I love this line from tonight’s episode of Entourage:
Ari (to Lloyd): “This is a man’s trip. You’ll have to find your own dick clique.”
Archive for August, 2007
I’m really going to have to check my horoscope for this month and find out whether or not I’m susceptible to technology problems. I’ve had nothing but technology issues lately.
First, there was the debacle with Sprint and my Treo. I bitched and moaned so much about the sub-par service that I got released from my contract 9 months early, gratis. I’ve been shopping for new carriers, but there were problems with each of them:
1. T-Mobile has a good reputation, but a shitty selection of phones. They have no licensing with Treo, and I was convinced that I wanted to keep the Treo.
2. Verizon – I don’t like them for shady reasons. Whenever I call any of my friends who have Verizon, I can always tell when they’re on the other line because of the way it rings, which is a ring with a beep on the end. That ring reminds me of our phones in college. I don’t like for people who call me to know that I’m blatantly ignoring them. Even though I might be. But it’s my little secret.
3. U.S. Cellular – wasn’t ever a consideration, for some reason. I don’t know anyone who has it, but I peeped at their website and again, wasn’t happy with the phone selection.
4. AT&T – the frontrunner. Has a nice selection of phones. My blackberry is with AT&T, so I figured that I could bundle my services and save some cash. I’d never been on hold for more than 5 minutes for customer service. They have Treos. Good deal, right?
The decision was nearly made, until . . . .
My Blackberry crapped out on me over the weekend. I rebooted it and it never worked again. There was a menacing white screen with a tiny error message in the center. My Blackberry was essentially giving me the finger.
A visit to the AT&T store was fruitless. They put me on the phone w/tech support, who said they would send me an e-mail with links to a fix. I didn’t completely understand why, while standing in an AT&T store, I was relegated to going to my office and checking my e-mail to get assistance, but I went along with it anyway.
Very long story short(er) – on Monday, I had to enlist the help of our tech support guru. This is no small feat, as she is generally fairly dry, and typically thinks that I’ve been using the Berry as a Frisbee in Millenium Park. She also has a habit of “filling me in” on her sex life, which is more of a visual than I can stand. But, she can usually fix anything.
After commandeering my computer, while subsequently explaining the perils of her gynecological issues, she handed me back my Blackberry with a sour look and told me that it couldn’t be fixed.
Great. I knew all about her vagina, but still couldn’t download an e-mail to save my life.
Called AT&T, thinking that perhaps I would take the opportunity to get a new Berry and transport my personal number.
I was told that I was out of luck. Here are the mitigating factors:
1. My warranty was expired as of July 8
2. I wasn’t eligible for an upgrade w/rebate until December
3. They don’t insure PDAs
Well . . . fuck.
So, my choices were either to pay $400+ for a new Berry (only $200 of which my company would reimburse), or buy out of my contract and switch providers. And since AT&T had pissed me off, I opted for the latter. And I got a good deal.
Suffice it to say that I’m now a T-Mobile customer and have decided to combine my personal and business phone (bye-bye Treo, hello Blackberry 8800), and let my company pick up my entire phone bill.
We’ll see how this works.
The new Gina Spot is all about Situations. Those of you who know me know that a Situation is my own personal term for a friend with privileges. Check it out.
Also, if you’re a Chicagoan, have you been to the new Whole (Paycheck) Foods on Roosevelt. It’s huge! What a great store. An added bonus could be that it’s essentially a pickup joint with organic food. If you’re inclined to flirt while shopping for your gluten free breads, it’s the place for you. They also have a sushi bar and free parking. What’s not to love?
I love living in the city. I really do. I wouldn’t change it for the world. However, there are byproducts of city life that I could do without.
There’s a little bit too much activity in my alley these days. My neighbors are selling their house and have been purging all of their worldly belongings. Most (normal) people take a few loads to the Salvation Army or White Elephant, or any other resale shop. Not my neighbors. They’d prefer to simply hurl all of their shit into the alley. And because they park their cars in front of their house, rather than in their garage, they don’t realize the ramifications of their carelessness.
Once, they put a shitload of discarded clothes out near the garbage. I’m sure they thought it was a good idea for those in need to be able to sift through the trash and find something to wear. Instead, however, their bit of altruism transformed the alley into a homeless fitting room.
Here’s what this means to me:
1) There’s a bunch of crap across the alley from my garage that prevents me from backing in properly.
2) There are always a scary bunch of of folks behind my house, in various stages of undress, whenever I decide to return home.
The piece de resistance was when I turned down my alley the other night and saw a ho. Really. She was a bona fide, spangly-daisy-duke-shorts-with-clear-heels-wearin’ ho. And she was getting in car with a man who gave me a sheepish look as I passed by, verrrrrrry slowly. I kept my eye on them in my rear view mirror as I approached my garage, and took my sweet time backing in.
I guess I scared them, because they got in the car to switch locations. I refrained from closing my garage door until I could stare them down as they drove by.
My father’s convinced that my city girl ways have made me too cocky and that one day, one of those hoes is going to attack me.
I was thinking of this as I was driving home, kind of late.
What’s interesting about being in a relationship as opposed to being single is that when you’re in a relationship, there’s someone that actually cares when you leave a party, and if you arrive home safely. If you’re single, you could be abducted, and nobody would notice.
Just a thought.
Every two years or so, I join my friends Jean and Patty in a yard sale. We combine forces (junk), and fill Jean’s front yard in lovely Evanston, hoping that people will reach into their pockets and purchase our discarded items. We did pretty well, all told, but we always have the requisite amount of strange people.
A few years ago, we had one guy who asked to use the bathroom, and spent about 20 minutes in there — making himself comfortable — until we enlisted Jean’s husband to extricate him. He didn’t leave a nice odor behind. I mean, really . . . WHO does that? Who asks to use the home of a stranger who’s hosting a yard sale, and when she is nice enough to allow it, you reward her by destroying her plumbing?
We also had the family who brought their pet squirrel. Seriously, this thing was tame. So tame that I couldn’t resist picking it up. Cute, but weird. We eventually had to convince them to buy the pet cage that we were selling and put the squirrel in it.
Then, we had the most memorable shopper of 2005 — the woman who had a minimum of 5 kids, and was full to bursting with her 6th. The kids were unruly and wreaking havoc on our fragile merchandise, so we were hoping and praying that she wouldn’t go into labor and leave us to deal with the kids — prisoners-in-training.
This year, we didn’t have anyone nearly as freaky as those from ‘05. We had The Prattler – a woman who prattled endlessly about her life — she’s relocating back to Chicago, and she’s upset that her daughter married a Kiwi who relocated her to New Zealand. She seemed pretty upset that her daughter has moved away, so I asked if she would ever move there. That was a big BIG mistake. She took that as an invitation to tell me all about the reasons that she would never move to New Zealand.
She mentioned that she had been to library school. With that knowledge, I happily pawned her off on Patty, who also has her Masters in Library Science. Mean, yes, but they had more in common.
Then there was the 74-year-old widow of one year who bought one of my mother’s collection of never worn beautiful clothes. The 74-year-old announced that she was hoping that she’d meet a new man in one of the outfits. If anyone out there knows someone who would be willing to marry a 74-year-old, please let me know.
I was kind of disappointed that there weren’t more freaks, but at least we made more money this year.
It’s been another long time, and I guess I’m going to have to face it . . . I’m an erratic blogger. I can’t be counted on for a regular blog schedule, and sometimes I blog daily and then there are times like these past few weeks, when I can’t seem to log in and write a few lucid words of interest.
SO much has been going on. I feel like I’m sitting in a chair with a box of popcorn, watching my life happen. First, I’m convinced that work is like an abusive relationship. It beats me; it breaks me down — but I return for more each day, optimistic that it will be better than the last day. The column is okay, but I’ve been on an annoying alternating every-other-Friday schedule with another columnist, and I really wish they could find a better slot for her. My love life . . . let’s not discuss that. No earthly good will come of that discussion.
I can’t help wondering how life became so complicated, and how I can extricate myself from the intricacies of it all.
I’ve reached the point where perky people annoy the living shit out of me. For example, there’s a man who works in Starbucks in the Sears Tower. He’s perky to the point where he crosses a line. He catches you the minute you walk in the door, and has to preface the order with a few sentences of small talk. His act concludes with a few oddly placed jokes while giving change. I cannot express how much I DON’T want to have small talk with a stranger at 7:30 am. In fact, I can safely conclude that anyone who is motivated enough to arrive at work before 8:00 am doesn’t want their precious morning minutes spending extra time in line to entertain the corny banter of a barista.
I’ve reached the point where I try to avoid him, and I go to great lengths. I never go to his register. This Starbuck’s has two entrances, and I find myself checking to see which side he’s on before entering. However, he seems to be drawn to me like a fly to shit. I thought I had made a clean getaway, and was absconding with my LF Blueberry Muffin. As I reached the door, I heard a deep resonant voice saying “Excuse me. Excuse me?” I finally turned, and there was perky boy, out from behind his coffee-lined cage, wanting my attention to inform me that he liked my arms. I smiled and said thank you — I wouldn’t want to be rude just because I find him irritating — before using my keycard to access the elevator banks.
I’m thinking of going to a new Starbuck’s. I don’t need the morning stress.
