I fully understand that the children of america, the future of our nation, are in jeopardy. The education system is screwed, teachers are underpaid, etc, etc, etc. But there is a far more disturbing problem erupting from the very building that I work in every day. You see, there is a rather large nursing school housed in our lovely building. So everyday when I step off the train, I have to wade through a sea of women in cobalt blue scrubs, all of whom tug around those back-packs on wheels. Yes the back pack on wheels trend is disturbing ( are we now too good for straps? when did that happen?), but that is not my true concern. My concern is that this gaggle of nurses in training can always be found in one of three locations: 1) Loitering outside the Dunkin' Doughnuts 2) Loitering outside the Burger King/ Mc Donalds/ Chicken joint. 3) Loitering outside the building in a large cloud of cigarette smoke. Now, I don't mean to be an elitest health nut but come on. You are training to be nurses people. Would it kill you to trade in a doughnut run for a powerwalk instead? And please, let's discuss which is worse, a pregnant woman smoking, or a medical professional smoking. This goes beyond irony my friends. This is pure insanity.
I just had to pause to put on my glasses. Which means I think I am officially getting old. Either that or I am officially becoming a member of the Cubical Community... the Dilbert World... as I have actually begun to lose my sight from staring at a computer all day. This is no fault of my job, I feel the need to point that out. It is actually the result of my addiction to several crack-like websites:
www.defamer.com
www.gofugyourself.com
www.televisionwithoutpity.com
www.fametracker.com
You take a look at those, and about a week from now, when you can pull your eye away from their riveting content, post me a message letting me know how much you love me for introducing you. Or how much you hate me and how I have ruined your professional life forever. I owe my addiction to Alice M. Walton, my partner in crime at Variety. Now you can credit your addiction to me. Welcome to the life of a gossip junkie. It's a hard life. But very rewarding.
Don't you love it when things live up to the hype? Like Batman Begins. Aside from the rather lackluster/joey in a dull suit performance by Katie Holmes, the movie was awesome. So awesome in fact that it won back millions of movie goers who had written off Batman entirely after the last, rather flawed and ridiculous venture of Batman and Robin. I, of course, was not scared off at all. I thought B&R was great. Beautiful. Riveting. But I might be biased considering that this movie came out about the same time that I was blossiming into my womanhood, and I would have devoured and loved anything in which I could see Chris O'Donnell's body encased in latex.
You know what else totally lived up to the hype? Tivo. I remember hearing about it when it first came out and thinking "Who would pay all that money just to be able to pause live tv? Pee during the commercial breaks you rich freaks." But its legend continued to grow spawning the newest techy verb since "googling". People were "tivoing" everything! I began to fantasize about what it would be like to come home from work in the afternoon and not have to wade through channels looking for something comforting to unwind my mind with only to have to settle for the episode of Full House where they go to Disney World and Stephanie feels left out again (actually one of my faves, but i thought i'd use it in this instance to make a point). And then, I did it. I succommed. I was lured in by the siren song of a free DVR with purchase and now I have joined the ranks of the Tivo elite. And my god. It is fantastic.
Oh, by the way, did I mention that I am the most attractive girl in the city of Chicago? Well I am. Or, well, actually, let me rephrase. I seem to have a level of attractiveness that is noticeable and for some reason inviting to men who have no manners and or discernable grooming routines. That's right. I am a magnet for ugly rude guys. "Hey baby, I wish you were my baby's momma." "I am gonna make you a limited time offer to take a ride on what I'm packin'" " You better have a boyfriend or I am gonna take you home with me right now." "Guuuuurrrrrl you don't know WHAT you're doin to me." All of those brilliantly romantic comments were offered to me during during various trips on the lovely CTA bus system. After years and years of wondering what it would feel like to be legitimately hit on, I am now the queen of disgusting public offers. Why can't I get a normal, if somewhat smarmy guy in an Express for Men leather motorcycle jacket to make a lame-o joke about losing his number and wanting to borrow mine? Then I could just giggle and say, "Sorry, no thanks." and walk a way with a little teasing wiggle in my hips and consider my ego pumped. But no. I get the kind of comments that make vomit rise in my throat and cause me to immediately start digging for my keys and my cell phone just in case I need to stab him in the eye with my mailbox key and start dialing 911 as I sprint down the street in my troublesome stiletto heels. I don't know where I went wrong in my karmic cycle, but I don't think I deserve to be propositioned for dirty acts more than twice a week. It's just too much for a girl to handle.
Alright. that is all the ranting and raving I have stored up for this update....
until we meet again.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
My Kind of Town
Chicago, Illinois. My new home. I have to say, I like the pizza.
But what I like most of all is that on every single bus and train I have ever ridden in this city (and that is no small number) I always see people giving up their seats. Men giving their seats to ladies. Children giving their seats to the elderly and pregnant women. Somehow, all these commuters who seem so isolated in their little iPod universe manage to be constantly aware of the needs of the people around them. It's incredible. In fact, pretty much everything about my life in this city thus far has been incredible.
For starters, my job. Time Out London was the publication that made me want to be a writer. Now everyday when the elevator opens on the 17th floor of my building, and I see the Time Out logo glowing from inside the glass doors of the office, I get a little smile on my face. I still can't believe I am here. Somedays I feel like a fraud. Like at any moment they could discover that I really am not an expert on shopping or fashion and that my credentials are worthless and my clips lack any discernable talent and they will come and ask me to pack up my things and go. Other days I feel completely capable. I worked for this. I earned this. I hid in bathroom stalls in Los Angeles to eavesdrop on Nicolette Sheridan for this. And let's be honest. Not every moment of the job is a dream come true. Schlepping around the city in uncomfortable shoes to pick out the season's best dog costumes isn't really what I imagined I would do with my life. But nor did I ever expect that I would hear a news achor say my name. As in "We have Jenn Thompson here with us today to share the secrets of fall fashion accessories." I loved hearing my name said in the smooth rich tones of the anchors voice. Now if only I could say the same about hearing my own voice. I have both of my TV apperances tivo'd. But I haven't been able to make it through either of them. I always run out of the room screaming and covering my ears to block out the erie sound of my own words coming through the screen. It's horrifying.
But not as horrifying, apparently , as a Chicago Winter. Which, so I have heard, are practically unbearable. Considering that my idea of winter is a few days during which it drops below 32 degrees and a possible quickly-melting snow fall, I think i am in some serious trouble. I don't own what most people would refer to as "a warm coat". Nor do I really understand the concept of boots that aren't leather and high heeled. Not to mention that it was 50 degrees two mornings last week and I have whipped out the heaviest scarf I own. Of course this was also when my mother was visiting. She saw me walk up with a large purple scarf wrapped all the way up to my nose and began to cackle with laughter. I think she might have even started a pool with my relatives back in NC to see how long it takes before I call begging to come home for the weekend "just to get warm". This is not good. Not good at all. I am told that things don't get really ugly until January or February. At which point, I will have strapped myself down on the couch in our apartment, covered in threee blankets and wearing long underware under my pajamas so as to avoid high gas heating bills. How I will go to work and remain a productive human being remains to be seen. Survival is the main goal.
I think I would find the winter more bearable though, if I had a puppy. Though, I also believe that polio, the plague, and golf tournaments would all be bearable if I had a puppy. I want a puppy rilly rilly bad. However, there are a few things standing between me and puppy bliss: 1) Our apartment doesn't allow them. 2)I cannot afford one 3) I can't decide which kind I want. Obviously I am only really concerned with one of these problems. What kind do I get? Once I solve that, everything else will fall into place. At the moment I am leaning towards a toy beagle. Let me know what you think.
Joe, bless his soul, indulges my puppy lust on a regular basis. He does not call me crazy when I start talking about Gus and Sam and Wrigley ( Beagle, Brown Lab, Blond Lab) as if I actually already own them. He doesn't mind when I fall to my knees and talk in incomprehensible baby talk to a puppy belonging to an unsuspecting stranger who happened to be walking his pup on the street. He has stopped reminding me of problems 1 and 2 whenever I whine "WHYYYYYYYYyyyyyeeee can't we have one???" He is, among other things, a tolerante boy.
Granted, I know that a puppy is not a smart addition to a really nice apartment. He will chew things and pee on things and roll around on things that I would prefer he not. And, let it be said that our apartment is no shabby shelter. I am pretty sure that our sink alone costs the same as a month's rent. So yes, it would be a travesty if our darling little Gus was to chew at the corners of our custom cabinetry, or urinate on our slate tile floor, or playfully tug on my carefully chosen satin window dressings. But when I look into those little adorable puppy eyes... all would be forgiven. Except perhaps by our landlord Mark who actually built the custom cabinetry and laid the tile floors and rehabbed the bathroom and sunk thousands and thousands of dollars into a place far nicer and far bigger than anywhere I could ever afford to live ever again in my life. So, for now, my puppy lust must remain unfullfilled. Thus I as a person, remain incomplete.
Alright. I must end this post a little prematurely so that I can go out and gather up more alarm clocks for our upcoming feature on.. well alarm clocks. Adieu for now and feel free to post comments, questions, complaints.
But what I like most of all is that on every single bus and train I have ever ridden in this city (and that is no small number) I always see people giving up their seats. Men giving their seats to ladies. Children giving their seats to the elderly and pregnant women. Somehow, all these commuters who seem so isolated in their little iPod universe manage to be constantly aware of the needs of the people around them. It's incredible. In fact, pretty much everything about my life in this city thus far has been incredible.
For starters, my job. Time Out London was the publication that made me want to be a writer. Now everyday when the elevator opens on the 17th floor of my building, and I see the Time Out logo glowing from inside the glass doors of the office, I get a little smile on my face. I still can't believe I am here. Somedays I feel like a fraud. Like at any moment they could discover that I really am not an expert on shopping or fashion and that my credentials are worthless and my clips lack any discernable talent and they will come and ask me to pack up my things and go. Other days I feel completely capable. I worked for this. I earned this. I hid in bathroom stalls in Los Angeles to eavesdrop on Nicolette Sheridan for this. And let's be honest. Not every moment of the job is a dream come true. Schlepping around the city in uncomfortable shoes to pick out the season's best dog costumes isn't really what I imagined I would do with my life. But nor did I ever expect that I would hear a news achor say my name. As in "We have Jenn Thompson here with us today to share the secrets of fall fashion accessories." I loved hearing my name said in the smooth rich tones of the anchors voice. Now if only I could say the same about hearing my own voice. I have both of my TV apperances tivo'd. But I haven't been able to make it through either of them. I always run out of the room screaming and covering my ears to block out the erie sound of my own words coming through the screen. It's horrifying.
But not as horrifying, apparently , as a Chicago Winter. Which, so I have heard, are practically unbearable. Considering that my idea of winter is a few days during which it drops below 32 degrees and a possible quickly-melting snow fall, I think i am in some serious trouble. I don't own what most people would refer to as "a warm coat". Nor do I really understand the concept of boots that aren't leather and high heeled. Not to mention that it was 50 degrees two mornings last week and I have whipped out the heaviest scarf I own. Of course this was also when my mother was visiting. She saw me walk up with a large purple scarf wrapped all the way up to my nose and began to cackle with laughter. I think she might have even started a pool with my relatives back in NC to see how long it takes before I call begging to come home for the weekend "just to get warm". This is not good. Not good at all. I am told that things don't get really ugly until January or February. At which point, I will have strapped myself down on the couch in our apartment, covered in threee blankets and wearing long underware under my pajamas so as to avoid high gas heating bills. How I will go to work and remain a productive human being remains to be seen. Survival is the main goal.
I think I would find the winter more bearable though, if I had a puppy. Though, I also believe that polio, the plague, and golf tournaments would all be bearable if I had a puppy. I want a puppy rilly rilly bad. However, there are a few things standing between me and puppy bliss: 1) Our apartment doesn't allow them. 2)I cannot afford one 3) I can't decide which kind I want. Obviously I am only really concerned with one of these problems. What kind do I get? Once I solve that, everything else will fall into place. At the moment I am leaning towards a toy beagle. Let me know what you think.
Joe, bless his soul, indulges my puppy lust on a regular basis. He does not call me crazy when I start talking about Gus and Sam and Wrigley ( Beagle, Brown Lab, Blond Lab) as if I actually already own them. He doesn't mind when I fall to my knees and talk in incomprehensible baby talk to a puppy belonging to an unsuspecting stranger who happened to be walking his pup on the street. He has stopped reminding me of problems 1 and 2 whenever I whine "WHYYYYYYYYyyyyyeeee can't we have one???" He is, among other things, a tolerante boy.
Granted, I know that a puppy is not a smart addition to a really nice apartment. He will chew things and pee on things and roll around on things that I would prefer he not. And, let it be said that our apartment is no shabby shelter. I am pretty sure that our sink alone costs the same as a month's rent. So yes, it would be a travesty if our darling little Gus was to chew at the corners of our custom cabinetry, or urinate on our slate tile floor, or playfully tug on my carefully chosen satin window dressings. But when I look into those little adorable puppy eyes... all would be forgiven. Except perhaps by our landlord Mark who actually built the custom cabinetry and laid the tile floors and rehabbed the bathroom and sunk thousands and thousands of dollars into a place far nicer and far bigger than anywhere I could ever afford to live ever again in my life. So, for now, my puppy lust must remain unfullfilled. Thus I as a person, remain incomplete.
Alright. I must end this post a little prematurely so that I can go out and gather up more alarm clocks for our upcoming feature on.. well alarm clocks. Adieu for now and feel free to post comments, questions, complaints.
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