Tale as Old as Time

After spending a decent portion of my time the past month becoming fluent in Mandarin, campaigning for public office, climbing Kilimanjaro, brushing up on my polo skills, and giving birth to septuplets as a surrogate... or at least having dreams about all of those things, I'm back to blogging baby.

And naturally, I have a situation on my hands (not "The Situation," gross, but my situation too is short, loud, and could be from Jersey for all I know).

It's my new neighbor. She sings. A lot.

Not like "oh sweet, I love this [insert Mariah, Celine, Shania] song! So I'm going to use my amateur voice and butcher it to oblivion!" She really gets into it, like vibrato and all.

The only thing I can really think to compare it to is if Jewel were living in the room next to you and you heard her muffled voice for a solid two hours. And not the cool crunchy-granola 1990's Jewel who lived out of her car and sang about her dirty hands and depression and foolish games that are tearing me apart, but rather the midriff baring, Britney Spears wannabe Jewel with the severe identity crisis in pleather pants and chains whose songs become themes for razor commercials. Neighbor Jewel also reminds me of one of my sister's friends from 1st grade who I always used to want to punch in the nostril when she would sing Disney jams that I loved. Everybody sounds good singing Tale as Old as Time you snob.

Girl's got a set of lungs too. Her record was two hours and twenty minutes Saturday morning. I bet if she set her mind to it she could have put those lungs to good use running the Chicago Marathon AND simultaneously sung the entire race.

Now you may be thinking, Hoff why don't you take it easy on this poor girl? Maybe she's only happy when she sings or maybe she has an audition for American Idol coming up or maybe her roommate can only fall asleep to the sound of her melodic voice or maybe she's like Cinderella and there are actually cartoon birds and mice chirping alongside her while she sweeps and you're just being insensitive. That could be true. But I'm farely confident that it's not.

The thing that really prevents any chance of sympathy I may feel for this budding artist is that as soon as she starts to serenade the neighborhood, her pip-squeak of a chihuahua decides to chime in for a little duet.

That dog just brings back all those awful emotions I used to feel hearing the Disney song murderer. All I'm saying is that you should probably watch for me on the nightly news... "This evening in Lakeview, woman arrested for punching a 12 pound chihuahua in its twitchy nostril."

Curse You El Goop

I was in a war this morning. It was an ugly, mind-twisting, clusterf*ck of a war...and I lost. It will probably go down in history as the "The Battle of Mystery El Juice at the Quincy Brown Line."

What is this mystery fluid you ask? No one really knows if it's pigeon pee, human pee, nuclear waste, or condensation from the humidity. The optimistic side of me wants to say there's a decent chance it could be kryptonite.

The goop drips consistently into an approximate 12-inch wide oval, five steps down from the spinney gate in the outer Loop platform (which in itself is an obstacle course). It takes a little shimmy, a little shake, some bumpin' and grindin', a dip to and fro, but once you've got it down you're golden. For the past 10 months I have successfully done the dance-of-el-goo-avoidance. Hopefully my strategy doesn't turn too many people on at 8am.

It takes skill - you've got to be able to precisely pinpoint the exact location and velocity of the next drip. I like to think I'm the only one who has figured out this strategy. The evil side of me takes some pleasure in thinking that my resourcefulness has caused major nausea for the poor schmuck behind me who gets the fatal splat on the face.

Well this morning I found out what it's like to be that schmuck.

It all happened so fast. I saw the initial drop, thought I had enough time to maneuver to the right a few inches, when all of a sudden in slow-motion I saw it lurking toward me...the giant drop slowly encroaching on my right shoulder. In my head, I cried out in horror "curse you el gooooooooooo!"(picture arms flailing, fist pumping toward the ceiling, frantically padding my hair to make sure I didn't have a bald spot). In reality, I just prayed that nobody saw it happen because let me tell you, the moment that drop hits your forehead, it sounds like a freakin' jackhammer.

Why not take a different exit route you ask? That's like asking me to stop eating peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Absurd.

The Dog Ate My Homework and Then Devoured Me...So That's Why I Couldn't Hang Out With You.

While showering this morning, I noticed that my bathtub is in need of a good caulking, which logically reminded me of the most magnificent blow off excuse I heard back in '09.

I mean this excuse is the motherload of all excuses to get out of a date. If they gave out Teen Choice Awards for "Best Ditch Your Girl On Super Bowl Sunday Excuses," this one would kick some serious Jonas Brother ass. It's like if you took Tupac, Biggie Smalls, and Jay-Z and put them in a room, then they ask me to come and sing Big Pimpin', that's how awkward this excuse was.

Picture this...

It's year 2009, Super Bowl Sunday and I'm supposed to go watch the game with the guy I had recently started seeing. Things were going pretty well, he was cute and smart and funny and he didn't wear sweatpants with elastic bottoms, so he pretty much fell into the dreamboat category. That morning he sends me a text asking what I'm up to later in the day and requesting my presence at a game watch get together. Being a sports lover, in addition to a commercial lover, I respond with a cheery "affirmative" and set off to find an outfit that says "hey look at me, I'd make a good girlfriend because I can watch sports, eat nachos, drink beer and still look adorable."

About an hour later I get this message:
"Hey, so I'm not sure I can hang out to watch the game. I have to caulk my bathtub and make sure it dries before I can do anything. I'll let you know when it's dry."

My response: "Hahahaha seriously? You're a hoot."

He was serious.

Immediately I set off in search of statistics to prove that the recaulking of a bathtub does not take an entire afternoon and does not require undivided attention. In fact, I'm pretty sure the side of the caulking tube reads "WARNING: Should you decide to caulk your bathtub on Super Bowl Sunday and use this as an excuse to blow off a girl...Ace Hardware is not responsible for any damages incurred."

I apologize to all the guys out there who have been using this excuse for years and I've now destroyed all credibility, but it is a tale that must be told.

The best part is that we continued to hang out off and on after "the incident" and obviously I tried to drop the word "caulk" into every sentence possible but he acted as though it never happened!

"Where should we go eat? I'm in the mood for a caulk dog, oh I mean hot dog." He wouldn't even acknowledge my awesome hints like, "What did I do last night? Ate dinner then caulked my tub. And that's no sexual innuendo my friend." No response.

Moral of the story, unless you want to be referred to as a "mother caulker" for the rest of your life, think of a better excuse.

I Got 99 Problems

To that ONE PERSON who refuses to check their Facebook Page Invitations leaving me with an unbearable OCD-inducing NINETY-NINE followers of this blog, know this:

My eye won't stop twitching.
I've been breaking out in night sweats.
Pretty sure I have hives on my stomach.
I've never eaten so many Twinkies in my life.

Thanks. Thanks a lot.

Parental Facebook Coping Mechanisms

Those of you who have met Mama Hoff, you know she's a pretty hip lady, she's a talented, down-to-earth makeup artist who doesn't look a day past 40. She's also one of my biggest smorgasjord fans, so I know she'll see this. Like all mothers, she loves me unconditionally (remember that madre, you love me unconditionally). Like all mothers on facebook, and this number is growing at a terrfyingly exponential rate, Mama Hoff has found new ways of communicating with her long distance daughters. That was the nice way of putting it. We've set up some boundaries and everything seems to be working out swimmingly as I've since developed some coping mechanisms that enable me to coexist with my mom's facebook page.

She is not allowed to post on my wall, she is allowed limited comment access on photos posted of me, and any contact with friends should be done without my knowledge (don't ask don't tell policy). The most often utilized technique is what I call the "First Line Review" which basically involves a quick review of the first line of her messages to determine their readability.

Take notes my friends:

Subject: Rachel Pally - Printed Deep V Dress at chickdowntown.com
First Line: "Jord, when you get married on the beach (that's what I'm expecting anyway...)"
The Readability Verdict? Don't open, I already told you I like the mother of the bride dress you sent me yesterday.

Subject: Five Steps, Five Minutes to a Flawless Face
First Line: If you've got 5 minutes you can still get a "flawless face"!!!
The Readability Verdict? Debatable. Could be helpful, but where is she going with this??

Subject: time to update the profile pic
First Line: "I wasn't creeping or whatever but..."
The Readability Verdict? You'd have to pay me to open this one.

Subject: Stewart + Brown: twist dress
First Line: "How do you think this dress would look in an aubergine color?"
The Readability Verdict? She's speaking a foreign language. Don't open.

Subject: pics of certain friends
First Line: Hi Sug, when you think of it, no make that when you get a chance, would you.."
The Readability Verdict? Based on the subject matter and tone of the request, this one is headed down a dark dark path...

Subject: Sweatshirt in profile pic.
First Line: THAT is what you wore on your birthday??? OK. You're an adult. You can decide..."
The Readability Verdict? Enough said.

Subject: Chicago - Get a Load of this Gorgeous Gelato
First Line: GELATOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! xoxoMomster Hoffmanski
The Readability Verdict? Now we're talking.

See What Happens When You Read? Heartbreak.

I have been told that the best way to improve one's writing is to read the works of others...and to read everything from newspaper articles to essays to novels to prescription drug labels to the Bible.

I believe this to be true but there is one tiny issue - I'm incapable of staying awake for anything longer than two pages of written word. Which is why when I found an author who kept me engaged through an entire commute home plus an extra 5 minutes after I climbed in to bed, I knew it was the beginning of something special.

Meet Sloane Crosley, age 20-something who writes hilarious essays about the experience of 20-somethings (her backdrop is NYC but I think it could really be any urban area). This is obviously not a new subject but she writes with enough detail and perception that a fellow weirdo like me can really relate to her. The craziest thing is that I can relate and she doesn't even write about vampires.

When her new book titled How Did You Get This Number was released, I assumed she'd be making a signing stop in Chicago because, despite my struggle with reading, turns out others in the city are perfectly capable of reading 300 page novels. But when I checked her site I couldn't find anything about a stop in Chi-town (she's even stopping in Philly where I KNOW people don't read, they couldn't possibly).

So I emailed her publicist and again, my curiosity resulted in more questions than answers:

Dear Ms. Grinch,

I was so excited to see that the tour dates for How Did You Get This Number? were posted to the website but was oh so disappointed to learn that there were no Chicago dates scheduled! I have to believe that my friend Angela and I, two 23-year-old recent college grads doing some serious shattering of the glass ceiling (or at least working on it), are not the only followers of Sloane.

I know it seems like the 2nd city is in the middle of nowhere, but I swear it’s a hidden gem and we’re actually pretty funny here and would LOVE a Sloane appearance at the local Borders or Barnes and Noble (probably Barnes and Noble, it’s cleaner).

Thanks very much for your consideration!

Best,

Jordan

Her response a few days later:

Hi, Jordan –

Sorry for no Chicago! We really tried to make it work for the hardcover – as we love Chicago – but it might be someplace that might be an option for any paperback appearances…

We obviously appreciate your support and please stay tuned to her website for any future appearances.

Best,
Katie

Now I know very little about book publishing and how these tours work, but I do know what my eyes have seen and I'm 100% positive that even here in Chicago we read both hardcover and paperbacks. If it's Barnes and Noble that's being a stick in the mud, she can come sign books on my stoop...I'll even provide the Corona Light and pens.

I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed.

I Hope This Doesn't Creep You Out Too Much...

Over the years I have learned that no conversation that begins with "I hope this doesn't creep you out too much" ends with me being anything but thoroughly creeped out.

"I hope this doesn't creep you out too much but I used several global databases and surveillance footage to find out where you work, live, run, grocery shop, and staycation."

"I hope this doesn't creep you out too much but I'd like to take pictures of you while you sleep."

"I hope this doesn't creep you out too much but I have this nasty rash on my stomach."

So this morning while I'm fumbling for cream and sugar in the work cafeteria and a woman approaches me with a "I hope you aren't going to be too creeped out by this question," I had a really strong urge to just tell her "You know what, it's 8am and I'm already creeped out so come on, just sock-it-to-me, what have ya got?"

Instead I smiled and gave her the go ahead, knowing that the question was going to be some variation of "So I have to ask, how tall are you?" After 15 years of answering these types of questions, listing the various sports that I play/don't play, and standing back-to-back with strange men in bars to compare heights, I'm used to it.

Not letting me down she asks, "Mind if I ask how tall you are? I used to work with a girl who was as tall as you. Do you model? She modeled. You could you know, you could probably make a lot of money."

In one instant I feel the obligation to explain how tall my parents are, my uncles, my ancestors. I feel the compulsion to explain that I tried modeling once but they told me I needed to shave the bone off my hips so I thought I should just finish high school instead. I feel the need to tell her that I enjoy my life and don't want to become a coke addict.

And lastly, I feel the desire to explain to her that of course I'd like to look like Giselle Bündchen and spend my time in foreign lands rolling around on sandy beaches with no clothes on and still feel like 1 million bucks, but instead I say "Nope, I'm just tall" and head back upstairs to my double monitors and framed photo of Joe Biden in my cozy cubicle.

My Magical Powers

There is a good chance that I may be blessed with magical powers.

Big shout out to Andy for helping me realize this potential. Ladies and gentlemen, drum roll please...turns out that my magical powers are manifested in none other than the gift of speech, particularly speech that makes people feel vomitous (usually of the male variety).

People with the gift of speech can go one of two ways - the Barack Obama route paved with powerful rhetoric and eloquence or the George W. Bush route paved with powerful rhetoric and the symptoms that Mylanta cures. The latter just happens to be my route.

This is how the epiphany went down-

Me: "Want to hear a good story Andy?"

Andy: [silence]

Me: Okay good. Well it probably won't be that good, but I'm going to tell it anyway because we have like a 30 minute train ride home and there isn't really anyone else you're going to listen to. So last week I was in the coffee room at work, and you know that guy...[ blah blah blah something something something, yammering on for five minutes]??

Andy: [silence]

Me: ...So he says to me, "I know how to catch Osama bin Laden." And I'm like, okay big guy, tell me how? I mean who says that? I think he works in your department, do you know a lot of people in your department? [ blah blah blah something about Osama's views on global warming compared to my views on global warming, asking Andy about his views on global warming]

Andy: Yup. [head nod and a little bit squirmy in his seat]

Me: [oodles of gibberish and anecdotes to make this the best story EVER]...and then he just grabbed his coffee and walked away! Just like that! So you know which guy I'm talking about right?

And then Andy looks me directly in the eye and says very nonchalantly:
"So a little while ago when you were talking, I thought that I was going to throw up if you kept talking."

And just like that, I have a new weapon to combat horrible first dates.

The Office is No Place for Aloe.

My office is overrun with aloe plants.

This really perplexes me because not once have I seen a sunburned coworker approach the healing plant, take out a pair of scissors, cut off a chunk of aloe leaf and rub it all over his/her bod. No doubt it's a sexual harassment law suit waiting to happen.

I'm challenged in the horticulture arena, so there is probably some very practical reason for keeping aloe in the office, in addition to it's magical healing powers. Either way, I don't care, these octopus plants creep me out.

Its giant pervy feelers are always reaching for my boob as I walk by and every day it moves closer and closer to my cubicle. While all the other plants grow toward the sun, this evil creature moves toward me. Not only that, but it has a buddy that sits atop the filing cabinets in the cubicle next to mine and it's so obvious that the two are in cahoots, plotting the takeover of workspace 09-632.

When I'm not analyzing statistical data in Excel spreadsheets and organizing meetings, I spend the rest of my time devising fantastical office escapes in which the aloe plant comes to life, spurring mass chaos and spewing goo as my innocent office-mates and I take shelter in the copy room, the filing cabinets, or under the fax machine (because it's 2010 and no aloe monster would think to look under the fax machine).

No joke, I just looked over at it and saw its tentacle morph into a smirk.

Stroke of Genius

Remember Rap Snacks? And Booty Pop? Both genius ideas I should have thought of first. I have another sublime find to share with you art snobs....

That's an oil painting. Of a wolf. Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool in a dirty martini. Stroking an olive.

Selling at $85 a piece at the South Haven, MI 4th of July weekend craft fair, this gem of a painting begs two questions, both of which were dissected and debated for an embarrassingly long time...

1) Why?
2) What is the deeper meaning of a canine in a martini glass?

Well I came to a couple of conclusions on both issues. 1) To answer the why - One day the artists' Finnish Spitz was running around chasing after a tennis ball while he sipped his dirty martini in a rainforest (which would explain the palm tree background). All of a sudden, instead of leaping for the tennis ball, the Spitz leaped into the air and landed on top of the martini glass with the toothpick strategically placed in its paw and the artist was like "Thanks Sparky! The artistic muse I've been waiting for! I'm going to start painting man's best friend in alochol baths, man's other best friend."

2) The deeper meaning is pretty obvious to me - What kind of parent would deprive their newborn infant of waking up to a a picture of these cute little guys hanging in the nursery?

AND what better way to introduce your children to the idea of alcoholism then through the arts? "See kids, do those pugs look happy to be bathing in a pool of alcohol? You won't either."

This entire experience just served as reaffirmation for me: craft fairs=America.

I Suffer From Nocturnal OCD

I woke up this morning to find my dresser drawers empty and clothes folded neatly in a line across the edge of my bed. This is actually perfect because I've been meaning to fold them for a while and never feel like doing it while I'm awake.

It's A Big 'Un!

In a few weeks I'll be heading to Tennessee (aka the durrrty south) with some friends for a weekend roadtrip. Do you want to know what we will NOT be doing?

Noodling catfish.



This ain't your grandpa's fishing my friends (maybe your uncles, but certainly not your grandpa's). Unless you live in a third world country or are hammered, I'm not sure what would possess someone to wade in basically a septic tank and then dig around to find a 65 pound Nemo in that septic tank and then stick your hand into Nemo's mouth and back out through its gills in a race to see who can eat who faster.

So no, I will not be noodling, in case you all were wondering. I will, to the dismay of my buddies, be going door to door passing out cupcakes to studio execs with the hopes that they will recognize my talent in imitating country singers (I think that may be how Taylor Swift was discovered).

i could be a....you pick.

I have a couple of things that I'm pretty good at.

#1 is shuffleboard. I recently discovered that I will make an excellent 74 year old foxy lady who has the leather skin of an iguana, wears a visor and floral bathing suit with the ruffly skirt-bottom, and plays shuffleboard like its my post-retirement job.

#2 is laughing by myself at things that probably only I think are funny.

For example, inspired by the the great Jenny the Bloggess who recently discovered that nearly 700 of her followers found her by Googling "dead whores," I decided it would be fun to Google this blog and see what I could come up with. Of course that just left me with way too many unanswered questions.

I didn't make it very far because these are the search items that auto-populated, in order, when I typed in "i could be a"...

"i could be a freak"
"i could be a freak every day of the week"
"i could be a freak lyrics"
"i could be a mud doctor"
"i could be a poet"
"i could be a frog"
"i could be a better girlfriend"
"i could be a man of the world"

It's tough to explain the spectrum of emotions I experienced when viewing this list. It went from mild intrigue (i could be a freak) to passionate curiosity (i could be a mud doctor) to pathetic empathy (i could be a poet) back to passionate curiosity (i could be a frog) to saddness and confusion (i could be a better girlfriend, keyword "could be") and then the desire to punch someone in the face (i could be a man of the world...really? You have to Google that?).

Disappointed with those results, I decided to move on to Facebook knowing that it certainly wouldn't let me down in the random category. Sure enough, I discovered that the group "I Wish I Could Record My Dreams and Watch Them Later" has 98,566 fans. I'm sorry, what?

Next in line was the group "I could really use a wish right now" which slapped me across the face with a big ole' 119,823 fans.

And last but not least, a search for "i could b" pulled up (drumroll please)...

"i wish my babydaddy came with a receipt so i could take his a$$ back," liked by a whopping 1,618 people.

Basically, what I've learned from this is that if I really want to amp up readership, I need to start tagging inspirational words in posts like "wishes" and "dreams" and "babydaddy."

You Should Start Carrying a Copy of the Constitution Too.

Hey, remember that time when Senator Byrd clothes-lined a certain HELP Committee intern as she tried to sneak into the Senator's only elevator in the US Capital? I do.

R.I.P. Senator Byrd, the longest serving member of Congress.

Taste the Rainbow

Five thoughts that went through my mind at Chicago's Pride Parade yesterday...

#1. Never have I seen so many energy drinks consumed.

#2. Never have I rubbed up against so many people perspiring energy drinks.

#3. How many hits of acid would it take to get me to walk around with rainbow colored pasties on my nipples?

#4. Only at the Pride Parade does this conversation take place:
Me: "Oooo look at the smokin' hot with the bright pink inflatable Crayola Crayon between his legs!"
Sarah: "No way, I love that one over there with the metallic gold hot pants grinding up on the speaker."
Random Passerby in "Hot Buns" briefs: "I want me some of that Mr. Chicago Leather 2010!"

#5. I loved the 5 year old decked out in pride gear cheering on one of the floats, but you've got to wonder how his parents explained the gigantor blue-painted Avatar alien sucking the tail between his legs on the next float.

Also, pretty sure I heard the organ version of Depeche Mode's "Just Can't Get Enough" streaming from the walls of the Friendly Confines yesterday.

How can you not love this city?

Is This Why They Call it the Windy City?

Can't a girl walk the streets of Chicago without having her back gently blown on by a little schmuck? Apparently not because I tried it during my lunch break today only to discover an itty bitty 5'1" blonde man doing just that... to and fro, back and forth, nice and easy, minding his own biz while I debate between soup and a salad.

It tickled. After I made the realization that there was surprisingly no breeze and logically figured there must be a smurf blowing on my back, I turned around, peered down at him, pushed my sunglasses to the tip of my nose and gave him the look that said "hey buddy, listen here, I'm a little weirded out by this advance so if you could just cross the street and blow on some other girl, I'd really appreciate it."

And on he went. Had it been a massage, this would have ended very differently.

These Google Ads are Killing Me...

I don't know if you guys (again, all 16 of you) have seen these ads in the right sidebar yet, but you should check them out, they are hilarious. It's like an adventure everytime I post, see what random companies will advertise based on my ridiculousness today!

Today we have "Silkies Official Site. Quality hosiery, affordable prices!" followed by "CaizziLo Art, LLC "Face Paint, Temp Tats and beyond!" and the closer, "Face Painting Cheek Art."

What does this say about my blog?

Slexting

In some people, stress manifests itself in the form of nail biting, hair pulling, leg shaking, chain smoking, continual runs to the bathroom, etc. For me, stress manifests itself in the form of sleep talking and more recently, sleep texting ("slexting" as I refer to it).

It's as though I come alive at night and morph into this creepy chick with a cheesy overzealous laugh (sounds kind of like this) and then get all up in everyone else's business.

Like sophomore year of college, first night with my new roommates in our small two bedroom apartment. My poor roomie Stebanie (another anonymous name) wakes to find me pulling her suitcases out into the middle of our room mumbling something about "UGHH these are ALWAYS in my WAY." Totally logical.

Or there was the time on a 9th grade family vacation when I leaned over to my best friend Meg, tapped her on the shoulder and whispered "pssst, hey, is Jimmy over there with you? Are you guys spooning?" Allegedly, later that same night I creepily tapped her shoulder again to ask "psst do you see that guy in the corner? No? He's over there, leaning down. I think it's Dylan." I think I made her cry.

The sleep texting has only come about recently and I fear has the potential to do some serious damage. It's hard to explain all the things running through my mind when I wake up to messages of "hahahaha." Actually no it's not, it's basically "oh sh*t."

A couple months ago, I sleep texted a guy I was newly seeing and said "hey, don't forget to grab the alarm clocks. I'm really going to need those." In my defense, he should have interpreted that as, hey she's prompt. In his defense, I think it was interpreted as, ok Ms. High Maintenance.

My most recent slext occurred last night at 12:34 AM.
To Meg: "I think I may have just accidentally sleep talked Mr. D..."
Last time I checked, you can't "sleep talk" someone, so now of course I'm paranoid that I accidentally sweet talked my high school basketball coach.

Spotlight on Panty Hose Day

I have just declared today to be "Spotlight on Panty Hose" day. Only because I've had two separate panty hose moments today...and I'm not even wearing them.

The first being that for most of the day I've been wondering who the blazes wears stockings (if your 70), panty hose (if you're 40), tights (if you're 23) in 90 degree heat. Then this got me to thinking about the time my friend told me that her boyfriend once saw her putting on her tights and cried out in horror "THAT'S what those things look like?!" Which I have since learned is not a unique situation. If he thought that was traumatizing, he should see when one foot gets stuck resulting in a freakish bounce around the room in attempts to get the other foot in the nylon casing/suction. This usually ends in expletives when I see my toe poke through the spot where my knee should be.

Next, and perhaps most touching, the cleaning lady at work stops me in the bathroom while I'm washing my hands, motions to my legs and says in broken English "are dose you skin or you panty hose that color?" Fair question given that my legs are the color of Arby's curly fries, soon to switch back to the color of McDonald's fries so enjoy it while it lasts.

"Oh these old gams? Oh aren't you sweet!," I replied. And then I hugged her. No, but I wanted to.

In retrospect, I think this might be one of those situations where I confuse compliments with backhanded jabs.

Because We Were Getting Sick of Rap Snacks.

Although most of you probably know me as Mz. Booty Pop, I thought I'd take a little of the spotlight off my goodies, I mean self, and throw this photo out there for you all to comment.

Whoever comes up with the best caption gets a personalized video of me booty popping. Okay that's a lie, and may only be considered a prize to federal prison inmates, but I will buy you a bag of Booty Pop ( note: AS SEEN ON TV) and will even throw in some Rap Snacks.

And by "you all to comment", of course, I mean the people who either a) feel sorry for me and pretend to read this blog, b) actually read the blog and end up asking themselves how I am able to survive on planet earth or c) gave birth to me.

Fine, I'll Leave the Face Paint at Home.

First, I would like to note that I could probably write an entire book on Jeans Days. I'd have a chapter on how they are like sedatives for disgruntled employees, a chapter on how creepy it is to see certain coworkers in jeans, a chapter on the good ole' days when denim mini's and jorts were acceptable, etc.

For now, I'll just share the Jeans Day announcement email I received at work today:

"We will be having a Jeans and Jersey Day tomorrow! Please feel free to wear your Blackhawks or World Cup apparel! This is the first time since 1961 that the Chicago Blackhawks are Stanley Cup Champions! Tomorrow is also the start of the World Cup!! An event that only comes around every 4 years is worthy of a celebration! The usual jeans day guidelines are in place, and no face painting is allowed."

Okay so is it just me or this a direct attack on me?? "...and no face painting is allowed." It's almost like they were speaking to me, "And no Jordan, no face painting is allowed. Don't even think about painting your face half black/half red and tattooing that Native American to your cheek. Just put it away." Next they're going to suggest leaving the tomahawk at home.(kidding if you're reading this Fed Reserve Bank security guards.)

The second best part about this is that you know someone in the course of this law firm's history decided that it would be a good idea to wear face paint to work. You don't just make that shiz up, "Oh and by the way, if you were thinking about painting your face for that deposition, think twice."

Will it ever end?

All my life I have had one question burning and churning inside me. No, it's not what man will I bring home to the smurfs...what will my retirement package look like...is my pet turtle Chipper really BBQing with my cat Grits in animal heaven?

It is simply this: Why do I have one eyebrow hair that outgrows all others overnight? Literally, overnight. And it's long too, it's like an inch long. And it's really blonde, it's like if you took one strand of Dakota Fanning's hair and stuck it on the side of my face, that's how blonde it is. And I try and keep track of it too, like one night I didn't sleep at all because I wanted to catch it growing, but I couldn't keep my eyes open for that long.

Unlike "mister 2 cents" of Yahoo!Answers who has given up, I will move forward with my quest because I too, mister 2 cents, sure would like to know why my Dakota hair outgrows all the others.

Probably more to come on this facsinating story.

Super Fly

Before I tell this story I want to give you a little context...
My friend and I have a morning commuting routine, (for the sake of anonymity, let's call her Argela). It started with her sending a text at 7:11 that said "Do you want to commute this morning?" then degressed to a 7:32 text that said "Commute together?" then 7:45, "Commute?" then "C?" and now I'm pretty sure we just meet at the same corner every day at 7:50 after a "?" text for a powerwalk to the train.

It's a precious bonding moment we share. She usually asks me if I went out last night, implying that I look like a trainwreck, and I mumble something about how I didn't think I needed to wash my hair today, or yesterday, "but I swear I took a bod shower." The other thing I should note is that Argela is a very graceful person and is one of those few people who roll out of bed and look cute. Normally I despise those people but for some reason our friendship remains intact.

In fact, the only time I've seen her really uncomfortable was when our neighbor's bulldog was humping her leg, and let me tell you that image will live on forever.

Which is why I thought I was soooo lucky that I was able to witness Argela's second awkward moment at 8:01am Tuesday, June1, when a stranger approached her on the Southport brown line platform to very seriously inform her that her "fly was open." Of course I got a good chuckle out of it, then got a little creeped out because the woman was obviously staring at her crotch for too long, and then got another good chuckle out of it, and I thought to myself "Holy monkeys, that happens to me! I'm the one who walks around with my fly unzipped!! What a treat!"

And then I looked down and my fly was unzipped.

Take that Dr.I'm-Too-Good-For-Your-Noodles

If there's one piece of advice I'd give you kids, it would be this: don't ever think it's a good idea to try and impress a special man friend, who happens to have his PhD and matching ego, by cooking him noodles and sphagetti sauce, and only noodles and spaghetti sauce (from Aldi, no big deal). Apparently that signifies a lack of committment, care, and focus that some guys really appreciate in their lady friend. Since when did the presence of a head of lettuce become the deciding factor on whether or not the relationship will last?

You should have seen the reaction from 95% of the people I talked to about the situation. The conversation was the same every time:
[Insert name of family member, friend, dentist]: How'd your cooking date night go Jordan?
Me: Went pretty well I think, made pasta.
[Insert name of family member, friend, gyno]: Nice, what else did you make?
Me: What do you mean what else did I make? I made pasta. Noodles and spaghetti sauce? Was I supposed to make something else?
[Insert name of family member, friend, boss]: (heads bow and shake) Oh Jord.

I think that other 5% may have been my Pop who reacted the way dad's are supposed to react, "what a schmuck."

Granted, could I ever see myself with a guy who is scared/turned off by noodles and Ragu? No. Probably means that he makes his bed every day and wears sweatpants with tapered elastic bottoms. The point is that he should be content with my ability to entertain him while he cooks for me! Besides, my one redeeming quality is that this girl can bake (see image below, crumbly top courtesy of Ang and Steph).




Now this was a couple years ago and let me tell you, I have certainly matured. Next time I cook for a guy, I'm totally inviting my buddies over an hour before he arrives to work their culinary magic in my kitchen. It's amazing what some people will do for a lifetime supply of Glee DVRing.

B-Banana-B-B-Banana

You know all those splendid memories you have of high school, some might call them the glory days, others might call them paradise. Perfect skin, smokin bod, flowing locks...really, if you could just picture the epitome of grace and then picture the exact opposite of that, you've got me. I had four growth spurts that eventually added up to 6'1" of woman...one in the 4th grade, one in the 7th, another in the 9th and one perfectly timed inch added my freshman year of college. I didn't have a Pink Locker Society to tell me what the trouble with wearing see through shirts was, I had a Justin who was probably more than happy to tell me what that trouble was, and then tell everyone else.

I kid, because high school was actually great despite my abnormally large wingspan, but the older I get, I realize that in the twitch of an eye, the most awkward high school memories can come flooding back to you when you least expect. Like today, when eating a banana on the train I had a pretty freakin mortifying flashback of a banana peel and me.

I remember it so well: Feeling pretty good, probably just totally rocked my clarinet playing skills, maybe aced another "Great Gatsby" exam, definitely got a wink from that guy...cruising the halls on my way to lunch, I round the corner (the same corner I had rounded 837 times before) and before I could even hold the loser L up to my forehead, land really hard on the ole caboose. Okay now picture Matt Damon, Ben Affleck, Orlando Bloom, Patrick Dempsey, and Andy Roddick eating paper-bagged lunches together in the cafeteria. Yeah, I fell in front of Salem Central's 12th grade equivalent.

From then on, I knew I was different.

Oooo baby, I love the way you pay those taxes.

I just heard a totally rad lyric in the song "Nothin On You" by B.o.B (feat. Bruno Mars), and no, I have no idea who Bruno Mars is. So the song is about this one girl who is on like a whole other playing field than all the other girls on the whole planet Earth, yeah even better than like Paris and Tokyo and London and Georgia because Bruno's been there and, like, they don't really compare and don't shave and what not. So like, all these girls got nothin' on this one other girl (I think this might be where the song title is derived) and he gives a few more examples about how she's like the coolest thing EVER but then all of a sudden he drops a bomb. Like woah...

"Baby you the whole package, plus you pay your taxes."

Okay if I had known that paying my taxes was so sexy to a man, I would obviously publicize a little more. Just wait, next year around the second week in April, the guys will be like flies to honey (or poop) with me.

The Stuff Rap Stars are Made of, Rap Snacks Duh.

All these years I've spent trying to figure out the key to rapping (you know the countless nights I've spent laying in bed trying to figure out how to replicate that robotic sound Kanye has in 808s and Heartbreaks). Well hold on to your low-riders and put away the cough medicine Weezy, I think I finally found the "magic stuff" on the Blue Line yesterday.

Two words: Rap Snacks.

How could I miss this little gem of an empty wrapper what with those pearly whites of Romeo (formarly known as Lil Romeo pre-voice change) shining back at me from the floor?

Hey Romeo, way to sex it up a bit, turns out I would like to try your flaming bbq HONEY sauced chips...but only if it makes me rap, change outfits, and play basketball like this.

In reality, little finds like this make me pretty bitter. Chips that make you rap better? I totally could have thought of that. What's next? Mysterious juices that make you play sports better? Ridiculous.

I kid, but Rap Snacks actually serve to benefit society. Besides what I'm sure are extremely healthy ingredients, each bag features positive messages for young hip-hop dreamers like "stay in school," "don't sell drugs," "respect your elders." But there seems to be one important lesson missing on these chips, oh I don't know, maybe "don't litter"??

The Bank Fair/Sausage Fest

So today I went to a bank fair. I didn't really know what to expect, my gut told me that it would be a bunch of well-groomed 30-somethings in button-downs (sleeves rolled up) throwing themselves and money at me. But other than that I had no idea what to expect. Turns out, my gut was off.

Also turns out that talking finance as a recent college grad is very different than talking finance as a partner at a law firm. The partner asks questions like "Can I get a measurement on your safety vault?" or "What types of fees will you charge for my [outrageously large] trust fund?" Whereas, I ask questions like "So you offer overdraft protection right? Right?" or "A $300 minimum savings balance? Any ideas on how to maintain that?"

But when it came time to choose my new bank, turns out the ole "process of elimanting creepers" method worked again...


No Chase, I will not bank with you just because you told me my earrings match my dress. Good observation.

No US Bank, I will not bank with you because your four 6'7" sales-gentlemen made an awesome joke about how tough it must be to find a bank being so tall...you know, because I'm tall and banks have height restrictions.

No Harris, I will not bank with you just because you gave me the genius idea of taking my pop out for Father's Day using that free $50 you'll give me when I open a checking account.

And no Fifth/Third Bank, I will not bank with you because...wait, does anyone bank with you?

neanderthol? neanderthal? neeeeanderthol?

Now and then, it is critical that one questions his or her intelligence...or lack thereof. For instance, say one questions how to spell the word "neanderthal" to use soooo wittily in an email to someone I have (or one has, whatever) never met. Is the more intelligent solution to look at dictionary.com or is the more intelligent route to say "hey, why don't I create a new email in Outlook, type in how I think the word should be spelled and Auto-correct will save the day leaving my feeling quite satisfied and uber-charming."

Who am I kidding, that was a pretty freakin resourceful thing to do. At least it would have been had I not proven myself to be such a neanderthal when it came to figuring out how to get this screen shot in this post...

Scrambled Eggs

Two Hoffmann chicks, definitely on the same page:

RiZzLeRaZzLe08: hola
me: hey there, when is the midterm?
RiZzLeRaZzLe08: next class
RiZzLeRaZzLe08: were watching a movie about makingbabies
me: nice, that sounds like fun
RiZzLeRaZzLe08: I'm thinking about selling my eggs
me: me too -little jordans across the globe
RiZzLeRaZzLe08: especially after watching this
oh boy...little jordans
RiZzLeRaZzLe08: I talked to mom about it I don't think she was too happy
she was like yeah but every child you see could be yours
me: haha, not that fertile!
jeez
RiZzLeRaZzLe08: haha
if I did it once I could pay for school
RiZzLeRaZzLe08: and maybe take a vacation
me: how much?
RiZzLeRaZzLe08: apparently in the 90s when this was made they would pay between $5000 to $50000
depending on your genetics
I've read articles about it in Marie Claire also
me: well we've got great genes! we'd be on the upper end of that fo sho
me: maybe ask your professor what specifically "depending on your genetics" means
RiZzLeRaZzLe08: I'll ask
I think our genes are pretty good
me: we're tall.
RiZzLeRaZzLe08: I could take two vacations
were sort of smart
me: that's got to be good for at least $13,022
RiZzLeRaZzLe08: we could use the high school thing**(see note below)
RiZzLeRaZzLe08: ew I guess they use a needle as big as your arm to suck the eggs out
me: highly unlikely. what if they accidentally suck things out the aren't supposed to?



**To understand the "highschool thing" I must note that we were both second best salutatorians at Salem Central School. Who knew I'd be able to put this on my fertility resume someday??


Apparently I scared her off because that was the end of the conversation.

A Word of Advice

Just when I thought my 9-5 days were perhaps growing too monotonous, my extracurricular routines too standard, and my encounters with creepers too few, I saw a glimmer of hope on the Purple Line express train today...

To some (primarily my most trusted buddies), the text "let's go somewhere fun tomorrow night...I'm experiencing man withdrawl" is a rally cry for 20-somethings to get over our winter blues, put on something cute, and go grab drinks in Wicker Park.

Apparently to others, it's a cry of desperation and can only be interpreted as "hey stranger on the el, let me write you a note informing you that I just read your text message from an eerie distance and think that you probably wrote it with the hopes that I would ask you if you want to go grab a drink sometime, preferably this weekend as I'm predicting that if I'm at the point where I'm picking up girls on the el, it's going to be a pretty lonely weekend." Okay I made up the second part, but the first part is all too true.

To the man on the purple line express who thought that this would be an effective strategy to write this note and show it to me, to this man I have two words: It wasn't.

But let's just hope that it was the first text he read that inspired the note because the second one was prompted by a really warm seat over the radiator and read: "I'm on the hottest purple line ever. My a$$ is on fire."