I hate to say this — because I’m afraid I’ll jinx…

I hate to say this — because I’m afraid I’ll jinx myself — but I think Mr. Pants on Fire won’t call back. In a perfect world, he will have read my blog and graciously backed away. With my luck, however, he’s probably just giving me enough time to call him back (which, unless hell begins to freeze anytime soon, is a waste of time) before he strikes again.

On another note, did anyone happen to catch any of Michael Jackson’s interview with Jesse Jackson? If not, it was kind of nauseating. In the beginning, he was listing his credentials and ways that he’s given to mankind (i.e. We Are The World), and then — here’s the appalling part — he starting comparing his struggles to those of Martin Luther King and Nelson Mandela.

Give me a super-sized break with a hot fudge sundae!!! Let’s get over ourselves, shall we, Mike? All of a sudden, he wants to align himself with black people after altering himself to look like a noseless white woman?? WTF?

Of course, I was listening to this on the radio on my way home from somewhere, and it was so mortifying that I almost asphyxiated myself by leaving the car on after closing the garage door, just so that I could continue to listen to his delusions. How DARE he?

If he really wants to emulate Nelson Mandela he should 1) leave the little boys alone, and 2) agree to serve the same amount of time that Mandela served — 27 years. I think it would be an interesting proposition.

So . . . what do you do when someone who you don’t…

So . . . what do you do when someone who you don’t want to talk to keeps calling?

Let me give you the scenario — some years ago — about 4 or 5, perhaps, I was at a party, and met a guy who told me that he was a writer, and that he was working on a script (I’ve since learned that EVERYONE is a writer, and EVERYONE is working on a script). He also told me that he was an ex-professional athlete, which is more of a turn-off for me. I’m not partial to athletes (for reasons that you might imagine), but for some strange reason, I attract any man who’s ever handled a ball professionally, semi-professionally, intramurally, or on the high school level. I don’t know what it is.

Anywho, I was more interested in discussing his writing, and he wanted to go out on a date, so we went out. A few red flags — first, he called me from a private number whenever he called from home. And because I have privacy manager, and rarely answer the phone if I see the privacy manager alert pop up on caller ID, he was having a hard time getting ahold of me, so he always called on the cell, which I also don’t answer if I see private on the screen. A few times he left messages, so I always called him back on his home number. The whole thing was kind of strange.

Then, he told me that he lived in a certain neighborhood in a high rise building. I have a LOT of friends who live in that neighborhood, a few who even live in that building, and I knew for a fact that his phone number exchange — at least the number I had — wasn’t the right exchange for the neighborhood that he said he lived in.

Before we go any further, let me just say that I’m a super sleuth. I pay attention to odd details — which is why I’m a writer — and I always notice when something’s not quite right. I have a strong gut, which we all do, but I always follow mine, and it’s never led me astray. I give men fair warning about this trait, but somehow they never believe me. Eventually, they do.

The next problem was that he said he had two dogs. No, the dogs aren’t the problem . . . I LOVE dogs. But bookmark this thought, and I’ll come back to it.

So . . . we go out, and I insist on meeting him at the bar, because I always like to have my own transportation. We had a relatively good time, and we ran into a woman at the bar that I was acquainted with. Ironically, this woman lived in this guy’s (alleged) building. I told them of the coincidence and she asked which unit he lived in. He told her, and she said “Oh, I thought that was Mr. X’s unit. I’m almost sure it is.” He held firm that he lived there, and she looked perplexed and left.

Long story short, this guy was a liar. And I busted him hard. The next day he called me to go out again, which I declined. I asked him if he walked his dogs when he got home the night before, since it was pretty late and he been complaining about being tired. (You know me . . . always concerned about the animals) He told me that he didn’t walk them, but that he let them out in the yard.

The YARD? “But you live in a high-rise,” I said. “Where is there for you to let them out?” I think he invented a reason to get off the phone once I started down that line of questioning.

We never went out again, and upon further investigation, I realized that he didn’t work where said he worked, didn’t do what he said he did, and lived at home with his family as I suspected — in a completely different neighborhood than where he claimed to live. He always blocked out his home number because he didn’t want me to see his mother’s name pop up on caller ID.

I hate a liar, and if you’re lying about something as primary as where you live and what you do, you’re liable to lie about anything.

That said, guess who’s been calling me recently, after all of these years? That’s right, Mr. Pants-On-Fire. He left one message, and then caught me the second time, and I couldn’t have been less happy to hear from him. Maybe he’ll get the hint. But with my luck, he won’t. Ugh!

On another note, day 5 of the cleanse, which is the protein day that I’ve been looking forward to. I’m not hungry. What’s that about?

Yahoo! News – Burger King Sandwich Packs the Calor…

Yahoo! News – Burger King Sandwich Packs the Calories

Have the Burger King execs not seen “Super Size Me?” Who the hell would willingly eat a sandwich that contains over 700 calories and 47 grams of fat. WTF?

It’s a good Monday — at least that’s what I’m pro…

It’s a good Monday — at least that’s what I’m projecting. The sun is shining and it’s getting warmer, which only means one thing — Spring Garden Clean-Up! Whenever I’m released from my work responsibilities, I will make a bee-line for the garden store, and get some pre-emergent weed treatment. Does life get better than this? God, I hope so!

The funeral was depressing — predictably. Everyo…

The funeral was depressing — predictably. Everyone had so many nice things to say about my friend — so many great stories. It made me think about our high school years, and how our lives are a lot different than we thought they’d be. i don’t think I ever had a defined vision of my life, but I’m always afraid that one day I’ll say — “Is this IT???” And then I’ll know that I’m officially in my mid-life crisis, and I’ll go on a shopping spree and start wearing age-inappropriate clothing. Hot pants in my 40s would be a truly scary sight — unless I’m in WAAAAAAY better shape then than I’m in now, in which case it would be pretty phenomenal.

I’m cleansing again, and I’m on day 2 of 7. It’s hard for me this time. First, I’m in no mood to drink the volume of water that I’m supposed to drink. I don’t think I’ve made a dent in the big jug that I lug around during cleanse-time. Then, I’m craving things that I don’t normally eat. This happens every time I do a cleanse, but I’m always surprised by it. I defrayed some of those cravings by watching “Super Size Me” last night.

Speaking of which . . . looking back on when I (was a litle nappy-headed boy — couldn’t resist the Stevie Wonder reference) was younger, and thinking of the things that I would actually eat with regularity, it’s no wonder that I’m thinner now. Jeez! I used to eat McDonald’s — and not because I loved it, but because it was a social occasion. All of the teenagers would convene at the local McDonald’s and buy cheeseburgers as an excuse to flirt with boys in varsity jackets. I also ate a LOT of stuffed pizza — a whole fuckin’ lot! I’m sure that my pizza orders have paid the mortgage of at least one Giordano’s or Edwardo’s location — probably the ones in Hyde Park. Before I stopped eating red meat (pre-age 19), it was stuffed sausage, and since I’ve stopped, it’s been spinach, tomato and garlic (which is MUCH tastier).

But these days . . . fast food? Not so much. I have a McDonald’s mere steps from my home, and I’ve only darkened its door about three times. Once for breakfast (there was a hangover involved), and twice for happy meals (there were Godchildren involved). It would SO never occur to me to make a meal out of Mickey D’s. Not that, for those of you who actually do enjoy a Quarter Pounder w/Cheese (or Royale with Cheese, depending on your country of origin), it’s such a horrible thing to occasionally indulge. I think I just burned myself out at a young age.

At this moment, I’m enamored with Thai food (my favorite is Basil Chicken, which I could probably eat every other day), salmon, grilled or rotisserie chicken, Indian food (although those buffets set me back for about three days), or anything with exotic spice.

And you know the sad thing? I’m only blogging about food because my diet is restricted for the next six days!!! How pitiful am I? And I can’t even have a drop of chocolate to make myself feel better. My only happiness for the day is that Desperate Housewives comes on tonight, and it’s not a rerun. Yay!

Happy Easter, by the way. Have a chocolate bunny for me. Sob!

It’s snowing and gloomy, and my mood is pensive. …

It’s snowing and gloomy, and my mood is pensive. Just thought I’d give a fair warning.

So, last week, an old friend passed away from cancer. She was a high school friend, and we grew apart — or something — during early adulthood, probably because she got married (to a somewhat crazy man), moved away (briefly) and had a baby, and I was traveling 5 days a week for my thankless job. The last time I spoke to her, her son, now 11 or so, was an infant, and she’d just moved back to Chicago after being in Ohio for a few years. The last time I saw her was before pregnancy or marriage were even considerations.

My mother and her mother have always kept in touch, and when I learned she had cancer, my mother admonished me for not having called her in so long. But then I felt weird about calling her, because the last time we spoke, she was ensconced in her life with her (bizarre) husband and acclimating herself to young motherhood. We never had a fight — or even a remote disagreement — but I still felt strange popping up after all of those years.

And then the guilt. My mother was raised Catholic, and even though she hasn’t crossed the threshold of a church in years — likely longer than it’s been since I have, which is amazing — she has held strong to her innate ability to inflict guilt like no other. As a result, I’m impervious to guilt, and can become rather annoyed, if not obstinate, when it becomes evident that someone’s pulling a guilt trip. It’s not the way to reach me. Never has been. Never will be. I find myself wishing that I weren’t so traumatized by guilt, because I’m convinced that I might’ve called her, had I not been shamed by my mother, and hers, by proxy. (“I spoke to her mother today, and she said ‘I can’t believe Gina hasn’t called — as good of friends as they used to be.’”)

Although the timing was completely wrong for this, and will never be right again, I wanted to say “Well she never called me either!” And I still don’t know what I would have said had I called, or when I would have called her. Would I be interrupting her rest, or her time with her son? Would I have to call her on a hospital phone, and have to explain to the person who answers the phone that we were once really good friends? Would she be happy to hear from me, or upset that I hadn’t been around for so long? Would her mother answer, and take a moment to reprimand me for being so noticeably absent? And then what would I have said? “Hi. I know it’s been over 10 years, but I just wanted to call because I heard you were sick, and I wanted to let you know that I’m thinking about you.” The odd part is, having typed that, it doesn’t sound nearly as ridiculous as it did in my head, for the last several months. In my head, it sounded lame.

My mother, the town crier, told me, a few months ago, that, according to her mother, she was getting better and responding to treatments. I was thinking that this was a great thing, and that once she became stronger, we could have a celebratory lunch and reminisce properly. I guess she had a short remission and quick relapse.

But those are really just excuses, and I know it. I fully realize that I shirked my duties as a human being, and ignored my ingrained sense of decency and friendship. I’m not beating myself up about it, per se, but I know to make a better decision next time. Hopefully, I, or an old friend, will never be in a similar situation. I’m going to the funeral tomorrow. I don’t expect it to be a good day.

FYI — If anyone wants to buy tickets to the Today…

FYI — If anyone wants to buy tickets to the Today’s Chicago Woman singles event on April 13, click here.

This is a hilarious parody of Michael Jackson’s tr…

This is a hilarious parody of Michael Jackson’s trial. Check it out, and turn up the sound.

People really have too much time on their hands, but this is pretty funny.

I feel better FINALLY! Not 100%, mind you, but jus…

I feel better FINALLY! Not 100%, mind you, but just better. I’ve learned something about myself during this illness. I think I must be the only person that Nyquil doesn’t work for. (Wow! I just ended that sentence with a preposition, didn’t I? Oh well, it’s a blog. Who gives a shit? [that was definitely a noun -- or a verb, depending on the application]). The last four — give or take — nights, I tried to dope myself up with Nyquil and even the Walgreen’s knock-off brand, but to no avail. I miserably maintained my sleeping patterns, which border on self-deprivation. It was pointed out by a few people that, because I have such a high alcohol tolerance, the drowsy drugs aren’t quite as effective for me. Hmmm . . .

On another note, does anyone read Vanity Fair magazine? I’m a subscriber, which comes in handy when you’re sick and need reading materials. I was SO bored that I read the latest article on my fave person, Kimora Lee Simmons (that statement should be read with dripping sarcasm).

Okay. Whew! Where do I begin? I didn’t really like her before — I always thought her alleged background was debatable, if not shady. I always thought it was slimy that she met Russell Simmons at such a young age, and found it unbelievable that they waited until she was legal to have sex. I never found her particularly attractive, although men do, which is what counts (probably in a “me love you long time” sort of way). What sealed the deal for me was their episode of MTV Cribs, where she instructed all “haters” to turn off their televisions before entering their tacky Versace-on-crack inspired home. The woman has a refrigerator in her CLOSET, for Chrissakes!

But the Vanity Fair article . . . wow. What a display. First of all, believe me when I tell you that writers will find ways to expose the most nasty elements of your personality. Sometimes it’s on purpose, and sometimes it’s the material that they’re given to work with. I’m thinking that this particular (brilliant) writer was faced with a nice blend of both.

It’s evident, upon reading this article, that Ms. Simmons (if you’re nasty) is over-the-top, and wallows in her own fabulosity. She, apparently, has no trouble being nude, appreciates excess, and is afraid of overexposing her daughters to too much bling and, in turn, making them into “little assholes.” However, the writer also finds delightful ways to highlight her underlying lack of taste (i.e. exposing the fact that Red Lobster is her favorite food. Yeesh!)

But I think what I truly learned about the Baby Phat mogul is that she will “beat a bitch’s ass” if said bitch goes anywhere near her husband. Every so many paragraphs, there is a reference to what she will do to any “bitch” that goes near her husband — who is apparently never home and has admittedly cheated on her. There are charming quotes, like “I will drag a bitch through the dirt.” Essentially, she feels that “bitches” are disrespectful, and she will administer a healthy beat-down if she feels that a “bitch” is encroaching on her territory. But then, I guess I would beat a bitch’s ass too, if she was threatening the possibility of taking away the source of my next 30-carat Asscher cut diamond.

Those poor kids.

A terrible cold has caught me! How did this happen…

A terrible cold has caught me! How did this happen??? I haven’t seen any of the germ factories (aka Godchildren) lately, so this must be something I caught at my client’s office. Whatever the case, being sick is miserable — in general — but especially if you’re a person like me who rarely comes down with anything. SUCKS Anyhoo. I feel like I haven’t blogged in forever, so where to start?

I’ll work backwards in time.

This weekend was a wash. I did a few fun things, but I couldn’t truly enjoy them because this cold is kicking my ass.

Reading group . . . met with one of my reading groups on Friday night (before the cold posessed my body), which I always look forward to. We read Winner of the National Book Award by Jincy Willett which the group didn’t seem to like very much. For me, it started off okay, and then it went to a very different place — a confusing place.

Earlier on Friday, I had a job interview. Can you believe it? I, Miss Independent-Hate-Showing-Up-In-An-Office-Everyday-Non-Conformist, am actually relatively excited about re-entering corporate. I’ve been at this for over 5 years, and it’s been a fun run — and a NOT so fun run all in one. I’ve had amazing projects, written a book, was the field producer of a film where I got to work with my father and legendary producers, musicians and actors, made great friends, decompressed from the horrors of my former corporate life. Now I’m ready to find a safe haven in a company where I can grow in a different arena.

The interview went really well — at least I thought so — but I don’t want to talk about it too much because I don’t want to jinx myself. I’ll let you guys know when everything’s been solidified.

St. Patrick’s day . . . as you can probably imagine, St. Patrick’s day isn’t a cause for immense celebration over here in the Barge household. However, my friend Tracy talked me into meeting her for a drink at a bar in the Wicker Park/East Village area. It was quite the experience. Tracy and I actually found seats at the bar, but we were in a bad spot. First, the bouncer was a total asshole who probably has no power in his real life, and feels that he has to exert his artificial power — unnecessarily and pompously — at work. He kept climbing over the bar, right next to me, without excusing himself. When he wasn’t behind the bar, he was reaching between us to pass things to the bartenders. Irritating.

And then, just when I was getting used to the bouncer (who I had begun to believe was missing a few chromasomes), a guy got behind me and shoved me over closer to Tracy. The next thing I knew, he was lifting a midget onto the bar, who was dressed like a leprechaun. This leprechaun started passing out shots, and in the process was stepping over everything on the bar, including my drink. Yuck! So much for THAT vodka/tonic.

Leprechaun on Bar — thank God for camera phones