Lots to do. No desire to do it. Suck a nut, Monday.
Actually, I only have a 4 day week. Mommy like. Dio and I both took off Friday. A weekday sleepover! I am a lucky lady. I am leaving for San Diego for a Memorial Day Siesta (wait, doesn't that mean NAP in Espanol?) on Friday night. My new roomie H, her best friend and I will be heading to SD at 6pm and arriving around 8. Gotta love that time change. We will be there Friday night, Saturday, Sunday, Monday and leaving Tuesday night. I took that next Wednesday-Friday off. My first vacation in almost 2 years! How fab!
What is NOT fab is me having to try on bikinis this week. I already bit the bullet and tried on one at Gap Body on Friday after work, just to warm myself up.
I grabbed the first suit that caught my eye. I learned from last year that Olga and Helga (my boobs, they have gotten so large they are like two Ukrainian women, stuffed full of periogies) need lots and lots of support. I also wanted to keep them in check, not hanging out like they were last year in Vegas, so I thought this style of bikini top would be perfect. I grabbed the corresponding bottoms (nice razor bumps, hello, isn't that what PHOTOSHOP is for???) and off to the dressing, chock full of trepidation, I went.
I stuffed my chesticles as best I could into the size L top, making them spill out the top... not an effect that looked all too bad, mind you. If I could just end my body right underneath O & H, I'd be A-OK.
But no.
I looked down in shock and horror. Even though it is super duper tan, my midsection looks ghastly. Basically, this is what I saw looking back at me. Not pretty. I quickly grabbed the navy version of this and used it like to tarp to shield myself from the onslaught of guilt and regret racking my body. All those trips to T-Bell. That Core Secrets ball, gathering a thick layer of dust. Sunrise, sunset. Argh.
So, the plan is to leave the tunic on at the beach until the very last second that I lay down and then suck in until my head pops.
After I had tortured myself enough, I headed over to meet LL and her work friends for Happy Hour. It was a pretty unremarkable time. Except when LL got
mounted by Barney Fife's son.
Margaritas, Mai Tais and a SALAD. Salad, I say. H and I came home around 10:30, ordered 2 more salads and passed the fuck out. Good times.
Dio came over Saturday after noon. It was a pretty, pretty day that we wanted to enjoy outdoors, so Dio, LL and I headed over to Caesars for grub and margaritas. Her boyfriend met up with us. 4 of us. 4 pitchers. Over $100. More than a pitcher of margaritas apiece, since LL's man was a bit behind us. Sweet moses. The waiter, trying to up the tip, brought us over some free tequila shots. Dumb plan, my man. I can't even remember if we tipped him.
We went back to LL man's cute apartment over in Wrigleyville and tried to watch "A Series Of Unfortunate Events." 15 minutes in, we took it out (it blew) and popped in "Spaceballs." Never a huge fan of Mel Brooks humor, I protested a bit, but the boys outnumbered me and LL was passed out. So in it went. And out they also passed. So I was stuck watching the damn thing all alone. I hate you, Joan Rivers. I miss you, John Candy.
So that night was worthless. We came back and layed down, where Dio passed out again.
Sunday was nice. It didn't start out that way, though. We went to Chicago Joe's so we could sit outside. I have always wanted to try that place, so I was excited. Well folks, the service BLOWS. DO NOT EAT AT CHICAGO JOES which is located at 2256 W. Irving Park Road, Chicago, IL 60618. The food was ok, but our waitress had absolutely no skills or idea of what customer service entails. She was like Helen Keller, except not as verbose. It took 15 minutes to get a menu. It took 15 more to get our drink orders. It took 20 more to get our piss poor baked clam appetizer. Then about another 20 to actually get our luke-warm food. People were coming and going, but we just sat there, waiting on this bitch. Dio gave her $3 tip, which is $3 more than she deserved.
We hrumphed our way out of there and spent the rest of the day at Dio's, sipping mudslides and recording a live Moby concert DVD onto a CD.
OH SNAP!
Hello!
Desperate Housewives, anyone? How great was that episode?
Damn them... it's like, I could take or leave the show at any point, yet I still watched because it is after EHM, but then you go and air this nail biting, poignant, dramatic and awesome episode, end with a killer cliffhanger and then leave me to twist in the wind until the fall?!?!? Damn you, Eva Longoria. Even though you are the most overexposed person, save Paris Hilton and even though you are #1 on the Maxim Hot 100, I really loved you last night. Marcia from Melrose, you broke my heart. And hot plumber, when are we getting married? Loved it. LOVED IT!
So, thanks for this pretty Monday, Mother Nature. Way to get back in my good graces. So, even though the weather is fan-fuckintastic, this day so far, has not been. My favorite website is soon moving their offices from right behind me to way over in Bucktown. And I am livid. Please see below:
Dear Jimbo,
If I knew you better, I'd be over there in 5 seconds flat to kick your ass.
This just blows. Thanks a lot.
First, I start my Monday by boarding the 145, getting on right behind a pregnant 65 year old woman. A pregnant 65 year old woman carrying heavy luggage. I stand next to her on the already crowded bus. I notice an able bodied young gentlemen sitting adjacent to her vagina. He pretends not to see her. I stare holes through his skull. So he pretends not to see me. I mouth hideous things, willing him to look up.
Mothers of America, how exactly are you raising your sons?
Captain Chunky McSwishypants over here, who no doubt lives on the corner of Gay and Gayer, can't even offer his seat to a 65 year old woman on the verge of childbirth. I want to smack him right in the mouth.
I got off the bus two blocks early, at Superior, and angrily stalked my way over to Ontario and St. Clair. The sun was cheering me up greatly, and since my mood is solely dependent on the weather (don't ask me why I live here) I even managed to crack a smile.
Until, I walked over to the front entrance of my building and witnessed a baby bird fly straight into the glass door of Fresh Choice, breaking his widdle baby bird neck. I was devastated.
Choking back tears, I entered my office. I was immediately complimented on my killer, tan legs by my begging-for-a-sexual-harassment-suit boss. I was once again cheered up slighty, thinking of the thousands I could come into if complimenting turned to groping.
So, still grinning, I sit at my computer to check my e-mail. As is my Monday tradition, I read your marginally funny newsletter.
YOU ARE MOVING?!?!?
YOU FUCKING BASTARD.
This was going to be the year when I would finally make Boob Patrol. Now what????
Bucktown? Come on, man! Have fun tripping over hypodermic needles and prentious snotty yuppie artsy posers. On second thought, maybe that's where you belong.
Please take the mute Street Wise vendor with you. I can no longer stand his sad but knowing eyes.
I thought we had something special. I can't believe you are throwing it all away.
No love lost,
Bethany
One last order of business:
DAVE CHAPELLE. WE KNOW YOU ARE NOT ON CRACK. WE KNOW YOU ARE NOT CRAZY. EVEN IF YOUR SHOW IS NEVER AS FUNNY AS THE RICK JAMES EPISODE EVER AGAIN, WE ARE WILLING TO WATCH BECAUSE WE LOVE YOU. NO PRESSURE ON THIS SIDE OF THE POND. COME BACK TO US.
You ain't on crack!
Oh shit, one more thing... I think Haloscan is fucking up my comments. I am losing them on some entries and I only got ONE on my last entry, but I had a bunch of hits. No comprendo. Anyone else having problems with HaloScan?