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the power of christ compells you

10 Mar

Welcome to the March 10 version of “sounds to lunch by,” featuring the dulcet tones of rigorous vomiting.

Yeah, you’re right. I didn’t give you much warning there, did I? My bad… But honestly? I didn’t get one either. All’s fair in love and blogs.

Unfortunately, just as most of us in Evanston Cube Farmville were unwrapping our sandwiches around noon today (hey, what do you know — I have peanut butter again today!) the girl who sits in the cube kitty-corner from mine began puking. Into her garbage can. For three solid minutes.

But, Ang! Three minutes? Really? Everyone knows that you’re given to exaggeration… That can’t possibly be true…

People, we’re talking Exorcist-level yarfing, six feet from my chair. Trust me when I say it was three minutes. It lasted long enough for damn near every coworker in our wing to finally meander over to check on her, or to bring her water, or to gawk awkwardly, or — my personal favorite — to comment that at least she had a “bag of vomit” to deal with instead of a messy workstation.

What the fucking fuck? Who says that? And hey — more soup, anyone?

Don’t get me wrong, I feel *terrible* for her. There is nothing more miserable in this world than throwing up. It’s absolutely unholy. And to have to do it in public, AT WORK… Yes, please, pile some public embarrassment onto my moment(s) of otherwise feeling like total crap!

Poor girl. I’m genuinely mortified on her behalf.

Of course, that didn’t stop the rest of us from quickly crossing ourselves, slathering on the hand sanitizer so frequently we acquired a collective contact high, meeting in the kitchen for shots of Airborne, and audibly muttering, “Sweet Jesus, thank you for not seating me near any social pukers.”

(Okay, that last one was just me.)

Excerpted IM exchange, two hours later:

Dude who sits next to Linda Blair: do you think we’d be hurling right now if we caught the bug?

Me: doubt it. dunno how long flu takes to incubate, but probs longer than 2 hrs.

DWSNTLB: uggggggh. i don’t want to be here now. i’m scared.

Me: i can’t get the sound out of my head.

DWSNTLB: right? it sounded like she was dying.

Me: i feel bad saying this, but… i know. it sounded like she was being turned inside out. or birthing an alien. one of those.

DWSNTLB: airborne?

Me: airborne.

I am working inside a Petri dish. Send hazmat suits. And priests. Priests wearing hazmat suits!

Note: Invoking Linda Blair & The Exorcist represents the most terrifying imagery Cirque Management can fathom, thanks to a babysitter-forced viewing around age 7. In fact, the film so thoroughly scarred Management that locating any link more visceral than IMDB was impossible, due to violent shaking. Now stop reading this post and go take your vitamins. With a priest.


baby (it don’t take) einstein

28 Jan

Sometimes I really regret the decision to not have kids.

It kind of sneaks up on me; I’m sailing along fine, and then — BAM! I’m reeling. Sucker-punched by the feeling that I’m missing out on something really important.

Mostly, I find that this sense of loss tends to overwhelm me when I’m reminded of the critical and hard-won life lessons that I won’t be able to share with future offspring. Things no child should have to learn on her own. Things like:

Someday, when you’re older and you have a job that no one understands, you might find yourself sitting around a speakerphone with your colleagues one night during a conference call with China. [No, not the whole country. Just a few individuals. We don’t name specific clients, dear — now hush. Mother’s telling a story.] Anyway, should this come to pass, promise me that you’ll never, ever, under any circumstances choose that moment to catch up on the @MayorEmanuel Twitter feed. Don’t do it! Not even for a second! Not even if it’s late! Not even when they’re hashing out timeline details and you have nothing to contribute! Do you hear me, child? JUST. SAY. NO.

Because if I *did* have tiny, young minds to mold, I could take those children on my knee and tell them, firsthand, how badly Diet Coke burns when you choke it into your nasal passages. And how long the insides of your cheeks take to heal when you bite them to prevent an errant snort-laugh. And how mightily you’ll struggle for the rest of the call not to refer to your clients as Quaxelrod & Hambone.

My voice would ring with sincerity, my eyes would brim with brave, unshed tears — and, lo! Those children would be changed. Wiser. Far better equipped for the world’s minefields of satirical hilarity. Even now, I weep for the heart-to-hearts we’ll never have. . .

On the other hand, it saves me from having to deal with DCFS three times a week when I get reported for sending my kids to school in t-shirts that read: “MOTHERFUCKING WINNING THE MOTHERFUCKING FUTURE!”

So, there’s that.

break room: 8am monday

3 May

My part-time job is better than your part-time job.

keg dregs

isn’t it ironic (non-alanis version)

18 Mar

Paying gigs are fantastic. I’m still on cloud nine that people are willing to pay me good money to write and edit… and that I’m not currently living in a cardboard box under the Foster Avenue/LSD overpass.

The only slight problem is that, between the association work I’m doing and the deadlines for FGG, my time for self-indulgent blogging has pretty much been zero. Which of course means this is when the anvil of inspiration has thunked me on the head and there are 7 or 8 posts I’m suddenly dying to write. Seriously, the writer’s block gods have a funky sense of humor.

I promise to have some hi-larious tidbits to share over the next week; in the meantime, though, try this on for size:

ANG: “I’m writing about spring cleaning your closet this week.”

KATIE: “Nice. Are you gonna take your own advice?”

ANG: “Touché. And probably not.”

Folks, some people were made to live out of neatly organized and color-coordinated closets that would make Martha Stewart proud. Others are destined to keep their clean clothes in the over-sized IKEA tote that serves as a laundry bag. It takes diff’rent strokes to move the world, yes it does.

to dream the impossible dream

11 Mar

Attention, Readers (all 10 of you):

Today, at the mere age of 33 (and thanks to one awesome interview with my new BFF & esthetician extraordinaire, Daniela @ Daniela’s Facial Studio), I accomplished a feat that most people never manage in a lifetime.

Curing cancer? Well, no.

Running a marathon? Please.

Getting one of those grabber-machines to actually pick up a stuffed toy? Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.

Who are you talking to? Hey, snippy! My blog, my rules.

Anyway, friends…This milestone was so out-of-the-blue I didn’t even know it was a goal until it had happened. Are you ready?

Today, as a writer, I was paid to use the word labia in context. And it wasn’t even porn!

God, I can’t wait to tell my parents. I can just hear my mom now: “Fuck that ‘be a lawyer‘ advice we’ve been handing you all these years — this is the real deal!”

They’re gonna be so proud…


this week’s FGG posts are brought to you by…

4 Mar

Lingerie (not mine, perv). More cruises. Ghirardelli 60% cacao squares.

And an iTunes mix that includes the following songs/artists:

I Want You Back // Jackson 5

Fair // Remy Zero

Hallelujah // Jeff Buckley

Alone // Heart

Wicked Game // Chris Isaak

The Refraction of Helios // Kakalla

California Dreamin’ // The Mamas & The Papas

When I Was a Boy // Dar Williams

Us // Regina Spektor

It’s Good to Be in Love // Frou Frou

Upside Down (Live) // Tori Amos

Stratford-on-Guy // Liz Phair

Don’t Stop Believing // Journey

Beautiful World // Colin Hay

Goodnight and Go // Imogen Heap


It is love.

Also, I need a laptop desk. My computer smells like fried dog.

i’m on a boat

25 Feb

New post up on FGG today — my first full-length Guide. Huzzah!

Writing about taking a cruise made me desperately wish I could be in the Caribbean today… and also caused this to loop through my head for about 3 straight hours while writing.  Heh.