Effing B

I went to Subway for dinner last night, and there was this Effing B in front of me taking forever with her order. She looked like some aging hipster, and she had a 10 year old boy in tow. She wasn't ordering for herself, just for him.

Just to put this story in perspective, I need to take a dump. Bad. But this is the kind of establishment that, in order to ward off vagrants, has no public restrooms. So I think, "All right, I'll just order this sandwich, won't ask for them to build it to my painstaking specifications, and hustle the two blocks back to my apartment where I can shit in peace."

Oh ho HO! What the hell was I thinking?

So this Effing B ponies up to the unwitting, frail sandwich artist and asks, "Does your bread have sugar in it?"

The child behind the counter (1 part ambivalence, 1 part goth, 1 part sloth) pauses for a wide-eyed moment, shocked that somebody actually asked her for something beyond six-inch/footlong, white/wheat, american/pepper jack. She tries to explain to the woman that the bread is made off-site, that it comes to the store in thin, frozen logs that have to be thawed and proofed and baked; none of the measuring and mixing and guar-gumming happens in the shop.

Mid-explanation, the Effing B doesn't appear to be taking it well. I take a moment to weigh the pros and cons of speaking up. Do I let them stand in confusion? How long will that take? If I say something, will that just prolong the time between now and my glorious dump? I chime in, a tad impatiently:

"I think that all bread - as a rule - is made with sugar...to feed the yeast."

They look at me. The Effing B says, "Some breads aren't made with sugar."

"Sure, the specially-designed dietetic breads. But I don't think you can expect any commercial bakery to exclude sugar."

She waits for the boy to make his decision. Then she turns halfway around, somewhat bitchily and says, "Baguettes aren't made with sugar."

What?!

"Hm? I'd check with your bakeries. If you're trying to avoid sugar because of allergies or other health issues, I wouldn't take the risk on bread you didn't make yourself."

Take that, bitch! Get out my shop!

She turns back to the sandwich artist and starts to order. The artist looks up at me and I stare back at her, my eyes bulging out of my head, nodding toward the hipster in front of me. I slowly mouth the word "RE-TARD," and we share a knowing smirk. Or she thought I was crazy, too, and was just trying to placate me. Whatever.

So after all this, I order my sandwich without requesting cheese on the bottom, meat on top of cheese, veggies on top of meat. I cringe as each veggie is added, making my sub look top-heavy and sloppy. Unfortunately, I've played the "better-customer" card, and I can't start freaking out about proper sandwich structure now.

But still, I don't know if I can ever go back there. I bent the rules once; they'll think I'm insane if I come back with my lofty sandwich expectations. I don't want to look like some Effing B (Fucking Bitch).

So there's that,

Laura

So this guy...

I took a train out to the suburbs on Friday night to meet a few of my aunts and uncles - Bill, Paula, Pat and Sally - and some of their friends for dinner.  It was nice.  I ran into my old boss (from the catering company) at the restaurant, and felt really cool for knowing someone outside my city.  Small world.

 

But then I got back to Union Station at about 10:00 pm, and I was tired, seriously period cramping, and ready to go home to bed. 

 

After going to the bathroom, where a stout Latin woman spent her time on the toilet talking on her Douchetooth (my phrase for a Bluetooth earpiece), I walked out right in front of a man with luggage who appeared to be babbling to himself.  I soon realized he was asking for money. 

 

I kept my head down, shook it, walked away.  I walked right by an ATM 15 feet away, and realized I needed cash to get home by cab.  There was no way I was going to hang out for a bus with all this riff raff hanging around. 

 

After I pulled out my cash and started to walk away, the same guy was standing in my way asking for help.  I walked away, saying no, and headed toward the station's McDonald's.  Ha!  I had serious dry mouth for a Diet Coke, and I hoped the caffeine would ease my debilitating cramps.  I would have bought some Midol, but the convenience store was closed.

 

SO...after shelling out a buck and change for a Diet Coke, I walked out and headed for the door.  This homeless guy had been watching me from across the walkway, and as I walked out of McD's (with my drink, mind you, and not a huge bag of cheeseburgers, fries, crisp hundred dollar bills and shiny spats on my shoes), this asshole has the fucking nerve to say:

 

"Fat bitch.  Fat fucking bitch.  Fat ass slob."

 

I raised my middle finger in the air behind me as I walked away, and replied:

 

"Broke ass trick.  Get a job."

 

He continued to call after me as I went up the stairs, and I soooooooooooo wanted to turn on my heel and walk right up to him and say, "Well I guess my fat ass money isn't good enough for you, so don't be so goddamned offended."  But I didn't.  I guess because I was chicken or because I was still alone in a big station with a bunch of fucking savages around me.

 

It haunted me all night.  Why was I so pissed off at some big ole able-bodied jerk calling me fat?  I kept wishing I could go back and tell him off, tell him everything I think about his sorry ass. 

 

Is it mean of me to refuse a penny to a (seemingly) homeless man?  Fuck no.  I had to eat a lot of shit to make my money, and I'mma keep having to do it if I want to get anywhere.  I was never too good to work in a gas station or clean hotel rooms or wash laundry.  Why can't you do the same?  There are plenty of organizations out there to help you get work and housing.  I, however, have to do all that on my own. 

 

Am I selfish?  Hell fucking yeah I am.  I'm not helping every sad sack on the corner just to feel righteous.  The only people I will ever support are my own flesh and blood.

 

So there's that,

 

Laura

 

PS:  It reminded me of last winter when I was home sick.  I ran out to the pharmacy, and on the way back, this thin white guy in a North Face parka (I don't even have a fucking North Face vest!) tried to get money out of me by saying he needed it for his HIV medication.  I walked away without listening, and he called after me, "fucking fat bitch."  Later that winter, he approached me a few blocks away from there, in the same coat, with the same story.  I reminded him about the fat bitch comment and walked away.  I saw him later that summer in a nearby neighborhood, asking for 10 bucks to stay in his apartment, and I reminded him about the fat bitch comment and walked away.  I told him both times that money probably wouldn't be good enough for him.

Elastoplast Stuffiness

I got strawberry cream cheese up my nose this morning.

 

It's bagel day, and I toasted my tasty treat to nigh blackness.  When I went to take a bite out of my schmeared vittle, the dough didn't give so easily and I ended up flipping the gooey side all up on my face.  I turned off my computer screen to look at my messy face in the reflection.  Sure enough, I had pink cheese all over my nose, my cheeks, and my upper lip.  If someone would have walked in on me in that time of great slothful embarrassment - Dr. Sachdeva! - I would have died of shame.

 

I wiped myself up as best I could, but there was cheese still stuck up my right nostril.  I had to twist a napkin into a spire so I could swab out my nose.  It just made it worse - there is still cheese up there.  I can feel it sticking to my nose hair.  I can smell it faintly.  When I breathe in, there is a brief waterlogged sensation, like I'm drowing.

Drowning in cheese.  I'm such a fat girl.  Isn't this an "a-ha" moment, if ever there was one?

 

I had to get that off my chest because it was so funny and pathetic.  A big slice out of my indulgent cheesecake life.

 

****************************

 

I occasionally get these junk mail notifications on my office email account.  They instruct me to log on to an outside website to sift through the mess, making sure emails from friends and relatives aren't stopped by the junk filter.

 

Truth is, I look forward to checking out my junk folder...because what the hell are these spam messages?  And what web domains are they writing from?

 

• someone from somnambulist.com on the subject of (indecipherable Russian characters)
• someone from cucinavivace.com on the subject of (indecipherable Russian characters)
• 4 more messages on the subject of (indecipherable Russian characters)
• someone named "circumfusing" on the subject of "talons placeless"
• someone from preference.bz on the subject of "elastoplast stuffiness"
• someone named "overoptimism" on the subject of "parrakeet symplectic"

Being my usual inquisitive self, I Googled somnambulist.com, and the two most interesting entries were titled "Contact Information and Employee Directory" followed by strings of silly words:  bulrush's Fuller joke's submitting cutest bulky posseas...rekindle misjudgments suburbs dray elaborating neglects primping...

 

I know it's all just spammer code, but man, I wish there was a bigger conspiracy.  What if it's text from an alien newsletter, a headline screaming "REKINDLE MISJUDGMENTS, SUBURBS!" like a call to arms.  Or an advertisement, "FULLER JOKE'S SUBMITTING CUTEST BULKY POSSEAS!"  A get-yours-today kind of thing.

 

What a world.  Who would have imagined 50 years ago that people would take the time to create programs that generate spam in such astounding bulk?  Who thinks of these things, and why? 

 

What ways we have of complicating the simplest things.

 

So there's that,

 

Laura

Born Every Minute

After a few weekends of lounging about doing nothing but watch DVDs and resume normal bodily functions, this weekend was most productive.

 

The downside is that I fell into the pitfall of a productive weekend - spending money.

 

The thing that got me out of bed on Saturday was a morning appointment with my dentist.  She is adorable in that junior-high-nerd kind of way, with her spindly, hunched frame, frizzy updone hair and braces.  Did I mention she's in her forties?  So just imagine the most harmless of your classmates (mine = Faith Lemond) as a fortysomething who's never changed.  God bless 'er.

 

• Sidenote on Faith Lemond - she was born severely premature, and when she moved to town when I was in the 1st grade, I clearly remember the teacher telling us this.  Faith was very small and mouse-like, kind of like that homeschooled girl on that spelling bee episode of South Park (http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/104018).  Anyway, I remember Mrs. Haas (Wollenmann) telling us that when she was born, Faith's foot was only the length between the tip of my teacher's thumb and the first joint.  In short, the kid was small. 

 

While my denteest whittled away at my new crown, we got to chatting about our favorite Food Network stars (Alton Brown, Ina Garten) and gossiping about the lame ones (Guy Fieti aka the guy in the Friday's commercials, and that Semi-Homemade twat Sandra Lee).  We talked trash about celebrities like Tyra Banks and Jessica and Ashlee Simpson.  It was a real treat.  She's the only dentist I've ever had that doesn't scare the shit out of me, and I told her so, after she called me a ray of sunshine.  Me!  A.  Ray.  Of.  Sunshine.

 

I didn't have to pay for that because dental insurance is AWESOME, so I decided to pop into some Michigan Avenue stores since I was in the area.  I fancied a walk through Louis Vuitton for shits - literally.  I shit when I saw a thin jersey-like shirt that cost $1,500.  Then I looked around at Coach, where I could never justify spending $350 on a midsize purse.  I mean, they're good bags, but I don't care for products that have labels all over them (fig. A).  I'm not a billboard; I'm not going to buy something that's covered in a known logo just so I can advertise for it. 

 

Fig. A

 

I popped into Aldo, a shoe store I've always avoided because shoe stores, as a rule, don't carry my size.  A flaming sales rep stopped me as I molested the accessories to accuse me of needing help.  "Do you carry size 12?"  "Just to 11."  That surprised me!  "Ooooh, 11s might work with some shoes."  I let him go on his hurried way to help the thinner, serious shoppers, and I decided that it might be safe to travel to Aldo again.

 

My gym bag - which I packed so I couldn't avoid a workout - was feeling pretty heavy by this point, so I decided to head on over there.  After a refreshing hour on the elliptical and hot shower, I had shed all of my makeup.  I decided on a whim to cross the street to Nordstrom and see if I could swindle somebody into giving me a makeover.  Little did I know who would really do the swindling.

 

My makeup routine is pretty simple.  I moisturize when I get out of the shower, then a few minutes later put on this badass primer (Smashbox Photo Finish, fig. B) before applying a Neutrogena pressed mineral powder.  I then apply an equally badass blush (Smashbox, fig. C) to my cheeks, lightly dusting my forehead, nose and chin.  I put on mint lip balm, blot it, then apply my favorite lipstick ever (Lancome:  Mars, my shade for 4 years), and blot again.  It's seriously a 2 minute face.  I didn't start wearing makeup until 2004, so I never developed the patience for it in my formative makeup years.  My routine has to be quick. 

 

 

     Fig. B                         Fig. C

 

I've been running low on my Neutrogena powder, so I've been considering purchasing the Bare Minerals powder.  It costs about twice as much, but it lasts 3 times as long as the drugstore stuff.  And I wanna treat myself right.

 

So I browsed through the purses at Nordstrom (why am I so attracted to purses all of a sudden?), and made my way over to the preeny, perfume-y makeup counters.  There's something territorial about department store makeup counters.  They are manned by thin black-clad women whose eyes roam about the room for the next fare, the next prey.  Their constructed smiles mask the fear of missed quotas, and their overt politeness belies their desperation.

 

I walked briskly past the scariest stands - Lancome, MAC, Bobbi Brown - the ones with the cult followings.

 

• I should note here that I interviewed for a job with Lancome directly out of college.  I didn't have any good prospects, and I was still putting in time at the gas station for money, so I thought I should give it a shot.  I went to interview at the store in Evansville, and I did really well...until I had to sell something (makeup) which I didn't start using until a month earlier.  My job was to sell this juicy, candy flavored lip gloss - the hot new craze.  I had to sell it to the salesperson, who pretended she wasn't all that interested.  When she asked me about the many benefits of the product, I told her that if she were ever in a serious plane crash, she could eat the delicious gloss for sustenance until help arrived.  I'm not kidding.  Awk-ward.

I happened upon the Bare Minerals stand and made my move.  Two unassuming saleswomen greeted me, and I pretended to be politely uninterested, then I said:  "Oh you know?  I've been using a drugstore mineral foundation, and one of my coworkers and I were just talking about trying Bare Minerals.  Hmmm....can you all try some stuff out on me?"  They were all, "Yeah sure!  Oh sweetie, come on over!"  They were putty in my hands.  Or were they?

 

When I told them I didn't have anything on my face (throwing in the always prideful "I just came from the gym"), I got my standard response from all makeup shillers - "Your complexion is amazing."  I know.  "What's your secret?"  I eat lots of mayonnaise.

 

Seriously.  That's always my answer.  Some believe me, others look incredulous.  That's when I tell them I've only worn makeup for 4 years and I only wash my face in the morning.  Which is true.

 

Kelly - we were on a first name basis (first bad sign: never know too much about your enemy; you're bound to develop a relationship) - applied a primer, the mineral foundation and a great eye concealer powder that made me look admittedly awesome.  Then she moved on to a light bronzer.  The second bad sign is that I let her do my eyes, which I never do at home because they're already magnificent.  It's a bad sign because if the eye makeup looks good, I'll want to buy it...and I'll never use it.  Yeah it seems easy at first, but I'll notice how it turns to shit when I rub my eyes (which I do often) and how the eyeliner streaks and nebulizes at the corners like I've spent far too long at the disco.  Then it spends the rest of its thirty-dollar-investment life in the back corner of the top shelf of my medicine cabinet, only to be used on Halloween.

 

The blush was a little too orange for me, but nonetheless "perf" on my Meyer cheekbones.  And the lip gloss, for the first time ever, looked somewhat appealing.  I had an amazing face.  And while I was getting it, I made great conversation with Kelly because she did exactly what I wanted - trash-talked the other makeup stands.  "They wear high heels like they're gonna get dates.  Don't they know they have to stand for 8 hours straight?"  Or  "They have to wear thick makeup that's going to give them wrinkles."  And "Don't put your head in that booth.  It's scary.  It shows you how much sun damage you have on your face.  Then they try to scare you into buying their creams."

 

This girl was after my own heart:  Don't be nice, be catty.  At the dentist's office, I always ask the hygienist about the nastiest teeth she's ever seen.  At the salon, I always ask the stylists about their shittiest customers.  It makes them feel at ease, and it gives me stories.  How do you think I know that people let their kids shit in the aisles and in the circular racks at Wal-Mart and Target?  Ask an employee for the juice, and they'll spill - they're just dying to tell someone.

 

Soon, Kelly was laying out the products that she used on me.  The eyeliner, shadow, bronzer, blush, gloss and relevant brushes were included in a promotional kit for $64.  That's a steal!  But I really wanted the foundation and the eye concealer, which were about $20 a piece.  Not bad.  $100 bucks for all that?  But then I needed the brushes for the foundation and the concealer (which I kind of did; I have no brushes at home).  How much?  About $20 each.  Yeesh!  Ummm...do I really need the concealor brush?  It's specially designed to hold more powder to get into the hollows of your eye.  Oh...I guess.  64+20+20+20+20?  That's close to $140.  Yeow.  That's not too bad, really, when other stands quote close to $400 for all the stuff they use on you.

 

I'm trying to do the mental math while she fast talks me into other products - primer, (another) all-over bronzer...  I'm trying not to sound stingy (a bad habit I get from my Dad, who recently shushed me for calculating a tip out loud at a restaurant.  Shyly smiling:  "Okay, that's enough...someone will hear you...It's embarrassing."  This guy would say nothing if he was overcharged because he doesn't want to make a scene or "look like a tightwad").  When I ask if I really need some things, she ushers them away with a sidelong glance saying, "don't tell my boss."  This "boss" seems to be everywhere and anywhere; I never saw her. 

 

On the way to the register (me still fearing the tab) we talk about horsehair brushes, and when I say, "can you imagine if the brushes were made from My Little Pony hair," Kelly flippin' flips like she's an old acquaintance.  "Oh my God, do you love My Little Ponies?  You should come by this week over lunch because I got some My Little Pony stickers that I want to share with someone but I don't know if they love My Little Pony.  I'll write it down on your card."

 

What.  Just.  Happened?

 

Before I knew it, my tab came up.  With Chicago's outrageous city tax, my total came to $164.  AHHH!  Which I shakily put on a credit card.  AHHHH!  I immediately start justifying my purchase:  How often do you treat yourself?  Always.  How often do you buy makeup?  Twice a year.  So what's the big deal?  I could buy a new bed frame with that cash.  So what?  If you wanted it you'd already have it.  True, but I don't have it because I don't save the money.  Why do you have to save it for that?  Because...I...FUCK YOU, POOR JUDGMENT!

 

And you know what?  As soon as that card cleared, I was practically kicked away from the booth as she moved on to another interested client.  I felt dirty.  I felt used.  I felt...the weight of an impossibly tiny bag full of $164 powders.

 

So I decided to nurse my wounds by having lunch at Bandera, and resume my normal life by going to Walgreens for some much needed toothpaste and razor blades.  For these are the things that truly matter.

 

And all that makeup?  Piled up on the first shelf of my medicine cabinet, destined to move a few shelves up until they are recovered on Halloween.

 

So there's that,

 

Laura

Because life is precious and God and the Bible...

I weighed in this morning and fuh-reaked out. Scale showed I lost 11 pounds!!!!

Then I got down here to update the blog, and I couldn't think of what my actual weight was. I was so jazzed by the weigh-in that I didn't even remember The Number.

So I went back upstairs (there's a doctor's office scale in our cafeteria), to weigh in again. Turns out I only lost 4 lbs. Which isn't bad!!!

In my excitement, I moved the big weight on the lower bar too far over; it wasn't on the mark. Boo.

But...imagine what I'd lose this week if I didn't cheat.

I leave you with this Mr. Show sketch that makes me pee.




So there's that,

Laura

Dreams

I'm on my sixth day of the NutriSystem plan, and I'm doing pretty good.  I feel a little slimmer, but I'll know the damage when I weigh in tomorrow morning. 

 

I've gotten used to the food, which is really very convenient, once you get the hang of it.  I did fall into my weekend munchies trap:  I have come to see every weekend like a vacation from dieting, which is pretty bad.  I snacked on some popcorn (97% fat free) on Saturday while catching up on my Netflixed Lost Season 2 DVDs.  I amped up my vegetable fajitas by adding some fat free refried beans and cheese.  But Sunday was the worst.

 

I ordered ribs.  I KNOW!  I'm PMS-ing, and I had a hankering for a mess o' ribs.  Sue me.  I figure a cheat day couldn't really hurt, if I excercise and don't let it throw me completely off track.  'Cause them ribs were good.  Tomorrow's judgment day, so we'll see...

 

So today I'm back on track, and pretty pumped up for my workout tonight.  I'm planning an hour on the elliptical, then a half hour treadmill walk to cool down.  I know it seems like a lot, but I really enjoy the time.  I'm reading a great book, so the time flies.  It's kind of like my quiet reading time. 

 

The book, you ask?  Candy Girl by Diablo Cody.  She's the chick who wrote Juno, and this is her story about stripping for a year in Minneapolis.  She was working as a copy writer, and decided to try stripping for extra cash and to perform a social experiment.  The result: an effing hilarious book.  I guffawed aloud - several times - reading this at the gym the other night.

 

Remember when I wrote about hurting my back?  I mentioned that I kept having these dreams where I couldn't lift my thighs and butt, because they hinged on the painful small of my back.  In the dream it's like my lumbar is too small to support my massive hamhocks, as if they are a big loose molar hanging by a thread of bloody flesh from my gums. 

 

I know it's gross, but it's the best way to describe it.

 

Anyway, I had more dreams like this for the last two nights.  I can remember last night's more clearly:  I was waiting for a Metra train wearing a big backpack, and I had to crawl onto the platform.  Nobody would let me borrow their cell phone because I left my purse behind.  And I didn't know how to get back to my apartment. 

 

That's all pretty messed up, but the crawling thing - in these dreams, it's like I'm crawling through sand and moving too slow for everybody around me.  Like I can't catch up with anything.  It's so scary to me.

 

I try not to read too much into dreams (mostly because I never remember them), but these are happening so much that they freak me out.  Have you had weird recurring dreams?

 

So there's that,

Laura

Junta?

You 'member Jan Jeffcoat?  The tanorexic news anchor on the Fox News Chicago morning broadcast?

 

Well, I was getting ready in my bathroom this morning, and I heard her talk about Myanmar's military junta.

 

But guess how she pronounced it?  Oh no, she didn't say "HOON-ta."  Bitch said "JUHN-ta."

 

Oh how the mighty orange have fallen!!!

 

So there's that,

Laura