Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Way to End 2008!

Disclaimer: This post is not original content! I recently was told this story and felt it my duty to share with you. There are so many things wrong with the following, I don't even know where to start. Since when is there a shortage of cabs in Chicago? I hope for the families sake, this girl suffers from legit taxiphobia. I hope you enjoy and happy new year!

"My friend’s sister's roomate's friend (just stay with me here) was house-sitting for some family friends. They were going to be gone for about a week or so and all she really had to do was feed the dog, water plants and what not. So a few days into doing this she goes to the house and the dog is dead.

She calls the family up to let them know the news and they say, 'oh ya, it was sick and we thought that might happen.' They ask her to bring it to the vet and leave it there till they get home, so she agrees and looks around the house for a kennel but she is unable to find one. She finds a large duffel bag and proceeds to put the dead dog in it and makes her way to the el, (they live in Chicago and have no car).

I have to interject, is this really logical thinking? Would you ever stuff a DEAD DOG into a duffel bag and head to the el?

Let's continue: "So, as she's going through the turnstile a young man sees her struggling and offers to help. At first she says no and he keeps on trying to get her to let him help her and she finally breaks down and says yes. So he helps her through and he brings it up to the train. They get on and they talk for a while. He asks her what's in the bag and she replies, uhh...uh... it's stereo equipment. So they talk for a little while longer and as the train nears her stop the man asks her for her number. She says nah, and he says, yeah come on, let me get your number. She says no, sorry and exits the train. As she gets downstairs near the street she feels a tap on her shoulder. She turns around and gets punched in the face by the man who helped her. He punches her in the face and steals the duffel bag."

Now, I don't know which is funnier, traveling with a dead dog on public transportation or the fact that this guy has a duffel bag with a dead dog in it, which he thought was going to be stereo equipment. What on earth did she tell the poor family? "Um sorry, while you were out of town your dog died. So I stuffed him in a duffel bag, hopped on the el and someone stole him? Oh yeah, and you're going to need some new luggage." I hope there are no kids involved. I would have paid good money to be there when the guy opened the bag, that's where the real story is at. Oh well, I guess we'll never know.


Attraction is not a choice

Monday, December 29, 2008

The Griswold's storm the north shore.

My family is incapable of celebrating a holiday in any sort of normal fashion. Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays, hell, Boxing Day, there is some sort of major dramz that is bound to happen. On the up side, it provides countless hours of material and laughter, on the down side, there's no amount of Xanax or red wine to keep my nerves steady through what can be 72+ hours of what seems like a bad scene from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, although we can make Jack Nicholson look like Doug Funny compared to some of the stuff that goes down at my house. This Christmas was no exception.

Because of some things that have been going on, my family hasn't had the easiest 2008. In light of this, we were all looking forward to having a great Christmas because it was going to be a time for us to all be together, it meant the end of the year was close, yada, yada, yada.

In preparation for this family get together, my faux step dad aka FSD (trust me, this is the only term that works for him, my mom and him have been dating since I was 9, I'm 23, you do the math, he's no longer the "boyfriend," that's just awkward for everyone), anyways, he and I were running around trying to prepare appetizers for ourselves, my mom, my sister and my brother.
We all planned to have a nice sit down in front of the tree on Christmas Eve with hors d'oeuvres and drinks. FSD and I decided to pull things together for everyone, mainly because my mom's idea of getting food together is throwing on her military garb and channeling Kim Jong-Il to bark orders at her unsuspecting children, needless to say, we decided to take things into our own hands.

We had quite the spread: crabcakes, shrimp, gourmet cheeses and bread, dips galore and enough wine to make a large village in Moldova party like it's 1992 and being accepted into the UN was as easy as becoming the Republic of Moldova in the first place.
FSD loves to give speeches so we all settled in, drinks in hand, to listen to his wrap up of 2008. Not more than fifteen words rolled off his tongue when I see my 80 year old cat - who literally is probably 112, weighs about 6.2 ounces, my mom talks to like a human and threatens to put a bonnet on and start calling him baby- jumps out of the base of our Christmas tree like Cujo was snapping at him from below my mom's red velour tree skirt and lands with a thud. As I'm watching my cat put Kristie Yamaguchi to shame as he lands a triple axle with grace, out of the corner of my eye I see our tree start to waver. Now granted I'm a few glasses of wine in, but this would have had to have been a straight hallucination because I swore I saw the thing move side to side. Not quick enough could my synapses fire to each another to tell me to get up and position my body in front of the tree to prevent what was about to happen in t-minus, 3.....2......1.....CRASH.

My mom's tree - which only contains Christopher Radko ornaments that usually go for $40-100 a pop - comes crashing to the ground. My mom says that she didn't even hear the tree fall, but that my face scrunched into a Lord of the Rings Gollum-esque mask and she knew something horrible had happened.

See my mom doesn't deal well with stress or unexpected events, coupled with the year she's had, this was the last thing that we needed to happen to us. Granted, I was literally dying inside of laughter because, truly, this would only happen to my family on Christmas Eve, but my mom was bawling on the outside. I literally had to spend the next two hours talking her off the ledge because she was so upset by what had happened. To her credit we did lose about 65% of the ornaments, and they really are beautiful, but I mean come on people.... we can't all fall apart, on Christmas Eve of all nights, because the tree fell!

Instead we should rejoice in the fact that we are one step closer in our apparent life long quest to have more f-ed up things happen to our family then the Griswold's. If only my cat had electrocuted itself would we have truly surpassed Clark, Ellen, Rusty and Audrey to become the Griswold's of the North Shore.

But, hey, a girl can dream and......
there's always next year.

No one's getting out alive,

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Do you want to jang?

An inquiring mind recently asked me what “janging” meant and I have to say I was at a loss. How do you explain janging? It’s janging! If you peer over to the right at my bio, you’ll notice you can find me “janging with my besties at the Yard.”

I honestly had no idea what to say. It was such a natural word in my life and a daily occurrence. Just this morning my friend sent me an email, “Can’t wait to jang at the party tomorrow.” So I told her, “It’s like ‘hanging’ but SO much more fun.” The inquiring mind thought it was a combination of two words to create one, similar to “word-welding” (an entirely separate post for later).

Her top ideas:

  • hanging/jumping?
  • hanging/juggling?

This got me thinking, how else could you explain it? So I went investigating and here are some of the best:

  • "More than a hang out session, because it’s not JUST hanging out. It requires more than that, it needs a start and an end"
  • “An extreme form of hanging”
  • “Hanging out in the coolest way possible”
  • It’s just janging. The beauty of it is that there’s so little involved in doing it, it's hard to explain”
  • “I mean, when I say, 'want to jang tonight?' – I'm basically saying ‘lets hang out’ but in a snazzier way”

An actual definition created by my roommate:

  • Jang (v): to hang out in a manner that requires no additional activity. You can jang at your apartment, you cant jang while shopping.

So, if you’re looking to have more fun than a five-year-old eating strained peas in a high-chair, I suggest you try janging.

Attraction is not a choice,

Monday, December 15, 2008

Everyone’s nicer now that Obama’s President!

Anyone who knows me knows I’m obsessed with Obama! In the months leading up to the election I ate, breathed and slept Obama (I literally slept in an Obama shirt almost every night just to be close him). I tried to be open-minded and hear the arguments of the “others,” but simply didn’t care. Just like on LOST, the “others” were bad and evil and only here to hurt us.

At least once a week I volunteered at the finance headquarters helping the amazing Obama staff process checks, make phone calls and just talk shop! This first time I went I thought my heart would rocket out of my chest, I was so excited. I couldn’t talk straight, my cheeks hurt from smiling and I had to clench from peeing like an overexcited dog. “Oh Warner, do you remember when we spent those four amazing hours in the hot tub together after winter formal? Well this is so much better than that.”

Rumors were starting to buzz about an election night party in Grant Park, mere steps from our office. A week before the election, I won the golden ticket and somehow finagled my way into the rally! I was in a daze. All I could think of was my new fate; Obama would become president and come to Grant Park, I would hear his speech and meet him and he would bring me on stage to thank me for all my help, hey a girl could dream, couldn’t she?

Then it happened! At Grant Park with 250k+ Obama fans, we watched as CNN announced him PRESIDENT! The crowd went wild, jumping up and down, screaming, crying, laughing, signing, it was a joyous night. Tears streamed down my face, I hugged random strangers, I felt oddly patriotic, something I wasn’t used to feeling! Whether you were an Obama supporter or not, this was a moment of unbelievable resilience and hope, a moment you wanted to be a part of.

In the weeks following the election, I began to notice, people were nicer! Why you ask, because “Everyone’s nicer know that Obama’s President.”

  • Walking to the El on Nov. 5th: people smile as I pass them on the street; a 30-something man holds the door open for a rando student; no one pushes their way onto the train; a girl gets up and offers her seat to an elderly man
  • My roommate leaves her wallet in the cab and 24 hours later, a very cute boy buzzes our door, “I think I found your wallet in a cab last night.” He brings it upstairs and low and behold it is intact with all her cash and credit cards. She offers him a monetary reward and he declines and walks out the door
  • A group of us took the train to the OSU/Northwestern game and it was free!
  • Taking a cab home I thought I had enough money, but miscounted. When we got to my apt, I offered to pay with credit card or go to an ATM. The cab driver said the $10 was more than fine and to have a great night!
  • At dinner the waiter brought us free donuts with roasted apple sauce, just because
  • Two people walked through the same door at the same time and they both insisted, “no, please after you”

Then my world came crashing down! My conservative, Republican-crazed aunt hosted Michelle Obama’s going away party at their families bar, and “forgot” to invite me! The one person they know in Chicago who actually likes her and supports her husband’s politics. Not only did she fail to let me know, she then had the audacity to send me pictures, “Michelle comes to visit _____, wish I liked her politics,” WTF, who the hell did she think she was!

I guess only some people are nicer now that Obama’s President! You know who you are!

Attraction is not a choice

I heart edward cullen.

I'm obsessed with Edward Cullen. The mere thought of him has me giggling like a schoolgirl who just beat the boy she likes in four square. I don't know what it is about this blood sucking vampire or the poorly written books that create his world for me, but I am hooked.

The funny thing about my relationship with the Twilight series is that I consider myself pretty well read, but when I was at home for Thanksgiving my 18 year old sister wouldn't stop talking about these books. I felt about as hip as Steve Urkel circa his suspenders wearing days (before Family Matters introduced his smoldering alter ego Stefan Urquelle) because she was all like, "OMG. You don't know the Twilight series!! I've totes already read all four and me and my besties are going to see the movie next week. LOL you are so old!"

At the risk of throwing myself in Lake Michigan because my teen face sister was making me feel like a dinosaur, I decided that I needed to pick one of these bad boys up, haven't stopped reading them ever since. I'm literally the weirdo who is walking to her building from the bus with her nose in her book, they are that good.

I just finished the first book and I can't wait for the second, third and fourth! It's weird because the books are written so poorly that I will catch myself laughing at the awfulness of the corny language and Bella's obsession with Edward's "perfectness," but I have also caught myself dreaming about being Edward Cullen's girlfriend so I'm not sure which exactly is more lame? If you haven't read the Twilight series, I would strongly suggest picking one up, even if your sole motivation is to not be ridiculed by teens. I know mine was.

No one's getting out alive,

Friday, December 12, 2008

The wink is the equivalent to getting molested in the textosphere.

I want to pose a question, what in God's name makes a male in his twenties think that it is socially acceptable to text me with this :)? Or better yet, the wink ;)?!

Frankly, after I receive texts like this it makes me want to take a shower. I want to wash off the text creepiness faster than I can delete him out of my phone. Seriously though, I am contemplating drafting a texting rule book for chumps like this. Newsflash! -- it's LAME to text a girl with a wink, a smiley, too many exclamations, etc. I don't know who played a cruel trick on you and told you that it would make a girl giggle if she had a virtual "winkey" accost her eyes on her cell phone, but whoever it is doesn't love you or is just as dumb themselves.

I've been texting back and forth with this guy and lately the texts have involved the aforementioned smileys, and variations of them. At first, I chalked it up to nervousness. Maybe he is trying to be endearing by throwing in the creepy little smile? (This was a stretch, but I was trying to be optimistic people.) But with each creepy little teen face that came through, my butt clenched a little bit tighter and I couldn't handle it anymore that I stopped texting with him. I mean I literally had. to. stop.

Side note -- the last text he sent me included a smiley, my decision was more than justified.

Anyone who feels the need to share their emotion via text needs a friend. I don't care if you are smiling when you text me and feel an overwhelming sensation to hit the : and ) buttons, but please, just don't. You will be doing yourself a favor by heeding my advice and ceasing that finger movement. I promise you that more girls will like you, respond to your texts, hell, respond to you as a human being, if you cut out the textual symbols that should only be used by those 4 years old and younger (to be honest, even then, I still feel awkward for them).

So all you smile sending freak shows out there, trust me and stop. You can thank me when you finally develop a successful textual relationship, I can guarantee that this advice contributed to it.

No one's getting out alive,


Sunday, December 7, 2008

You had me at hello.

After countless awkward Outlook meeting requests, lunch dates, emails, transcontinental talks and drunken musings we finally got our shit together and here we are on a Sunday night, hungover and dreading work tomorrow, launching our blog. So bienvenidos a heels VS. flats!

How did two girls who were about as close as havarti cheese and egg salad should be on a warm summer day become tighter than the notorious rap duo Salt and Pepa?

Like two recently minted coins, we graduated from college, shiny and stupid, ready to dive into the world of becoming legitimate human beings. We both attended Midwestern colleges (heels went to University of Wisconsin-Madison, flats went to Miami of Ohio), both majored in communications, drank our way through college and both had the intent to join the “fabulous and glamorous” world of PR. Little did we know long days, crazy clients and a sorority house full of 20-something girls waited for us on the other side.

Like two pimple faced teens holding their lunch trays the first day of high school, heels and flats started interning together at the same PR firm in Chicago. Flats had it a little more together than heels and heels, seeing an opportunity to befriend someone who knew her way around the joint, sought out flats friendship, much to her dismay.

See heels is what you would call a grade-A psycho. Not in every sense of the word but when it comes to work and making some dali lamas, she twitterpates more than Bobby Brown’s hand clutching a fresh hit of smack.

Our first encounter was not what you would call a joint effort. One blistering cold day last October, heels blew into flats’ tiny intern room like a tornado. I have trouble recalling the memory, as I've tried to block it out it was so traumatizing to my ears. I had never spoken a word to her and yet she came spinning into my room, decked to the nines, spewing verbal diarrhea about anything and everything. I had never heard someone talk so fast in my life. While she ranted and raved at an inhuman speed, I watched in amazement wondering if she had overdosed on caffeine or maybe pulled a Sarah Michelle-Gellar circa the late 90’s, horny teen phenomenon, “Cruel Intentions,” and blew lines secretly in the bathroom. Why was she talking to me, were we friends, did she think I wanted to get verbally assaulted? Had I blacked out at the intern lunch two weeks ago and invited this basket-case into my life?

Fast forward 14 months later and not only can I not shake this basket-case like that bad blind date you just want to forget, she’s somehow convinced me to start this damn blog with her.

Whatever, she can make me sound like a needy girlfriend all she wants, but she wanted this blog just as much as I did. This is a consensual blog relationship and no claims of blog rape will even be considered. We figured we’re funny and we want the world to know it.

We both ended up getting hired, flats always one step ahead of heels, and now a year and a half later, flatsvsheels was born. Flats refuses to wear heels and heels rocks the stiletto like it’s going out of style. If you know us, you can probs figure out who's who; so keep it to yourself, we want to keep our anonymity.

The whole world is about three drinks behind,

heels and flats