Sunday, August 30, 2009

Thoughts on My Invisibility

Thank Jesus I can't find a job in my field, because now that I've been waiting tables for some time, I've had a revelation: I have a super power.


Not only that, apparently when I speak, I can hear myself, but customers can't! It's magic.

Seriously, people, didn't your momma teach you any manners? You most certainly didn't have my Aunt Linda around, who scolded me every time I asked for another helping of Kraft Mac and Cheese without saying 'please' when I was a kid.

Please, please, when you go to a restaurant, and your friendly server comes to the table, will you acknowledge his or her existence? Last night I almost fell over the first time someone made eye contact with me and--gasp--smiled.

I got to the point last night where I was contemplating pulling a Clark Griswold when my tables left: "Kiss my ass. Kiss his ass. Kiss your ass. Happy Hanukkah."

So if you really want to break a young woman's spirit on a Saturday night, come sit at one of my tables, refuse to make eye contact with me or respond to my questions, and never by any means say please or thank you.

I mean, give me a break people. It's Saturday night, I'm making $4.85 an hour and I'm wearing an apron. You're drinking beer and eating nachos. Acknowledge me!

Thursday, August 27, 2009

"These two penguins are raising a kid. Have we even thought about the children?"

Can't. Stop. Watching That's Gay.

Bryan Safi, where are you so you can become my new best friend? I love you.

"Seriously, what the F**K did you tell your mom?" Hooray for That's Gay!

Thanks to Bitch blogs, I just discovered my new love, Bryan Safi.

"Homosexuality is totally cool when the dudes approve. So if they're getting off, the ladies can get off. It's all for the bro with the boner who's watching."


That's Gay: Lady Kisses

"Let's face it: Katie Perry's 'I kissed a girl' went number one for a reason. Cause nobody wants to hear a fulltime resident of Vag Town sing this: 'I kissed a girl and I liked it, makes sense cause I'm a lesbian.'"

Watch more That's Gay! Love. It.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Wanted: Exercise Motivation for a Lazy, Poor, Beer Lover.

Please. Someone. Help.

In case you don't know me, I am said lazy, poor, beer lover. And I need to exercise. Apparently I only have five years left before my metabolism completely hits the shitter, my beer gut really becomes a beer gut, and my belly ring is officially 100 percent ridiculous. (I'd say now that I'm 25, it's currently at approximately a 75 percent ridiculousness level.)

Now, if you're over 3o and are reading this, please know I'm not trying to be insulting. It's just that all the exercise magazines I buy and read while laying on my couch eating pudding snacks tell me that in your 20's, your metabolism is at its peak. I decided completely on my own that my belly ring is pretty ridiculous at this point in time.

Yesterday I was walking down the beach by the lake, surrounded by all these lunatics jogging, running, rollerblading, bicycling, or playing sports. I panicked. Is this what other 20-somethings do while I lay around with my cats watching It's Always Sunny episodes?

I looked down at my pale, non-existent bicep and made my decision. "It's time to change my lifestyle," I thought. "Join the lunatics!"

Just then, I saw a sign: Chicago Boot Camp. Perfect! I'll take the plunge and be a joiner for once in my life. I'll get fit. I'll get motivated.

Then I looked closer at the sign. EVERY WEEKDAY AT 6 AM SHARP!


Yet, for a brief moment, I envisioned myself running down the beach at 6 a.m., surrounded by like minded, motivated, healthy people. It was a great 20 second daydream.

Yeah, right. Like I'm going to get out of bed before the hour of six and run down the beach while some crazy trainer screams at me. I can't run. Let's be honest here: They're called boobs. It's not fun for me.

What am I going to do? Life was so much easier when I was forced to workout at the start of volleyball or softball season. I also had my 16-year-old metabolism working for me.

So. Clearly I'm not going to do boot camp. I can't afford a gym membership. However, I am a big fan of the workout tape, starting from back when I was about eight, doing Jane Fonda's Workout tape with my mom while Jay sat on the couch eating potato chips and making fun of us.

In recent years, I've upgraded to the workout DVDs, and have such marvels as the Self Bikini Ready Fast and Fat Burning Pilates (which I miraculously made it through today, as Mufasa sat on the couch and glared at me). Also, in one of my many moments of insanity, I bought a Crunch Cardio Dance Blast DVD, but after tripping over myself in my living room once or twice while trying to follow the foot movements and hip swivels, I admitted to myself that maybe "dance blast" wasn't the workout for me. The Bikini Ready fast is actually a great workout. The only problem is that I do it once, then my thighs hurt for an entire week and I don't exercise again for another month.

But TRUST, I still have my Jane Fonda VHS tape. To make it even cooler, it's a recorded VHS tape.

So. I have the workout materials. What's needed is the motivation. How do I get this motivation? Please advise.

In the meantime, check out Jane's leg warmers. What a babe!

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Cry me a river.

"Ladies, if you're in the habit of driving yourselves home after having a few, convinced you can talk your way out of a DUI -- think again."
So starts Zach Christman's article regarding escalating DUI arrests of women in Chicago. The Sun-Times reported that the rise in arrests of women "probably reflects a change in attitude by police."

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for it. I think it's ridiculous that a police officer would let a woman get off from a DUI for simply being a woman. Certainly, you shouldn't be able to cry your way out of a ticket. It only perpetuates sexist treatment of women if we take advantage of the system in such a way. Of course, I'm sure I probably would burst into tears if I got caught drinking and driving--but not because I'm a woman trying to talk my way out of it. I'd start crying because I would know my dumbass was in some major trouble. But that's beside the point. I cry if my cat looks at me the wrong way. I'm a crier. Yet I do understand that some women admittedly purposely try crying to get out of tickets. I'm not pretending this doesn't happen.

HOWEVER. Is it really necessary for this writer to start his article with such a condescending tone? If you're going to talk about women crying their way out of tickets, you better back it up with evidence, as the Sun-Times did when the article mentioned video surveillance. That's fine. I get it. It happens: Some women cry. Some women try to beg their way out of tickets. But I'm pretty sure if I asked my brother Tom, a police officer, he'd tell me that men try to plead their way out of tickets too.

So can we cut the patronizing bullshit, please? This is so unnecessary:

"Women who plead and cry don't get a break like they used to.

So ladies, if you're getting behind the wheel, keep the tap closed -- both on your water works and the one behind the bar."

Thanks, buddy. I'll try to keep the tap closed on my water works. Even his use of the term "ladies" feels insulting to me. Insulting and annoying.

So, LADIES, here's my advice:

Don't drink and drive. Obviously. Cabs are lined up outside bars in Chicago for a reason. Use them.

Don't ever feel bad for crying, but for God's sake, don't do it to weasel out of a ticket. I want to be treated equally ALL the time, not just when it's convenient for me.

Okay. Whew. I feel better now. I haven't ranted about anything in a week or two. I was actually a little excited when I felt those first twinges of annoyance as I read this article.


Friday, August 21, 2009

Sincerest Apologies, Rainbow Groupies!

After receiving yet another fan email asking where the hell I've been, I decided it was time to pull out my Macbook, open the blinds, blast some Eurythmics, and snap out of my Funk. Obviously by 'yet another fan email' I mean my brother emailed me, but that's beside the point, isn't it? If I'm going to become a famous blogger, I probably should, umm, blog.

So where the hell have I been? Sure, some time has been spent holed up in my room streaming Netflix and feeling sorry for myself because my bills keep getting more expensive while I get paid less, but there's also been some crazy shit going on that was deserving of some love in the Rainbow Chronicles.

Let's recap.

My oldest brother Tom is now in Afghanistan for his second tour of duty, better described as his second year away from his wife and kids. I'm sure he'll come back just fine, but we'll miss him nonetheless. So pray, send warm thoughts, or whatever it is you might do in this kind of situation. Tom is 14 years older than me, so he's basically been my hero since I was a little kid.

He's also probably the only person I enjoy drinking Coors Light out of a can with. The pic here was from the weekend I went home to tell him bye. It was the most time I've spent hanging out with my brother and my nephews in a really long time. That afternoon, Jackson (the one in the photo) said, "Auntie Al, you're not going to a wear a dress again tomorrow, are you?" I learned my lesson. If you want street cred with the nephews who are sporting mohawks, don't wear your hippie-tastic dress. Save it for the outdoor concerts.

What else? Last Friday, I finally lost my virginity to Wrigley Field and saw my first Cubs game. Pretty sure my company was getting a little tired of me saying repeatedly, "Barack wouldn't like this. Barack just wouldn't approve." But other than that, it was a blast. We befriended the guys sitting next to us while we were loudly trying to guess the name of the best friend and the girlfriend characters in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. (Cameron and Sloane, DUH. Although in retrospect, I'm pretty sure I loudly declared that her name was Simone. Shit.)

After the game, we went to one of the silly Wrigley bars, and when we were outside, who should walk by but Ari! I mean, Jeremy Piven. He was with his entourage. Ha, ha. HA! Of course we decide to stand outside and wait for him to leave the bar next door. As he's leaving, we see him take a picture with a couple of girls. He walked out, and as I was working up the courage to speak, my friend asked if he'd take a picture with me.

Jeremy Piven looks at me. I smile. He looks me up and down. "No, but you can have a hat." And he walks away. Hmmph. I was on the brink of feeling pretty rejected, but then I realized: Jeremy Piven gave me a hat! And he's short!

I began parading around Wrigleyville doing things of this nature:

No, I'm not proud of myself. What a stupid hat. Luckily Wrigleyville is full of white girls engaging in even more embarrassing behavior, so for once in my life, I sort of fit in with the crowd.

Basically the rest of my time not blogging has been spent waiting tables, staring at my checking account with my heart pounding rapidly, and to be perfectly honest, feeling a little sorry for myself and watching too much Netflix.

However, I did go see The Time Traveler's Wife with Beth last Sunday! And I can say with complete confidence that Beth is with me when I tell all of you haters this: "Bite me. It was beautiful. Read the book."

Watch Rachel McAdams give away the plot to Jon Stewart. I kind of fell in love with Rachel McAdams here, because like me, she clearly can't walk in heels very well.

The Daily Show With Jon StewartMon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Rachel McAdams
Daily Show
Full Episodes
Political HumorHealthcare Protests

I'll leave you on that note.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Listen here, girls

If the fish isn't on your line, bait your hook and keep on trying.

If I don't promote myself, who will? Shameless plug:

My first review for Feminist Review was published/posted today! Check me out. It was also cross-posted on Gender Across Borders. BOO-YAH.

Seeing my byline makes me so happy. It makes me almost as happy as the following:

You've missed Swazye fest, haven't you? You're welcome.

Friday, August 7, 2009


I'll be spending the weekend serving beer at Lollapalooza, something I've been really excited about until two days ago, when my eye started exploding on me. For real. Serious aversion to any form of light—yesterday I spent the entire day holed up in my bedroom with a washcloth over my face, which was so sad it was almost funny. Almost.

Anyway, if any of you are going to be at Lolla this weekend, I'll be in one of the beer tents on the South side (by the Vitamin Water stage and Chicago 2016 stage). Come see me! I will of course be more excited to see you if your name is Lykke Li or Ben Harper, but come see me nonetheless.

I'll be the white girl wearing an eye patch. I hope that won't stop Ben from his marriage proposal.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

It'll be okay.

So far, not the best week.

Yesterday my favorite manager got fired, which is unfortunate for so many reasons. It’s been bugging me for months that he got treated like shit by the owners, which made no sense because he was a great manager. Plus, he always bought us Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, made sure I wasn’t walking to my car alone at night, and was cool as hell. He always managed on Tuesday nights, so tonight I was somewhat in mourning. On top of mourning that loss, I never had more than three tables at once all night. Not the best for my sad little pocketbook—another reason for my Funk. Yeah, it’s a Funk with a capital F.

Aside from that, it’s just been one of those days. I had to drag myself out of bed. Then this afternoon my anxiety had reached its peak. I called my Aunt Deborah. I called my friend Rachel and burst into tears. While I waited for her to come over, I went on a cleaning spree. I know I’m anxious when I start going on a cleaning spree. Not just picking up, or your average weekly cleaning. A frantic, cleaning out the closet and rearranging all of my t-shirts kind of cleaning spree. I find it soothing. Don’t know why, it just clears my head a little bit.

Basically, it was a day for Fiona. She speaks my language. Miss Fiona Apple has been getting me through, well, life since I first heard Tidal. I can’t believe I was only 12 when she came out with that album. By the time I was 16, trying to just survive the pain of high school and looking at my mom with an oxygen cord in her nose, that record was like my oxygen tank. The last three months of my sophomore year of high school, I listened to “Never is a Promise” every day on the way to school just to give myself the courage to walk in the doors of the high school. That was the worst part of each day of those three months. I knew the moment I’d have to walk by those damn benches across the hall from the cafeteria, that’s where the senior girls would be sitting, waiting to taunt me with: “Slut.” “Whore.” “Bitch.”

Every day, I followed my mom’s advice, and stared straight ahead, not blinking, as they taunted me with those hateful words. I held back the tears and let Fiona’s lyrics run through my head as I pretended not to hear them:

You'll never touch these things that I hold
The skin of my emotions lies beneath my own
You'll never feel the heat of this soul
My fever burns me deeper than I've ever shown to you

You'll say you understand
You'll never understand
I'll say I'll never wake up knowing how or why
I don't know what to believe in
You don't know who I am
You'll say I need appeasing when I start to cry
But never is a promise and I'll never need a lie

I started thinking about those times today when I was listening to Tidal. During that time, I felt like nothing would ever be okay again, like my life was crumbing around those words that rang in my ears every day (sure, I was a hormonal teenager, but it still fucking hurt). But you know what? I made it out okay. I made it out stronger—and I never let a woman get away with calling another woman a slut, that’s for damn sure.

So tonight, as I’m listening to Fiona, I remind myself of these things. I think about what my mom said to me when I was that hurting teenager, and I think about what she says to me when she speaks to me in my dreams:

“It’ll be okay.”

I know it will. But until then—God bless Fiona Apple.