In the last year, I have gone through not one, but TWO spools of dental floss.
That's right. I floss my teeth at work. Unwaxed or waxed, mint or regular. My grill looks good. Ask my dentist. He's also my husband.*
Friday, April 28, 2006
Thursday, April 27, 2006
From L-R: What’s Cool About Re-enacting Child Porn?, Hangs Out With the Older Men In the 7-11 Parking Lot, No Amount of Bleach Will Disinfect That Shit, Being A Bitch Is So Not Cool, Yikes!!!, and Honey I Shrunk My Hoodie!
Posted by Carrie at 4/27/2006 05:51:00 PM
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
That thicket of hair growing like black mold on your chin, it needs to be shaved. That small hairy patch that nestles your lower lip and lounges to the bottom of your chin, leaving your upper lip smooth as a baby’s bottom, it does not love you. It is too lazy to be a full goatee, but still proof that you are a man. Or so you think. I’m sorry to say that so much care should never have been taken in shaving around it.
Tomorrow morning, when you are shaving your upper lip, cheeks and neck, please swipe your razor over your chin and erase it. You will feel liberated. After all, it was the only thing holding you back from being cool.
Hair doesn’t have feelings. Lying in a pile in your trashcan, that hair will never know what came over it. Think of the fun it will have fun swimming in your shower water! What adventures it will have away from your face! You don’t need it. It was weighing you down. You thought you loved it. You thought it separated you from the other starched businessmen in your office. But it didn’t.
Its time to say goodbye.
Posted by Carrie at 4/26/2006 04:42:00 PM
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Remember that time that Price Williams was received those black roses after The Colonials beat the Blue Devils on the road to Regionals? Dead dogs were discovered on high school football players’ doorways and Mothers and Fathers were being woken up in the middle of the night to scratchy, muffled voices telling them to “Watch Your Step.” And the toilet paper. Toilet paper everywhere. You couldn’t drive a block without seeing toilet paper clad trees like flapping in the fall breezes like giant ghosts.
That one teen was stabbed at the championship game. Stabbed! I was over near the concession stand right before it happened. Chowing down on Pixie Sticks and Sugar Daddies. The victim was okay. Or so I heard. My mom quickly herded us to the car and drove us home before the fourth quarter. It was a violent act culminating a terrifying week.
And really what mattered was the trophy. The Colonials beat The Blue Devils on the road to Regionals. For the first and last time since.
Price is probably fat and balding now. But we still relive his stories.
It was awesome.
Posted by Carrie at 4/25/2006 02:04:00 PM
Monday, April 24, 2006
(in no particular order)
1. Stabbing yourself with the scissors that you're delivering to your boss borrow because he's too lazy to walk to the supply closet (Is this what you went to college for?)
2. Lodging a staple in your eye while replacing staples in the automatic stapler in the copy room (You're the only one who replaces them.)
3. Absentmindedly swallowing a thumbtack while eating Kettle Corn style popcorn while you're working at your desk fixing your boss's spreadsheet that won't print correctly (Apparently you're IT.)
4. Hyper extending your knees while trying to move a huge file cabinet filled with 1997 account records that the person who had your job before you should have had stored in Central Filing (What's new?)
5. Crushing your ribs when the rickety supply shelves fall on your while you're trying to move messily opened boxes of file folders to their correct place in the supply closet. (Apparently you're the Office Manager.)
6. Choking on the stringy cheese that's in your Lean Cuisine French Bread Pizza (They were on sale 5 for $9.99.)
7. Amputating your hand while trying to change the over-filled bin in the paper shredder (You're the only one who changes it.)
8. Decapitating yourself while trying to stop a closing elevator door (That bitch inside obviously hit the "CLOSE" button when she saw you.)
9. Electrocuting yourself while trying to un-jam D3, D5, and D7 of the copying machine (You're the only one who un-jams the machine.)
10. Waking up every morning with the realization that your post-college dreams grow more and more faint every day you go into work. (You're not the only one.)
Posted by Carrie at 4/24/2006 02:11:00 PM
Friday, April 21, 2006
Fuck those bitches...
Fuck those hoes...
And while you're at it
Fuck those ogres.
Posted by Carrie at 4/21/2006 10:21:00 AM
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Well, I have just been informed that I am not welcome to come in tomorrow so I wanted to send a goodbye and kudos right now. I wanted to thank [Manager X] and [Manager Y] for the way they have treated me when I declined the [Big Account] offer. Because of this treatment and [Manager X's] treatment of countless other employees I have decided to pursue an interest that I will actually enjoy. Good luck and good ridiance [sic].
Oh and if you want job security I'd leave [Big Account].
Posted by Carrie at 4/20/2006 04:53:00 PM
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Every day, I see hundreds of people shoveling food into their mouths with their grubby little hands. Subway hands, dirty diaper hands, masturbation hands. Hands that have scraped gooey bubble gum off the bottom of high heeled pumps. Hands that have wiped crusty snot away from pink noses. Hands that are visibly dirty with auto grease. Hands that are invisibly dirty with their co-worker’s stomach virus.
These hands belong to liberated people, people with naturally strong immune systems, people who just don’t give a fuck where there hands have been.
But me? I am not those people. I cannot bring myself to eat without first washing my hands. I say to myself, “You are crazy. This is life. You will be okay.” But I cannot do it. I will not do it. I need clean hands to eat my food.
I give a fuck. I am uptight.
Posted by Carrie at 4/19/2006 03:40:00 PM
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
When I was younger, I took for granted that all people could change. But as I grow older, I've come to accept that people do not change--cannot change--who they are. Our only hope in this regard is that we will learn to accept who we really are. Its the things we do when we try to deny who we truly are that get us into trouble.
Posted by Carrie at 4/18/2006 10:14:00 AM
Monday, April 17, 2006
As far as I know, my landlord doesn’t live in our building. At least, we mail our rent checks to a residential address in a suburb of Chicago. But from time to time, he will stay in the “Office” on the first floor of my building. I don’t know what that office looks like, but I like to imagine it’s a dimly lit room with a cot, a sink and a hotplate. Sort of like the “Cold Water Flats” I’ve read about in books about New Yorkers in the 1920’s.
The only way I know he stays in this office is because every once in a while, when I’m waiting for the elevator late at night after a night of festivities, I’ve seen him peeping out of the blinds of the interior window. Presumably, to see who is coming in so late. When I turn to see him looking, he quickly moves away from the window. I’ve also noticed steam on that same interior window. Probably a result of cooking beans on the hotplate.
My landlord is a nice guy. This makes me a lucky tenant. I’ve had my fair share of questionable landlords. Like that seemingly nice, responsible couple who failed to repair the lock on our mailbox—even after months of my complaining. My roommate at the time had her identity stolen as a result of one enterprising thief who noticed that our lock was broken and started stealing our mail. They finally fixed the lock—2 weeks after we threatened legal action. And it took them a week to repair our 1 and only toilet. Needless to say, that wasn’t the most hygienic week. I am lucky that my landlord knows how to fix things himself. Like my leaky sink last year. And that he takes pride in the fact that he takes great care of our building.
I get the feeling that my landlord is married with children. At least, all of our notices come signed from “Andy and Kris”. I am directed to call Kris with all lease questions. She is a very nice woman with a thick Polish accent—just like Andy.
Recently, my landlord has been staying in the Office quite regularly—every night to be exact. And he’s been seen around our building with a mysterious blonde woman. She is an attractive woman, middle-aged. A sharp dresser, she is always wearing lots of gold jewelry. I have overheard them speaking Polish in the laundry room.
I don’t know if this is Kris or not. From the way this woman looks at the floor and stealthily sneaks around the building, I’m beginning to think that it is not. Also, this woman has distaste for me. At least, whenever I see her she will quickly turn any smile on her face to a full-fledged scowl. And then she’ll look at the floor, scowl still intact. Kris would never do that.
I have made up a scenario in my mind wherein Andy is cheating on his wife and brings this Not-Kris to his little “office” love nest. He cooks Beefaroni for her on his hotplate and they spend their nights cuddled up on his twin cot. She is happy with him, but insanely jealous and fearful that she will loose him. Hence the scowl on her face whenever she sees me. Not-Kris thinks Andy is cheating on her with me. She doesn’t know that I’m engaged and live with my boyfriend. She thinks that I am just some little harlot with a penchant for sweet Polish sausage cooked on my landlord’s hotplate. I try to flash my ring to Not-Kris. As an assurance that I’m happy with my American Hot Dog, but I don’t think she buys it.
Posted by Carrie at 4/17/2006 05:40:00 PM
Friday, April 14, 2006
I walked a half a mile to my favorite lunchery to buy a specific kind of Belgium dark chocolate that they sell. Sure, 65 cents is a lot to pay for .31 ounces of chocolate, but it is beautiful chocolate. Each little piece, in its thick paper wrapping, is a treat to the eyes. Crisp and dry, and perfect. Each delicate rectangle seamlessly molded and striped in an art deco pattern. And the taste—so delicious, rich and earthy. Besides, it is nice out and it gave me an excuse to go for a little walk. It was a wonderful outing, even though chocolate gives me heartburn.
Posted by Carrie at 4/14/2006 04:00:00 PM
Thursday, April 13, 2006
(In No Particular Order)
--All foods are better when “drizzled” with something (olive oil, sauce, chocolate).
--Mottled mint is pretty damn sexy.
--Food tastes better when eaten with heavy silverware (or chopsticks).
--Water tastes better when it is served in a pretty glass/bottle.
--Brownies taste better when served at social functions.
--Ceviche is really sexy.
--Coffee tastes better if it has been prepared by a man/woman with tattoos (and/or piercings).
-- Kraft Macaroni and Cheese is not food.
--A “Crusty Bread” is ideal.
--Heirloom fruits are the sexiest food in the world.
Posted by Carrie at 4/13/2006 04:50:00 PM
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
You guys, I’m sorry if I seem like I’m pissed or something. Its just that I can’t believe its 10 o’clock on a Friday night and I’m not drunk. I mean, I should be BLITZED right now. I have nothin else I should be doin. I mean, dinner with Sara, Katie and Jen was okay--I had 3 Jack and Diets. But I’m totally sober right now and its my girrl Jen’s birthday and we should be PARTYIN. Whatevs. She’s engaged and works at StarCom. But that SOOO doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be SLOSHED right now. 26 only comes once in your lifetime!
I mean, I could totes understand it if I was packing for a trip and doing laundry or if I was at home watching The Notebook with Emily. (SO SAD!~) Ya know, a low-key girls-night-in kind of thang. But as it is, its 10:07 on a Friday night and I’m more sober than a pope on Sunday. And ya know, we’d probably be drinking a Yellow Tail Chard with our movie and actually, Sara and I made up this AWESUM laundry drinking game when we were at Iowa. (WUTTUP HAWKEYES!?!) Every time the machines change cycle you gotta take a shot. OH MY GOD, Adam got so shitfaced he peed in my bed that night. GROSS! But totally hilarious. HAHAHA!
But seriously, people. All my friends are WAY to serious for me now. I’ve GOTTA find some fun peeps who can partay til the dawn (Heeeeeeey!) cause I’m SOOO sick of sittin home by myself. For the past few nights I’ve been hangin with the busboys from Wildfire. They totes know how to kick it, but Hose keeps trying to feel me up. At first I was like, “Could I date a Mexican? He’s kind of cute.” but now I’m like, “No means no in espanol, Hose. Get a grip!” But he’s a dawg so he don’t’ care.
I’m so confused over Adam anyway. Fuck him. Its like, when he comes in town he’s ALL over me. But then he’s got some ugly ho in Cincinnati. That bitch is SOO not as hot as I am. I'm a TOTAL hottie!!!! Right!?? He's SOOO GROSS. But I love him.
Seriously, people. WHAT IS UP!?? Where the party at? Why are we not having FUN? There is no reason for that. AT ALL.
I’m so fucking pissed right now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I miss college.
Posted by Carrie at 4/12/2006 03:28:00 PM
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Trump International Hotel & Tower is coming along nicely, you’ll be happy to hear. This groundbreaking structure will combine both a hotel AND a tower into one structure. I love towers, and don’t even get me started on hotels—they’re great! Did I ever think they would be combined? No. But these is modern times we’re living in. Anything is possible. Especially if you’re Mr. Trump.
I work on Wacker Drive, near Michigan Avenue, so I’ve witnessed the construction of this controversial 92-story building from its humble beginnings. And I mean humble. Mr Trump bought the crotchety old Chicago Sun-Times building and dismantled it floor by floor to make way for a behemoth glass structure that will slightly obscure Mr. Van Der Rohe’s famous IBM building. Sure the Sun-Times building was an rusty, crumbling eyesore to the glittery skyline of Chicago, but it was OUR eyesore, Chicago’s eyesore. And even though the use of typewriters went out with the 90’s and most people now get their news online or on tv, you could look at the building and easily imagine the old newspaper newsrooms of the past. No mas.
Seeing a new structure slowly climb to the sky is nothing new to us Chicagoans. All over Chicago (and other major American cities) there is a major influx of new construction, thanks to the interest rate situation. Old buildings are being knocked down to make way for snazzy new condos and skyscrapers.
Sure, I love architecture—good architecture. And I’m not one of those people who throws around the word “new-fangled” a lot. But seeing this phenomenon brings to mind the future: Besides the fact that filling these enormous buildings with people is going to bring a huge glut of people into the city, thus an overcrowding beyond which we already know--that is, if they can fill them at all--what is going to happen to all of these skyscrapers when they are out of date? What’s going to transpire when/if they fail and we have to spend millions of dollars to repair leaky piping or an inefficient air system? Or we grow bored of them? Or we want to replace it with another, more dazzling building?
It is one thing to raze a 100 year old “skyscraper”, as we might do these days. After all, turn-of –the-century skyscrapers were only 15 floors max. But, one can’t just put a wrecking ball to a 100 floor skyscraper. I needn’t bring up 9/11 to prove how dangerous a falling building can be. I can only imagine that any building within a population must be dismantled floor by floor, as in the case of The Sun-Times Building. Otherwise, you’re exposing the city to a host of environmental pollutants, not to mention the danger of something as harmless as a carpenter’s pencil falling from 1353 feet in the sky. How long would it take to dismantle a building as large as The Sears Tower? Surely, years. And millions of dollars.
Perhaps this problem will challenge how we currently live. Perhaps our love of money and instant gratification will force us to make-do with what we have and we will stop knocking down old buildings to erect new ones. Or, perhaps we’ll slow down and realize the consequences of our actions. Or perhaps we’ll just move farther and farther outside of current city limits and keep building new skyscrapers while our old ones lie in wasteland.
I don’t know and, ultimately, does it matter? We are all so blinded by Mr. Trump’s new 1,131 foot penis to give two poops about what happens to us in the future.
Goo-goo, gaa-gaa. Building so pretty and big!
Posted by Carrie at 4/11/2006 01:49:00 PM
Monday, April 10, 2006
My first Real Kiss was in 10th grade. I was the president of The Drama Club. He was attending a Virginia High School Theatre Conference, which was being held at our school.
The first time I saw him, he was outside the Special Ed classroom waiting for a workshop on God-knows-what topic. Probably stage combat. He was wearing a sage green t-shirt with a huge photo of Kermit the Frog's face on the front. I thought that was pretty cool. I loved frogs. Especially singing ones.
After a few moments of spastic conversation about the few tendrils of hair that I had dyed bright colors and clipped with many plastic baby doll clips, I learned that he was not only an actor, but also a surfer from Virginia Beach. Truthfully, I don’t know if he was really a surfer, but all I needed to hear was “beach” and I was off in a distant, sunny land of spontaneous beach bonfires with guitar playing surfers. Beach boys were the coolest—even cooler than skater kids.
He had red chin-length hair. I was saving my first kiss for a boy with long hair. For a year and a half, I was hoping it would be with that one kid at my school who looked like Kurt Cobain. I had even got his number from the school pot dealer and randomly cold called him to tell him (and I quote) “You are intriguing to me.” But we had developed nothing more than a friendship and at 15 years old, I had never kissed a boy. I mean Really Kissed a boy.
It’s funny how time goes when you’re in high school. When I think back to this conference, it feels like it was at least a week long. But in all reality, it was 2 days – Friday and Saturday. But by the 3rd day (Friday night) we were buddies. He and his friends had me laughing my teen angst away. They knew all the best Star Wars quotes! And I don’t even get me started with they’re knowledge of comic books! Of course, I didn’t know anything about Star Wars and comic books, but boys who liked these things were cool in my book.
And by the end of the week (Saturday) we were joined at the hip. I signed up for all of the workshops he was in and he saved me a seat at the special presentation of “Stage Door.” When we walked outside to watch the Hacky-Sackers in action, he put his hand on the small of my back! I had never had a boy put his hand on the small of my back! It sent shivers up my spine.
By that Saturday night—the night of the conference social dance in the school cafeteria—I was pooped and running only on adrenaline and Sam’s Choice Cola. I had spent the previous night laying in bed, awake and thinking about my new friend, gazing at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling and listening to The Sundays. But that wasn’t going to stop me from enjoying the night. I was going to stay up, have fun and have that long haired surfer boy in the novelty tees put his hand on the small of my back again! The night was coming to a close and the DJ put on a few slow songs for the various couples that had paired off during the week (two days). He asked me to dance.
We danced. And we danced and we danced. For the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like to have a boy put his arms around my waist. It was so magical; in his arms I started to drift past the warm sun to a quiet place in the depths of the universe. And when I woke up, his tongue was in my mouth, which startled me and I pulled away confused.
That’s right. I had fallen asleep during my first Real Kiss. I was so tired and worn down from being a girlfriend that I had fallen asleep standing up, in his arms, kissing him. By the time I realized what had happened, the glaring fluorescent lights of the school cafeteria came on, signaling that the evening (and my relationship with my carrot topped surfer boy) was over.
Posted by Carrie at 4/10/2006 04:50:00 PM
Friday, April 07, 2006
(In no particular order)
--1 makeup brush holder
--1 Stila 4-pan compact
--1 Stila eyeshadow pan (in "Nude")
--1 Stila blush pan (in "Cream")
--1 Sephora lip gloss (in "Gold and Glow')
--1 Sephora slim eye pencil (in “Bronze”)
--1 Paula Dorf "Transformer" (Will convert any eye shadow into waterproof liquid eyeliner)
Everything was delicious, the service was impeccable, but the bill gave me heartburn.
Posted by Carrie at 4/07/2006 03:12:00 PM
Thursday, April 06, 2006
I just found the game piece inside my Pepperidge Farm ® Brand Goldfish ® Baked Snack Crackers! To be honest, I wasn’t patient--I rummaged around the bag with my hand. It is for the “Rock the Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Awards ‘06” promotion. (No purchase necessary.) 1 Grand Prize includes round-trip airfare and tickets for four to the Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Awards (“Or you could win 1 of 5,000 Kids’ Choice CD’s”)
My sweetie was just talking about the Kids’ Choice Awards. There are pictures of Jack Black getting slimed all over the celebrity gossip magazines.
“Why do they need their own awards show?” he said.
I argued with him that kids love that sort of stuff. At least I did. When I was a kid, I was really into grown-up stuff. I especially loved having kid versions of grown-up stuff.
“I wanted to be old, too,” he said. “So I watched the adult versions and dreamt of having a moustache.”
I understand his point, though. And I agree. Kids are being treated less and less like kids these days. They are being kept on structured schedules: Ballet lesson at 3:30pm, Bugle Horn at 5:00, and French tutoring at 7:00pm. That leaves little room for good-old-fashioned play. And kids have easy access to all kinds of adult media through the internet. There is probably a 7 year old reading this now, tsking at my improper grammar.
In my day, The Kids Choice awards were novel. Now it’s expected. But in all the years between my childhood and now, when all of these changes have occurred, one thing hasn’t changed: The excitement of finding that tiny cardboard game piece, wrapped in a little plastic sleeve to protect it from snack grease.
I just can’t wait to open it.
Posted by Carrie at 4/06/2006 11:47:00 AM
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
"Hi Carrie. Its Mom. I was just sitting down here, watching the sunset and thinking abou--by the way, your outgoing message is so cute! Its chipper and sincere and you sound do cute, yet grown up. Anyway, I was just thinking about you and about your dad and you and I wanted to call and say hi."
Posted by Carrie at 4/05/2006 06:06:00 PM
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
A lot of people are overjoyed with the news that I am going to be married! They have come in drones to applaud me on my recent engagement. I have received emails wishing me happiness, phone calls overflowing with best wishes for this magical day and colorful letters eager to be the first to congratulate my fiancée and me! Yes, a lot of people are rooting for my upcoming marriage—caterers, florists, wedding planners and photographers.
I am so touched by their sincerity.
Posted by Carrie at 4/04/2006 05:49:00 PM
Monday, April 03, 2006
"Pansy" is a friend of mine. Not a great friend, but a good enough friend that it wouldn't be out of the question for me to call her up to invite her to the movies. But the fact is, I would never invite Pansy to sit next to me for the duration of a movie, because, plainly put, Pansy smells.
It’s bad. Her tang is a stifling bouquet of old cigarettes and warm gym shoes with a hint of gas stop latrine. And while we’re on the subject of Pansy, I should also mention that her nails are black with dirt, her clothes are often wrinkled and soiled with food stains, and her hair looks as though it is wet—when it is dry.
Naturally, all of this would be fine if she were an artist, a poet or a hippy. But she is not. Pansy is a career woman and a go-getter. She comes from a moneyed family and contrary to outward appearances, she subscribes to all of Society’s conventions. She is really into girly stuff—hair and make-up and clothes and boys. I’ve never seen someone with so many clothes before! Every time I see her, it seems as though she is wearing something new and expensive. She is so put together, right down to coordinating makeup, jewelry, handbags (and jelly stains!).
Pansy is “cute as a button,” and “a smart girl,” and “she helps out at church.” All of those qualities that a grandmother would look for in her grandson’s future wife. But I have a hard time with her hygiene. It is tough to have a conversation with her when I’m trying not to gag on the strong odor wafting from her person. It is difficult to want to shake her hand or give her a hug when I am wondering what microbes are taking an afternoon dip in the brown sludge beneath her nail bed. It is difficult to look her in the eye, when I’m blinded by her oily patina.
Of course, I am exaggerating for comedic effect. Really, I like Pansy for all of her dirtied hosiery and smudged eyeliner. She is funny and sweet and a good person. I just wish she and her clothes would take a bath. I wish there was some way to let her in on the way people perceive her. I am not usually one to give into The People’s opinions, but in this case and for someone like Pansy, I believe her outward appearance, the way she maintains herself, is a hindrance to her being taken seriously.
I’ve heard about services—kind, compassionate and sincere services—that will email or call the co-worker with halitosis or the uncle with B.O. and convey the news with warm finesse. But I still don’t have the heart. I am not a good enough friend to deliver that blow. And in reality, there is no way to break it to her gently.
I feel like her mother needs to tell her. And I wish she would. Stat!
Posted by Carrie at 4/03/2006 05:37:00 PM