El Station Heist

Ok so there was no heist (that I’m aware of) but I really wanted to use the word heist.  Maybe one day there will be one.  Staged by me.  Which I shall then write about.

Anyway, this morning I was walking at superhuman speeds through the Clark/Lake train station, as always, trying to get to work no later than 4 minutes late, when I noticed a young man looking fearfully behind himself towards me at frequent intervals.  The thought crossed through my mind that he somehow feared I was endangering his safety, or was trying to subliminally convey otherwise that I should keep my distance somehow.  He kept looking back then speeding up and changing his path.  Regardless, I kept following him as fast as I could.  He was taking all my normal routes, what could I do!

Then he veered towards the 2nd escalator, and I took the stairs.  I normally take the 2nd escalator too, even though no one WALKS up it, and instead stands there completely lazily, oblivious to the fact that I AM IN A RUSH.  This is a snag in my journey, because I can’t figure out if the stairs are faster or not.  Also I try to avoid pit sweat, which means no stairs if I can help it.  But, last night I had too much spaghetti so I had wanted to take the stairs today, in a feeble attempt to ward off the horrible fate of thunder thighs that inevitably awaits me should I continue to enjoy pasta so dearly. 

However, I now became conflicted about this decision.  The reason being, this guy was trying to avoid me!  On account of his severe silliness in being afraid of me, or irritated by my close pursuit, whatever was the case (I do hope it was fear), I naturally became overwhelmingly tempted to follow him all the way out of the station.  I wanted to stomp heavily behind him and breathe on his neck a little bit, maybe even let out a few fake coughs while I was at it.  Bump his bag so he thought I was robbing him?  Mutter “curses” under my breath.  BWAHAHHAA! 

I mean really ~ I am wearing a pencil skirt with a beaded and flowing Guess shirt, did my hair wavy and had most of my makeup on before leaving the house today.  What the F was he so averse to?!  What kind of threat could this poor man’s Kate Hudson possibly behold for a young and clueless intern (presumably by his age) at 8:20 a.m. with scores of people around us?  If he was merely annoyed at my perpetual closeness, GET OVER IT.  IT’S A TRAIN STATION IT HAPPENS.  EVERY DAY.  If he was jealous of my record-breaking walking speeds, well you’ll learn my dense young boy, someday.  If it was sheer terror upon sensing the extent of my powers… then I should have kept following him.  It would have been hilarious.  Tomorrow I’m going to flat-out chase someone outta there, poking them in the back and muttering with my eyes rolled back into my head.  Young Rashid,  you’ve given me a whole new idea on personal glory.  Too bad you had to be such a freak or this would have never happened.

Anyone know somewhere I can purchase a nightstick?  I think it will enhance the effect.

 

A Day in the Life

Elizabeth: I’m laughing hysterically and can’t stop

Elizabeth: Kristin, I have to find animal innards now

Via text: A cleaver.  I just sliced my finger and oh the blood.  I’m at the ER now.  Ale drove me here on his motorcycle.

Booze Infused Karaoke Leads To Burn Victim

There is only one reason people congregate to Koreatown on a Friday Night–IBop Karaoke.

I figure it’s safe to assume almost everyone by this point has seen Lost in Translation. If you haven’t it was this kitchy little tale that came out in like 2004 and it was pretty hyped up. Therefore, if you have yet to see it I guess maybe you still haven’t heard of Scarlett Johansson. (Wow, that was insanely bitchy. Maybe I’ll do an upcoming blog on all the things I’m outrageously snobbish about). Anyway…….as of Friday I have now been to a karaoke bar in which we got our own room twice. Also, as of Friday I have now been to a karaoke bar in which I blacked out, twice.

The first time was my birthday surprise. (You’re well aware of our group’s birthday surprises. See: Half Arm Man Swings Penis Wildly) However, my surprise, the first in the birthday series was ruined by a certain 30 year old man with a cane who found no problem with the fact he spilled the beans because as he said, “What? I’m gonna be out of town anyway, so who cares.” (Thanks Tom)  Emily knew taking me to IBop would be perfect for my birthday because what do I love more than anything else in existence? No, it’s not karaoke, it’s myself. What avenue could possibly give me a better way to showcase myself than a private room in which when I sing I not only get a microphone but EVERYONE has to look at me. I should’ve been thinking for weeks about what song to delight my audience with, however, the time came and I still had not selected. Upon arrival my mind was else where because Emily had another surprise in store.

I watched wide-eyed as a kid in a candy store as she masterfully unsheathed a bottle of absinthe. This is great, we drink it traditionally with the sugar cubes and all. Followed by a couple of shots of tequilla. (Did I mention IBop is especially amazing because you get bring your own booze!?) However, it’s less amazing in that it looks like a creepy Tijuana basement.

Katrina and I get silly, as we so often do. (ie. usually performing the cheers from when we were junior high cheerleaders together, while doing Triple Cs in high school. Don’t ask, it’s a totally hillbilly Indiana thing). We decide to sing, Blu Cantrell ‘Hit Em Up Style.’ For all my wanting to sing a really good song don’t ask me how the hell this came to be the final decision. But at the time I figured, “What the hell, there’ll be plenty more songs to sing.”

Well, there’s nothing like being passed out on their creepy leather couches by 1am during your own birthday celebration as it continues to rage around you. I thought I only sang once, but was informed the following afternoon that I jumped in on almost every other person’s song. Way to go Blackout Beth………

My most recent visit to IBop was this past Friday. This time it was for Tom’s birthday. (Yep, the very same 30 year old with a cane who ruined MY IBop birthday surprise.) Before proceeding to IBop, Emily and i needed to attend the Fratelli’s show. We both entered, each with a flask in tow, into an arena of loud music and drunk sweaty dancing. Before IBop we needed to refuel with a Sparks and 40 of Coors Light a piece. (I should’ve known at this point the cab ride home would be something my memory wouldn’t retain). Such was the case. At least I didn’t suffer the brunt of it as I hear Katrina fell down the many IBop stairs and the next morning looked as if she were beaten with a club.

I do have one last memory of my night right before bed….

Never, I repeat NEVER attempt to make egg drop soup while drunk wearing only your underwear. I woke up Saturday afternoon to a desperate phone call pleading me to get my drunk ass outta bed and out to the fake beach, along with a scalding burn on my entire right leg from my knee up to my thigh. I also found out that morning why my soup tasted so bad the night before. Now that I’ve had personal experience you must understand that egg drop soup tastes much better when you remember to add the packet to the water. Egg and water alone do not a good soup make.

LESSON 1: Karaoke in a private room, fun had by all

LESSON 2: Absinthe and tequilla-waking up in your bed with a pile of dried up turkey next to your head

LESSON 3: A flask of Bacardi, a Sparks, and a 40oz Coors Light-waking up with a scalding burn you can still see a week later

Father’s Day 2008

“I’m in the winners’ circle with a jersey on”

-”What?!”

“If my horse wins I win 2 round trip plane tickets anywhere in the [continental] U.S.”

-”Wha - how.. hold on… put on channel 440!  Channel 440!”

“You have to root for #4!  If #4 wins we are going to Vegas!!”

 After absentmindedly putting my name into the drawing for 2 free plane tickets this past Sunday at the Arlington Park Racetrack, at the behest of my mother, I proceeded to sink back into a pained semi-consciousness that comes after a night filled with Bachelorette Party and Durty Nellie’s, then sleeping on a couch with leg warmers on.  You can imagine my surprise to see my name up on the enormous tv in the infield after the 5th race.  I had actually qualified for the contest, out of sheer luck?  Since when does this happen?  Not since I won a stereo I had absolutely zero use for last year from Q101 (then sold it on Ebay), I don’t think.  But there I was: ”#4 Kristin Kronberg from Chhiago.”  Though they were apparently hard-pressed to come up with a way to correctly spell “Chicago,” my alcohol-savaged brain was mildly pleased at them getting my name right, instead of the usual variations (Kristen, Kornberg, Tha Kronic 2008, Christian, etc.) God, I HATE that!

 Anyway, In my hungover stupor, my severely dulled mind then changed from mild amusement to sheer dread.  I learned that I had to actually rise up from my bench in the sun, where I was gloriously sipping on one of the track’s divinest of Bloody Mary’s, to embark on an arduous journey to the 2nd floor.  It turns out I was to travel afar in order to receive further instruction for this contest. 

“Won’t they just tell me if I win?” 

-”No we can’t screw this up!!  We gotta go up there!  Let’s go!  Let’s go!!!!” 

 Sigh.  I drag my half-alive self up the stairs behind my mom to about 9 different information booths until we come to the correct one upstairs.  At this point I’m seeing spots frequently and almost fell asleep on the escalator.  There I learn that after the 7th race, I am to come back up to this floor, don a neon yellow “penny” with the #4 emblazoned upon it, and stand with the other contestants in the winners’ circle, enthusiastically cheering for my horse to win, as that will mean I win the plane tickets.  My stomach churns most unpleasantly. 

“I have to wear a jersey?  Why do I have to wear a jersey?  Why??” 

-”Oh come on, it’s fun!!” 

 Ok maybe I should have been excited.  Hell it’s 2 free round-trip plane tickets!  But I didn’t come to the racetrack to be a cheerleader!  I’d already spent about 25 minutes in line for a stupid Bloody Mary, only to wait another 15 minutes for the idiots to restock the olives.  No way in hell was I going to settle for an incomplete Bloody!  I’d come too far.  It would have been a travesty of monstrous proportions.  It would have been a sham.  I would have been personally insulted and felt cheated for the rest of my life.  I would have…

Sorry 

 Long story short, my dad comes with me to the winners’ circle jubilee.  I call Freddy and announce my present activities.  The race starts… ok I’m actually getting excited now… my horse, General Charley, is a speed horse and at the front the whole race.  In the final stretch, he pulls ahead even more.  He’s got the best jockey at the track riding him, too — my dad is slapping my shoulder forcefully and yelling: 

“Kristin!  You got it!  This is it!  You got it!!” 

 I actually bring myself to start jumping up and down, bellowing “CHARLEY!! CHARRRLEEYYYY!!!!!!” maniacally at the top of my lungs and leaning ridiculously over the fence railing, trying to push the horse with my mind to go faster.  Time seems to freeze.  #5 screams: 

“Aggghhh my stomach hurts so bad!” 

Then… 

The unthinkable.   

#2 blasts up in the final 3 strides, stretches out a nose, and… 

 #2 in her white jersey is leaping up and down, flobby arms flailing and screaming for joy. Fuuuuuuuuuck.  My soul is crying.  Some girl goes I’m SO glad she won instead of… looks at me….  Bitch.  Ew. 

“Everybody out!  I’m gonna need you to get OUT, yeah thanks!  OUT.”  The rest of us are now unwanted foreign losers, invading the holy sanctity of a circle meant for winners.  The girl with the yellow hair in the yellow dress with the yellow toenails holds up a microphone to #2’s face, cameras are on her and her fans.  She’s the only thing that matters in the world.  #2 speaks: 

“I’m going to Vegas!” 

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

 Maybe it’s my past karma for each year that I singlehandedly and systematically “ruined Father’s Day” (ask me or Beth what that means later).  It seems the tables have turned.  Father’s Day got me back.  Father’s Day has now cruelly destroyed me, with a dangling dream.  A dream which promised me glory, and neon shapeless jerseys, and the knowledge of how it feels to be a meaningless guinea pig in yellow dress girl’s little games, only to be thrown aside like the puke on #5’s shoes…

 

And all I’m left with is a burning desire to go to Vegas.  

I’ll get you Father’s Day!  One day I will conquer you!!  You will not defeat me with your wild expectations and insurmountable standards ever again! (again ask Beth).  

 I think next year on Father’s Day I’ll go into a medically-induced coma the night before, and lay myself out in the streets of Humboldt so that the gods can smite me freely to their cruel hearts’ content.  I won’t even try to fight it.  Also, this will allow me to avoid the wrath of my mother, who later that night, as I tried to take a nap at her house, texted and called my cell phone 8 times, screaming up the stairs: “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!  ARE YOU HUNGOVER?!  IT’S FATHER’S DAY.  FATHER’S DAY AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” 

I love my dad so much, but why, why does this happen to me?! 

In short, Father’s Day is historically one of the most bizarre days of my life, each consecutive year that it occurs.  

Vegas anyone?

A Day in the Life - Things Beth Does At Her Job

Via text:  Jesse called and I had to buy dog tags and fake American pride tattoos.  And I have to meet him in Brooklyn.

Elizabeth: I got free drink outside from a truck

Elizabeth: brb I’m gonna go smoke some weed

How To Say Creepy In Polish

Emily and I have been roommates since September, and in these 9 months we’ve come to learn a valuable, epic lesson:

Do not open a bottle of wine if you only have one.

Therefore, when Monday turned out to be a shitty day and I hadn’t seen Emily since Thursday, (she was escaping to the airconditioned oasis of her boyfriend’s apartment while I was left to have my skin melt off in the 100 degree weather) we decided to devote Monday night to some of our favorite past times. Jeopardy, at least 2 bottles of wine, and robot (our art project that we’ve been neglecting horribly).

After work I did what any self-respecting alcohol consumer would. I headed to Trader Joe’s for three buck chuck. I’ve been informed that in most other places of the country it’s two buck chuck, but this is fucking New York City. (Also I spit on New York City for its new cigarette tax that went into effect one week ago. Screw you $8.50 for my beloved Parliament Lights)

At 7 I hadn’t eaten dinner yet, but in walks Emily with the wine opener and a bottle and hands it to me. Seeing as I was taught at an early age, I’m quite skilled in the art of opening wine. Drinking in our apartment has developed its own repertoire: 1. Glass of wine 2. Cigarette (repeat cycle until alcohol has been consumed).

In Greenpoint along with the raging, burning sunlight of summer comes old, drunk Polish men congregating on front stoops as far as the eye can see. They’re sort of like cicadas, except they come out annually instead of every 17 years. Instead of sitting on the stairs as usual we start smoking next to it because there are 4 Polish men in dirty wife beaters engulfing what’s left of our front stoop. The super in our building who has never said anything more to us save, “No problem!” motions for the two of us to come smoke with them.

We awkwardly amble over and proceed to attempt conversation which is difficult since he only knows “No problem!” and I know but three words in Polish. We try explaining we’re both of Polish descent, yep, they don’t understand. So I tell Emily to say one of the three word I know in Polish. “Dupa!” She exclaims. The four drunken Europeans erupt into laughter. Apparently they, as with my cousins and I in childhood, find the word, “butt” hilarious. They teach us the word for beer, “pivo.” Then ask us if we drink wine. Well, at least we thought they meant wine. Actually he asked if we wanted “one” and the super goes two doors down to buy some Polish beers for us. Since we’re drinking on the stoop he returns with a sixer, and, alas, two small brown paper bags in which to insert our Polish beers. I have now officially entered into a strange, sad forum of drinking.

Since Emily and I are now trapped outside until we’ve fully imbibed these beers, we need more cigarettes. Emily volunteers to go upstairs and watch her swiftly disappear through the door all the while cursing my poor planning in only bringing down one solitary cigarette instead of the whole $.8.50 pack.

Le the fun begin……

The super looks at me, touches me on the shoulder and then goes, “sex clock.” He’s gesturing at me to look down and sure enough he has his finger pointed down by his crotch. “Sex clock, down, big problem!” Turns out he knows more than just “No problem” after all. I’m mortified and am now ruing the day I ever smoked my first cigarette because if I never smoked I wouldn’t be here right now. Upon Emily’s return he continues the motion and saying for her. Three days later we’re still debating because she claims he was being more clever than I was giving him credit for, as she believes he was still pointing down and referring to his penis, but she insists he said, “Six o’clock”.

After that cigarette we’re done, back upstairs to polish off our second bottle of wine. And well, since we were now suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, we were able to fully rationalize heading to the deli for a six pack.

Girl Takes Proud Dook in Work Bathroom

Ok, so the thing is… this girl took one huge brave shiste this morning, in the work restroom.  While I was in there.  Now normally, this wouldn’t be so remarkable an occurrence.  I mean, shit happens right?  I’m sure she drank too much the night before or something.  It sounded like one of those, at least.  (Oh stop you know what I mean!)  The thing is though… in the time surrounding this odorous event, I’ve became slightly offended by the situation as a whole.   

 

This girl knew I was in the bathroom when she did it!  And she didn’t even wait for me to leave before coming out of the stall when she was done!  I saw her come in, too.  This is how it went: she flings open the bathroom door, looks me in the eye, then slams into the 1st stall, proceeding then to loudly force out some serious squirts.  At this point I’m doing my mascara as fast as humanly possible in order to expedite my escape to the ultimate.  I HATE when people are dickin’ around in the work bathroom when this type of unfortunate emergency happens to me! That is, on those rare occasions when I actually have a b.m… anyway… you’ll never guess what happens next.  

 

She emerges from the stall, washes her hands right next to me, then leaves while I am still in there.  I’m thinking, who does this?  She didn’t even try to delay her exit from the stall.  I was almost done mascara-ing!  I was about to leave!  She didn’t give me a chance!  She looks at me AGAIN, then exits the premises.  I glance back, with what I hope is a look reading: ”if i ever meet you for real you’re going to be the girl who took a huge shit at work.  I know what you look like now.”  But she didn’t seem to care.

Then it struck me.  I started to feel offended instead of sorry for her situation, which had now become mine as well, as I realized that I was now a victim.  By choosing to expose herself to me instead of waiting for me to leave, I believe that far from displaying some courageous front of non-self-consciousness, instead she was blatantly defying me.  She thought she was better than me.  It’s the only explanation, seeing as how she

1. took the world’s fastest and loudest shit (at work no less) and

2. looked me in the eye.  Twice. 

The whole thing summed up to “you’re not important enough to merit me witholding my bowel movements, or even slightly altering my course whatsoever post-shiste.”

See here, cute- and-expensively-dressed-therefore likely rich-probably intern-girl-who-shit-in-the-work-bathroom – I don’t care if your daddy’s a consultant here at SSMC, I don’t care if he’s freaking Mr. T or Jordan Knight!  They may be making a long overdue (::ahem cough what?: comeback, but public indecency never will!  Not unless I deem a display of it funny enough, at least.  Buy you are not better than me, and you were rude in your flagrant display of fecal shenanigans.  You shit on my dignity, literally.  And I’m here to tell you, I don’t appreciate it.  Not in the slightest.  You gross little smelly pirate hooker.  Really now.  I hope someone does it to you, and I hope when they do it’s got corn in it!

Ok sorry that was too much, that last statement there.  But come on.  Let’s talk about poo etiquette.  Readers - would you have waited?   Here’s one response: Elizabeth: I would’ve waited if I were her.

It’s only the decent thing to do.

flush, swirl, please, thank you……….  

A Day in the Life

An update on the things Beth does at her job:

Elizabeth: I’m going to need a burger.  I want a shot of everclear afterwards to erase the taste.

I’ts going to go, sushi, mt. dew, gum, cigarette

Elizabeth: I am currently enjoying a glass of wine

Elizabeth: I have to go buy some fortune cookies, when I get back let me know if I have to call Freddy

Elizabeth: I’m listening to too much gangsta rap from the 90s

Sushi Still Gross

Last Friday I did the unthinkable. I tried seafood for the first time. What did I try? Sushi! Check out this video of my heroic endeavor, overcoming one of my biggest fears.

You’re Next

We are now finished with men’s stories about the precious flower. The lotus. The magic of womanliness.

I repeat, all further stories about the V shall be hereby terminated before they begin.  Unless they are of a far more pleasant and complimenting nature.  The reason being, these stories are becoming far too lopsided in a way I am not ready to appreciate!

That said, if this continues, we’ll take it as a clue that yall want us to start man bashing for real. Cuz before it was all in good fun and NOT actually meant to bash men.

But that can be changed.

Woe to the girls who give us clean sexy ladies a bad name! You’re my next victims on the Crummity!