend the next few weeks learning skills to be able to interact in normal social situations. Am fucking idiot!

Category: A Dash of the Crazy, A Day in the Life of Me, General | 6 Comments »
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