Money, Money, Money...

Sucks. I got a call today from my bank saying that an old account I had closed had an overdraft protection that was over $300...that I can't really spare right now. Which makes sense as to why I was denied a credit card last month. I hate money. I hate the fact that I'm poor. AND, I hate the fact that I have no viable income at this time. The worst part of it all is that I tend to indulge in retail therapy. Bad day at work? Buy a hat. Someone said I looked like ass? Get a new pair of shoes. Mom called? Buy an entirely new outfit. I CAN'T spend any more money at this point...and I'm really worried about August. This worry tends to manifest itself in mini-panic attacks that culminate in a shoot-up-in-bed-in-terror that happens around 3 a.m. for a week after the worry begins. Tonight won't be fun. Unless I drink. Which costs money. Or unless I get a DVD to distract me. Which costs money. Or unless I make out with someone...which is FREE. *fingers crossed for me, folks. I think I found the one bi-guy who is still into cooch up in Wisconsin...here's hoping*

To the window, to the wall...

I am about to leave town for two weeks. This will not necessarily affect this blog, as I fail to write more than two days in a row, and my absence is usually at least a week long, in between posts. It does, however, affect my sleep, in that I am a) trying to go to bed earlier and b) still not managing to go to bed because I can't seem to finish packing. I thought I would make it easy on myself by showering and getting all of my toiletries packed this evening, saving one extra step in the morning. I did so, put on my nightgown and finished cramming everything I could into the available mismatched baggage I have. I got most of it into three small bags, with a few odds and ends left out. I thought it might be a good idea to put some of it in my trunk, so when I roll out of bed tomorrow, all I have to do is throw on my clothes and stumble to the car at the asscrack of dawn. Keep in mind, this seemed like a good idea at the time. I grabbed a bag and a stack of books (nothing saves from the wilds of Wisconsin and the ensuing ennui thereof like a trove of library books) and headed out to my car. I briefly considered a robe, since my nightgown is a little more than a slinky slip and skims all my favorite parts, leaving little to the imagination. As I finished throwing my books in the trunk, I heard voices from behind me. I quickly and quietly prayed that they were drunkards from the local bar, stumbling down the alley, looking for an unsuspecting female to rape. No such luck. My upstairs neighbors were exiting the building. I was at that moment partially hidden by a tree, and could hear one of the neighbors mutter, "Ooooh, shit." I had two options at this point. I could either ignore them and pretend to put more things in the car, which would effectively hike up my nightgown so that even the most unimaginative fellow on earth could know EXACTLY what I looked like, OR walk past them into the house. Sighing heavily, cheeks aflame, I threw my shoulders back, hulked up to all of my 5 feet 9 inches and stalked past them. As I was almost to the porch, the more attractive of the two gave me the elevator eyes and murmured, "Damn. That is balls OUT." I think I stammered a thanks to him AND to the one that made sure he didn't lock the door that would keep me outside in this state. Balls. Out. I had no response. I couldn't be witty or say anything flirtatious. I was soooooo embarrassed to be caught like that that all I really wanted to do was crawl under my car (which may be an option, next time). But, apparently, my inability to fade into the background sometimes makes me very...balls OUT.

Eat It.

I really should be sleeping. I'm just not tired...for reasons I won't get into. But, I think my body has finally started to forgive me for the egregious sins of Sunday. It was Pride Week in Chi-town and the gays came out full force for it. I love Pride. It messes with my driving plans a bit, but I feel so proud to be in the city with THE largest parade in America...and on top of that, I know that somewhere, in some *fabulous* part of Boys Town, all the wonderful men and women I know are celebrating themselves and that thrills me. I also get a little glee out of seeing everyone as drunk as I usually am on a Tuesday night.

So, Sunday, I called the fellas in our carpool to Wisconsin to make sure that they'd be at my house. On time. Ready to leave. In the two hours between church and getting on the road, I discovered that one was at a ComiCon (and could I come pick him up on the blue line?), one was spending 'quality time' with the gf (and could I come pick him up on the red line?) and one was too busy getting drunk at the bar below his house to come over right away (could we push back the ETD by a half-hour?). LORD. So, I wrangled the unwieldy intoxicated gay into the front seat of my car and set of on my scavenger hunt of passengers. As we drove along and gradually filled up the car, DD (the tipsy tenor) told me how he'd downed somewhere between 6-7 beers, 2 vodka tonics and..."something else" in under an hour...and that this was all done for rehearsal...so "[he wouldn't] care that it's sucking [his] will to live." PLUS, he reminded me, "Rehearsal's a good...2 hours away? I'll be fiiiine. *accompanying hand gesture*" About 30 minutes into the drive, he asked if we had a place to stop soon so he could relieve himself of the massive amounts of liquid in his body. We stopped at an "Oasis" (a phenomenon around Chicago, built over the highway...a veritable strip mall of food, sunglasses huts and gas stations) and everyone decided a pit stop would be good. DD promptly exited the bathroom and headed straight for Taco Hell and began to devour nachos, because that's what you do when you're drunk. Catisha and I decided that we were PMS-y and, fuck it, we got grease, too. As did one of the straights. We got BACK in the car, and blissfully continued to WI, until I realized I was running low on gas. We stopped at a BP where the two straights in the back screamed, "WENDY'S!!!!!!!" "OHMYGOD. I'm so getting a frosty." "REALLY?! Me, too." "I'll race you." "GO!" and they catapulted out of my car for (surprise, surprise), no frosty...but actual meals of greasy food. Again.

Rehearsal was...rehearsal. We'll leave it out of this post. On our way back out of WI, the ever hungry boys in the back lamented that we'd stopped earlier and they *really* wished we could stop again...when one of them shouted, "Is that a Culver's!?!" For those of you unfamiliar with this instituation, it's primary focus is ice cream and a clogged artery on a bun called the (no joke) "Butter Burger." It's delicious. So, of course we stopped. Catisha and I debated the merits of actual food this late and looked at the examples of what years of Culver's food will do to the human body (Catisha looked, stared, and whispered, "A cautionary tale..."). We got food.

As we piled back into the car, each with his or her own meal from the grease machine, DD said we should give this trip a name. We'd survived the "Death Storm 2008" (in which we drove through a tornado system...because we were stupid...and wanted to get home), I'd survived the "Death Lizard" (also known as "death *blizzard*" in which I drove my car into a snow bank), and the previous week had seen us survive the floods that had closed many a back road in Wisconsin. Thus, DD dubbed the trip "Tour de Fast Food." It was clever. We laughed about it. We made more jokes about it. Until about 30 minutes from the city. When everyone quickly realized that "Tour de Fast Food" was about to be "Revolt de Fast Food." There was no where to stop, so everyone had to pray to his/her own version of God that (S)He wouldn't let the food escape their body...from any orifice. This was made soooooo much worse when Catisha said she thought she might throw up. She's a tough cookie, ladies and gents...so, when she said it, I KNEW it might actually happen. So, DD and I made a makeshift trash bag and prepared for the worst. I know how I am when people throw up. If I hear it or smell it, I do the same. And I knew everyone in the car would join me and Catisha. For the next 15 minutes, until the danger passed, I had flashing visions of a round robin barf-a-thon. It was horrible. At one point, DD moaned, "I think I managed to offend every organ in my body today. Alcohol--liver, check. Burrito--esophagus/heartburn, check. Untrained people singing near me--ears bleeding, check. Being asked to sing a part I didn't prepare--heart attack, check. Food that makes me retch--stomach, check. My body will get together tonight and decide that while I'm asleep, it's going to quietly let all my organs check out so I stop abusing them." He said it, but we all felt it. "Tour de Fast Food" had quickly become "Tour de Surrender." Never AGAIN will I allow that in my car. Ever.


Unless we pass a Taco Cabana. Then, it's on.