My Blog

My blog is moving.  If interested you can check it out HERE.

I went to the Bulls playoff game last night.  They sucked, but it was fun anyhow!  I don’t attend many major sporting events so apparently I’m not up on the appropriate attire.  I wore tennis shoes, jeans, and my new favorite t-shirt.  Why didn’t anyone tell me I was supposed to wear high heels to basketball games?  I also realized, after a very large boobied women was in my sight-line all last night, that my tits are unfortunately proportionate to my body size.  Thanks, Mom!  Instead of passing on those double d’s you passed on the horns and tail.  And that, folks, is what I took away from the game!

Feeling hungry?  You should check out some awesome recipes at THIS site.

Remember at the beginning of Crocodile Dundee when the poachers were going wild and crazy and shooting their guns?  Remember how Mr. Crocodile Dundee then picked up the dead deer and stood behind it completely masked?  And the poachers see those deer eyes and then a gun and then the deer, aka Dundee, starts shooting at the poachers?  Man!  That was HIGHlarious!

I’m trying to remember really really really hilarious things that make me laugh and laugh and laugh because I almost died today.  Which, in and of itself, is pretty funny.  I mean, imagine dying and then rotting in the ground!  So funny!  Wait.  I misspelled funny…I meant SCARY.   In my attempt to laugh off death this morning the only thing I could think of was that scene in Crocodile Dundee.

I got to work at 7:15, an hour earlier than usual, wearing my sunglasses - attempting to hide the puffiness and because boy that sun sure is bright!  I hit the up button and one of the 4 elevators opened up for me and I dutifully walked in.  The one under construction.  I walked into the elevator that’s under construction.  I walked in and as I was turning around and the doors were CLOSING I noticed the control panel, that homes the floor buttons and that beautiful emergency button that makes me feel o so safe, was hanging from wires.  Completely out of order.  No lie.  Welcome, panic mode!  Then the elevator started moving; it went up and down from the first floor to the 23rd floor until panic mode turned to freak-out mode.  Why is it that the only thing that worked on that elevator was the door opening for me?!

I just realized I never asked God for anything, or promised to even believe in the existence of Shim, which tends to be the case in such situations with people such as me.  Since I forgot I’m sure glad I didn’t die.  People such as me = woman = makes babies = weaker sex = eats apples = forgets to repent = dies alone in an elevator without fulfilling her duty of making a man happy and passing on his sperm and having never ever known the love of a hand thats touched her.  (Over the top?  Not when death is looking you in the face!)

Anyhoo, I calmed myself and called 411 to get the number for the building where I work so SOMEONE would know I was stuck.  Not a good idea.  They didn’t have the number.  And I was rude to the guy too…"sorry, dude, I was scared."  I was scared and screaming and banging on the door and yelling ,"great.  Well, thanks!  You’ve been a HUGE help!" 

(I have issues with 411 anyhow because since the service has been outsourced the people you’re calling have no fucking clue about your area.  At one time you could call up and were connected to someone who actually lived in your city, "oh, girl!  I’ve been there.  You’re spelling it wrong.  It’s A.N.T.H.E.N.E.U.M."  I’ve had issues with this in the past.)

Anyhoo, I then tried to think of people who come into the office early while also making sure not to forget that I could die at any second.  So, I called Natania, who gets in at 4:30 AM.  Not really, but it’s pretty darn early.  Natania answered and awesomely went down to the first floor to tell them I was stuck in the ele.  Vator, that is.  The doors shook for a while and opened a ¼ of an inch and then slammed shut.  I started banging on the door again and screaming and then the door opened and I JUMPED out onto the 13th floor.  And yes, Tim, Emily Rose was there to greet me. 

This entry sort of sucks, but I just wanted you all to know I could have died.  Aren’t you SOOOO glad I didn’t?!?!  Tell me why via handwritten letter on your favorite stationary.  GO!

This weekend while in ole Missouri I told someone that I had received my BFA in theatre and the reply I got was, "so, do you do that classical shit or is it more like That 70’s Show?"

Hmmm.  Well, with those two options I’m going to have to say maaabyeeennnnnnoyes!?!?

I really wish I would have inquired further but i t was at dinner with lots of people and Helen’s brothers, who are like my brothers, were just walking in and I was greeting and hugging and…I was distracted at best.

Anyhow, it’s amazing to me that in that person’s mind it was either "classical shit" or "That 70’s Show."  I’m assuming to him classical shit = stage, and That 70’s Show = film.  But maybe not.  Also, WHY That 70’s Show?  Tell you what I’m going to do…I’m going to just stick my hand in this hat right here…can’t wait to see what I got…just unfolding the piece of paper…oh!  look what I have…That 70’s Show!

Classical shit OR That 70’s Show.  If I weren’t distracted I would have probably just kept saying "or?"  to see what else he would have said. 

BUT more importantly my sister is a big fat lesbian.  Actually, she’s a tall, thin, beautiful lesbian.  oh, semantics’s, you get me every time!  Anyhoo!  Saturday we go to Martha’s Vineyard, the gay bar there, and it’s packed.  My sister grabs my hand and leads me thru the maze of same sex sexiness and is introducing me to everyone along the way and they’re screaming "yay!  Ellie’s here!"  Except for that one girl who, after Ellie introduced me as her sister, said, "oh, thanks god!  I saw you coming and thought ‘fuck!  Ellie’s dating someone who looks EXACTLY like her.’"  We danced like maniacs and the DJ got on her mic and yelled "is that Ellie I see out there shaking her booty!?!?!"  So then Ellie introduced me to the DJ and she played Peaches for me!  It was so much fun to see how much everyone adores her.  Thanks, Springpatch gays, for helping me get my hate back. 

Oh!  And also exciting, I was privy to new co-habitation between my best friend from high school, Helen, and her boyfriend, Lance.  They’re totally living in sin. Anyhow, they have this cute little house on this adorable little street with lots of trees.  They have a new puppy name Morgan, who is some sort of mix but looks like a black lab.  And Morgan is soooo sweet!  I almost kidnapped her.  Or dognapped.  But I can’t decide which one.  Anyhow, she doesn’t bark and she’s so calm and just curls up at your feet or on your lap.  I was so in love with her.

Saturday eve us ladies were busy in the bathroom getting ready for dinner and martini’s and Helen was having a hard time deciding on hair up or hair down.  I know it’s so small and maybe it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things but she’s wasn’t feeling too great about herself and so hair indecision just wasn’t helping.  Helen walks into the living room where her boyfriend, Lance, is sitting patiently sipping some white wine and watching TV, and I hear her ask sadly "do I look pretty?"  And I hear Lance take a deep breath in and exhale and say, "God, Helen.  You’re gorgeous."  This is the first time I’ve met Lance, and although this doesn’t mean I know anything about how their relationship functions, but it’s just little things like that that best friends want to hear.  I want to know that someone else sees how beautiful she is.  But also Helen got really drunk that night and was puking all over their lawn and Lance totally took care of her really sweetly.  While I stood on the porch and laughed like the asshole I am.

After seeing all this my conclusion is this - sin is rewarded.  Go sin!  And that’s why I’ve decided to sin until the sun comes up and goes down and all over this m-fing town!   

I’m in Missouri again.  My hotel room is uncomfortably cold.  Not sure what I’m going to do right now.  Shopping.  Beer.  Food.  I’m hungry.  It’s 4:55 PM and I’ve managed to consume 1 breakfast bar, 1 bottle of water, and 2 cups of coffee. 

My taste buds are changing.  Why can’t you stay the same?  Never change!  See you at the pool this summer!  I liked my coffee with 1/2 and sugar at one point.  I changed and started to enjoy Silk Soy Creamer.  I drank both cups of coffee today black.  This entire week I’ve been drinking my coffee black.  See?  I knew you’d change.  Remember how you used to hate tomatoes?  I saw you eat that Margarita Flat-bread with those huge tomatoes all over it!  I knew you’d change.  I could see it coming from a mile away and I stayed woefully ignorant. 

(Don’t worry, I don’t have an eating disorder.  Women & food don’t always have the best relationships, but I adore food.  I’m just nervous right now.  I’m emotional.  My emotions are all a aflutter and my stomach is rejecting what’s put inside.)

Thought I would be doing something different tonight, but here I am.  I might order in room service, take a nice long bath, watch horrible TV that I only feel right about when I’m either in a hotel or at someone else’s place.  (invite me over so we can watch reality tv!)  I might call someone I know here in town and make them go to dinner with me. 

I feel like being alone.  Sometimes I just want to be alone.  To see the world on my own.

I long for home.  Springfield.  I don’t want to live there, but I want to be there right now. 

I want to have a martini at Mudlounge, and eat dinner at Nonna’s. 

So many memories! 
To walk by the theatre where I played Laura. 
To walk by the other theatre where I played Tomasina. 
To walk by the other theatre where I bared by breasts and no one came to see it and it makes me think, "hey!  what a minute!  aren’t my breasts nice enough to want to see!" 
Remember at the HighLife when that guy and girl at the bar were making out and then he turned around and kissed me?  Such guts!  Such shock on my part! 
I feel in love in Springfield - at least 100 times or more. 
Remember softball? - man I sucked in my Bootlicious t-shirt and doin’ my jigs up to the mound. 
Remember watching Cops in my mind? 
I learned how to laugh and how to cry there. 
I learned how to smile through the tears there. 
I’ve walked miles there.  Actually, no, I probably didn’t.  I drove miles there, I drove 1/2 a block to Penera from my apartment there. 
My grandpa died while I was there. 
I was a cheerleader there. 
I was the captain of my ship there. 
I was lost there. 
I was found somewhere else, not there. 
I made out with my high school sweetheart in a park there. 
I lost my patience there. 
I feel apart and picked myself back up there. 
I sang Turn Back, O Man in front of an audience and sat on Mr. Staley’s lap there.
I learned how to read there. 
I learned to pleasure myself there. 
One of my best friends died there.   
I’ve eaten $5 dollar burger/fries at Harpo’s there. 
I helped grow a garden there. 
I rushed my sister with her sliced open finger to the hospital there. 
I woke up to my mother playing the piano there.

you guys.  I’m SO dyslexic.  and also retarded.  if you’ve missed a few of my blogs then you might not know that:

1. I’m dyslexic.
2. My biggest fear is that I’m actually retarded and no one has told.

but seriously, I’m clinically dyslexic.  but not defined as clinically retarded.  just yet.

My sister called me last night laughing hysterically, "i LOVE that the entire time you’re writing about someone retarded and you’re calling him johnny DEEP!"  thanks for calling me out, Ellie Jane.

just so you know I have absolutely NO other flaws.  None.  Zero. Zilch.  Nil.  Naught.  That’s the one and only.  Singular.  Sole.  The lone flaw.  All by its lonesome.  So alone.  This flaw is going stag, my friends, totally unescorted.  The loneliest number is traveling light tonight.  Solitary.  Completely free and by itself.
 
*I have so many flaws I can’t kepp track!*

Hey!  I can cook a killer casserole!  I know what a broom is for and I know how to use it…creatively!  I’ve been told I have nice birthing hips!

Just love me anyway. 

I got somethin’ to say!
"I want to have sex with a dog."
No, but are you listening now? 

I went to high school with the retarded version of Johnny Deep.    He was a sexual retard.  After telling friends this weekend about my retarded Johnny Deep I found out I need to clarify this classification (see conversation below).  For a spell I worked next door to the McDonald’s in my home town where he cleaned the parking lot.  When I’d see him I’d stop to chat for a bit and he always looked at me like he wanted to mount up.  Seriously, he was overtly sexual towards me.  And probably to the hose he was using to clean off oil stains in the parking lot.  And maybe even towards dogs, who knows.  No, seriously, who knows?  I want details.

So, this weekend was Trista’s birthday and Trista, Leslie, and I went to dinner at a little Mexican restaurant in Andyville on Sunday eve.  We were having a good ole time and I’m telling them about my retarded Johnny Deep and how he’s a sexual retard.

Leslie:  I’ve know sexual retards, but a retard that’s sexual?
Trista:  I have NEVER known a retard that’s sexual!
Annie:  Really?!

I mean, I’ve known a few in my day.  We are crapping our pants laughing so hard at our conversations of sexual retards and how surprised I am that they’ve never known one.

Now keep in mind we are laughing pretty damn hard, but our conversation is at low volume.  Also keep in mind that it’s just us and ONE other table all the way across the restaurant of two cunts.  Whatever.  I’ll use that word if I please.  Lick my cunt.
So, anyway we’re crapping our pants laughing so hard when:

Woman 1:  (angry, loud volume) Can you keep it DOWN over there?!?!
Woman 2:  (embarrassed, low volume) Oh, no.  It’s okay…
Trista, Leslie, Annie:  (mouths agape, appalled stares).

Plus, to top it all off woman 1 was paying the check.  And apparently figuring out that 20% required complete silence, which included reprimanding laughter.  Maybe it required greater concentration because she keeps those tips to a nice 3.27 %. 

Man!  They were paying their check!  A mere 2 more minutes in the restaurant and they were gone.  Need I remind you that 1. the conversation was at low volume so it’s not like they were sexual retards and were offended by our conversation and 2.  we were laughing.  We weren’t blaring our boom boxes with our rape music.  Yes, rape music…it gets us all pumped up.  We weren’t loading up our rifles and screaming about how we were going to complete the next Columbine.  And strangely enough, and this might surprise some of you, we didn’t bring our flock of wild boar with their pet chimpanzees who make up the best little noise band you ever did see!

What a buzz kill.

I’ve convinced you, right?  We were in the right and they were in the wrong.  Right?  I need continuous validation.  It’s not as sexy as you might think.

I’m right?  Right?

Last night I found out it IS hard out there for a pimp.  But I’m glad to report some of them have dreams, flow, and a pretty ho who can "procure" a $250 dollar mic.

The weather is slowly changing in Chicago.  This past week it was a beautiful global warming 80 degrees!  Weather men & women like to mask this by calling it "unseasonably warm."  This week, however, it will be closer to mid-50’s.  When this happens you’re not sure when to exchange those fluffy sweaters for cute tank tops and short skirts.  You’re not sure when to change your bedding from a sweltering down comforter to a light quilt made by your mother and reminiscent of that beautiful ole Missouri.  I have yet to make the changes.  I hate being cold.  Sometime last week, in warm weather and covered up in a down comforter, my asleep mind thought the best bet would be to completely remove the tucked in sheet from my bed but keep that down comforter snuggled up around my chin.  Nice thinking, brain. 

Yesterday I assisted my friend, the pastry chef, for a 300 person Easter brunch.  Coming from behind a computer in a cubicle where the bathroom is a lengthy 50 feet away, I have to say I have no idea how she survives.  One day of that and I was exhausted!  I ditched on my plans for later that evening because soaking in a hot bubble bath, and lounging around in a robe seemed labor intense.  Hats off to you, my carrot cake wizard!

This morning on the platform at Bryn Mawr I made contact with a crazy.

I am NOT kidding, I was standing there thinking about how certain cultural desires are indicative of the times; how Christianity could only have been born out of Judeo-Roman Middle East, it could never have been born in this day in age.  I wasn’t thinking those EXACT words, after-all it was fucking 7:00 in the AM, my bitches, but it was close.

Anyhow, out of no where, it appears, a crazy woman was able to read my mind.   I could feel someone approaching behind me so I turned and looked into her eyes and I smiled, as I often do when making eye contact.  I knew immediately that I had made the wrong decision.  She had SO much anger in her eyes.

"YOU are crucifying me!  WHY are you crucifying me?!  You could tell I’m a Christian!  You could tell I’m a Christian and you crucify me!" 

This freaked me out a little bit, partly because she had just read my mind, but mostly because a crazy person was yelling at me.  Thus, I laughed, as I often do in awkward situations.  Surprisingly, this was the wrong decision, again.

"You…you…you are so ugly.  Look at you!  You are so ugly and so dumb."

And like Shakespeares’ fool, the crazy person sometimes speaks the truth with more clarity and honestly than a person with 1/2 a "normal" brain.

I was appalled that she had said that and yes, it hurt my feelings, but she’s probably right.  To her I was probably the ugliest, dumbest person she had ever seen…with my fucking 70’s throw-back rock-star sun-glasses, and my fucking curled hair falling softly on my fucking red spring coat, bitches.  It’s nice weather, finally, bitches!  I’m going to drink imported beer out of a frosted mug in this fine weather, bitches.  And look at my bronzed cheeks, bitches!  And my sweet ass pedicure that cost more than those +2 Wal-green’s classes you’re wearing.  My bitches and my seriously beautiful ho’s, I’m wearing new panties and tonight I’m going to open the windows of my cozy little apartment and play some freakin Gorillaz and pull out my brand new toy and give her a try between my legs.  Look at all the things I have, my bitches!  My bitches and my seriously beautiful ho’s, look at the things I have!

Man.  I’m standing there soooo fucking cool, so fucking decked OUT in my stylin’ gear and I do not feel guilty for wearing those 70’s throw-back rock-star sun-glasses because I freakin’ like them, but I do not blame her for looking at me and seeing such ugliness.  It’s mother fucking relative anyhow.  Right, my bitches?

Apparently, doing your taxes while on a hallucinogenic is not recommended by the federal and state government’s.  I repeat NOT recommended. I, on the other hand, highly recommend it.  Well, 4 out of 5 times…those numbers just melt right off the page like butta…they melt right off the page and into your mouth sooo yummy like a chocolate bunny dipped in butta!  Chocolate chip, honey dipped, can I get a scoop?  1 out of 5 times, however, those numbers resemble THIS.

Someone in my building owns a bird.  A bird for a pet.   Who else thinks this is dumb dumb?
"I know what I"m going to do!  I’m going to go get me a pet that makes really annoying sounds, that produces white vomity poop, and has lots of diseases.  I’m soooo smart!  I have a bird for a pet!  Soooo smart!  I’m smarty pants!  Smart, smart, smart!"
I prefer those cute little pet rocks.

Is it wrong for me to say I don’t like birds?  What if I say babies are sexy?  Is that wrong?  Comparing the two, which is wronger?

My sister had a bird when we were younger and she was smart.  She named him Charlie, after our dad.  Charlie Bird.  Charlie got himself a tumor and died.  My dad, not the bird.  Kidding.  It was the bird.  Or maybe that was the hamster.  Or rat.  Ellie had lots of pets.

Growing up I had a blue, reminiscent of Little House on the Prairie, dress that I wore everyday for a year.  You might think I’m exaggerating but I am.  It was probably more like 300 days out of that year.  But doesn’t AN ENTIRE YEAR sound way more impressive?  That’s not really the point, however…the point IS sometimes I don’t know what to do with balls.  Do I lick, do I suck, do I soccer punch?  Kidding.  I know what to do.  I put them in my ass and call it a day.  Hmmm?  I’m right, aren’t I?  Hello? Bueller?