Taken

Today a little boy ran up to me while I was on my walk and said, “My name is Charlie. And you’re beautiful.”

Thanks, Charlie.

Who doesn’t love them some tim russert?

So, I totally had a HOT dream about Tim Russert the other night. When I say hot, I mean Grey’s Anatomy hot. Like, Dr. McSteamy, McDreamy and McNugget orgy hot. That’s right– no nudity but a lot of suggestive bantering.

It went like this: I’m in High school again and I get called to the principal’s office. I’ve skipped geography or oceanagraphy or some class that involves overly detailed maps. You get the picture.

I shuffle in the office. Sitting at the principal’s desk is Tim Russert. He’s my principal, see?

He sits me down. He says, “Where were you at 11:30?”

I say, “In class, of course.”

He says, “Is that your answer, and you’re sticking to it?”

I laugh awkwardly and say, “Tim, what reason would I have to lie to you?”

He picks up his pen and writes something on a white piece of paper in front of him. He gestures at a monitor (which has strangely appeared all of the sudden) and says, “On February fourth, Johnny Marshall wrote this about you in the High School Gazette.”

The monitor comes into view. It reads: “Though she is seldom in class, KT maintains a 3.9 grade point average. Many suspect she cheats: By sleeping with her teachers.”

At this point I say something about how it doesn’t seem that strange or wrong even if I did sleep with my teachers. Because I’m 26 and it’s taken me 8 years to graduate high school. I’ve practically memorized the text books! That’s why I get such good grades. All of this is irrelevant I remind him, because I was in class. And I stick to my story.

Tim cuts to commercial.

Facebook. The continuous stuggle.

Amongst my facebook friends I have been labeled “most reliable” and “most useful.” I could see “most useful” coming a mile a way (I mean, I’m practically a female McGyver), but “most reliable?” Gee guys, you shouldn’t have. I simply don’t deserve such utterly mundane praise.  I might get a big head on my shoulders! This mixed with the fact that I have only about 22 friends serves as the constant reminder that even my cyber life is boring.  Maybe I should dye my hair black, start dressing like a burlesque dancer and post semi-nude photos of myself under the new name of “Countess Sex-o-rella.”

Totally the way…to make new friends.

I miss…

being the friend. I never thought I would say that. But I honestly, really miss being every guy in the world’s best girlfriend, going home lonely, imagining myself as the lovable, maybe sorta kinda cute to someone who likes low-maintenance types chick who helps everyone find the girl of their dreams at the end of the movie.

I kinda miss it. And god knows, I have no clue in holy heaven why.

I swear it wasn’t me, it was my heart talking.

I made someone who was sick soup yesterday. Ironically enough, it was “soup for one“, which, I suppose has become soup for two.

Down for you is up

Having (momentarily) run out of topics to blog about, I’ve decided to pose a question for today’s posting.

Is it ok that I still listen to The Smiths? I mean, is it alright to, say, listen to them after the age of twenty?

Gotta Girlfriend in a Coma? Unhappy Birthday? Please Please Please let me get what I want?

Is it normal to appreciate pseudo-depression after you’re no longer comically miserable?

Just wondering. Hopefully tomorrow’s post will be more interesting.

If only J. would let me write about the pillow that he spoons.

If I ever have to go on another date with an investment banker…

One thing I’ve (sadly) figured out about myself since moving here three years ago is that I care very little about money.  Maybe it’s because I grew up poor or I’m “deep” or I’m just plain stupid.  But every time some asshole offers me a fancy dinner at Tavern on Rush or Japonais, all I can think is, honestly I’d rather be with a man I like at Danny’s.

Rest assured, there is hope.

Yesterday I was talking to my friend D. at work.  After I mentioned that it seems difficult to meet people in this, the vast city of Chicago, he paused. 

 

“Let me get back to you on your problem,” he said, pensively.

 

After about four hours he sent me a list of things he thinks I have going for me in an effort to build my “self-esteem.”

 

Here is that list:

 

Pros:

 

*Former bartender

*Insists on doing whiskey shots

*Is not particularly tied to the idea of marriage

*When she hits you, it’s never hard enough to hurt you

*Lots and lots of hair (on her head)

*Will not hold poor hygiene against you (but will make fun of you for it)

 

I seriously have a lot going for me.  I mean, I might be the cat’s meow.  Or at least it’s fur-ball.

I’m a player. I play.

Last night I fell off of a bar stool while trying to hit on a guy.

The fun part?

I was sober.

Snow White?

Today as I was walking to work a little girl walking four feet behind me with her mother kept running up to me and then turning back to her mother.

After three or four times of doing this, she says to her mother “Mommy, it’s Snow White!”

The mom apologizes and says, “Sorry, we saw a play and you look like Snow White in the play.”

“That’s ok,” I say.

The little girl runs up to me again and puts her hand up, saying, “Stop!”

So, I do.

Then she says, “Do you sleep in a glass coffin?”

“No,” I say, “But after I get my tax return I might.”