Tag Archives: harry potter

Get out of my house.

I’m watching Diane Sawyer on “When Daddy Becomes a Mommy” and it’s a pretty horrible way to wake up in the morning.  Or awesome.  Depends on how you look at it, really, it does.  I looked at it on mute and it was much better.

I had a job interview yesterday, for a job I really want.  I feel like a douche now because I kept saying, “WOW, everyone is so nice!  Everyone seems like they LIKE to be here!  I can’t believe…”  The lady who set up my interview, who would be my awesome boss, assured me that not every day was magical.  But I couldn’t exactly describe for her how absolutely awful every single day of my working life is at my current job.  I interviewed with seven different people over the course of 2 1/2 hours, and during that time I was asked no less than seven times to describe my current job.  I expertly wove a tapestry of shimmery bullshit about how “ohh, you know, it’s retail, but I love the people I work with…” and “I just don’t like the whole selling aspect of it.”

I have another interview tomorrow morning.  I swear that the sky opened and rained job interviews on me, just when I was starting to completely lose my grip on the reality of possibility, just when I was starting to think that I might be better off staying in bed every day.

If I don’t get one of these jobs, I’m staying in bed every day.

Alohomora, asshole.

Can I just say how awesome and great Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince was?  Yes, I CAN, because this is my blog and I do what I want.

It was soooo great.  It was SO GREAT.  And awesome.  And I don’t want to hear any more mean-spirited criticism of the little cry session I had toward the end.  And the very little bit of a cry session I had at the very beginning.  Look, this is what happens, all right?  I have a LOT OF FEELINGS.

Awwww little magic bayyybyyyyy!!!

Awwww little magic bayyybyyyyy!!!

For Harry Potter, that is.

It’s funny, I often daydream about the short list of people I’d like to stab in the throat, and the longer list of people I’d like to hit with blunt objects.  However, show me any scene of Harry Potter, wherein Harry feels lonely and sad and like he can’t go on, and my little Gryffindor heart melts.  And that’s what it did, and that’s what it will always do.  So.

Enter Baldyballs

I showed my apartment all day on Saturday.  It was quite an experience, I must say.  The worst part was when this short, stocky dude with alopecia all but let himself in my front door, when I had been expecting a girl at that time, and started barking questions at me.  The girl hung back in the hallway, didn’t even introduce herself.  She was this timid chick with adult braces, still in her ill-fitting black work suit.  They both had on Chase bank nametags, and she introduced the completely hairless little ogre in my face as “my boss.”  Well, her boss proceeded to tear through my place, saying things like “Well, it is definitely cozy,” with an air of contempt, as if I’d lied to him personally about the square footage or something.  He spat so many questions at me, I finally had to say, “Wait, hold on, hoooold on a minute.”  I hate it when people ask you six questions in a row, or ask you any question and then continue to talk.  It makes me want to ask, “Sorry, do I even need to be here right now?”  Eventually, I got enough of Baldyballs’ superiority complex, his “we’re-probably-not-interested-so-get-nervous” act, and just said to the girl, “You know what, Vanessa?  There are a lot of people interested in this apartment,” (as there was a girl actually sitting AT my KITCHEN TABLE filling out an application at that very moment) “and it doesn’t sound like the place for you.”

Vanessa responded by cheerily saying “Oh, well, I’ll email you if I’m interested!”  But Baldyballs got the point and they left.

Ugh.  Get the fuck out of my house.

What the fuck is with the guys who work at Chase banks?  Is it like that at every bank?  Holy God, I hate them all.  They’re all such loud mouthed douchebags.  WHY?  Is it a prerequisite for getting that job?  I mean, there’s obviously no education requirement.  I bet they just put you in a room and see how loud you can talk and make sure you can write your name and then give you a polyester blend suit and a paycheck.  Going to a Chase bank to get anything done is, for me, like being in a terrible Viagra Triangle bar, only it’s during the day, and all the lights are on, but somehow I feel even more like I should protect my ass and not bend over to pick anything up.  Waiting in line, I get the unmistakable feeling that assholes are checking me out.  It’s because THEY ARE!  And they make no attempt to hide it!  They storm around like they’re busy and powerful and the latest contestant on The Apprentice, followed by a trail of CVS NightStorm cologne, they actually stare at you like you’re some kind of merchandise.  And they YELL at you.  I can’t go into a Chase bank without getting screamed at by some spiky-haired jagoff “YOU BEING HELPED?  ALL RIIIIIIIIIGHT!!!  YOU SURE??  JUST HANGIN’ OUT, HUH?  LEMME KNOW IF YOU NEED ANYTHING!!!”  It’s that, or I submit myself to the mercy of the angry black women tellers.  They flash their ridiculous nails at you and mutter everything while looking in any direction but in your eyes, and scream at you when you ask them to repeat themselves.

Conclusion: the bank involves a lot of yelling.

Anyway, there are two people currently fighting over my apartment.  I assume that the girl who is on unemployment will not be the winner.  And while it makes me sad to leave my cute little single bunny-hole, I can always comfort myself with thoughts of all of the life-sized things made of chocolate that I will soon buy with the money I’m saving.


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Guess Who Said “Woo”


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The Autobiography of a Couch

Lately I’ve been in this mood.  I’m not sure, actually, if I should be calling it a mood, which would imply that it’s something short, temporary, on its way through, like storm clouds or birthday parties or fingerless carnival ride operators.  I find myself hoping that it’s not a mood because it feels like something more important, deserving of some type of status that is less than fleeting.  But it settled on me like a mood, and it’s hanging around in that weird and wavy way, so for now that’s what I will call it.

I was thinking the other day that I’ve lost a lot of books by loaning them to people who lose them, or forget to pack them when they move, or just sort of dissolve out of my life until it would be kind of weird for me to call them up on a Thursday afternoon and ask if they know where they put that copy of The Virgin Suicides.  It’s something that’s occurred to me before, because there have been times when I’ve been proud of my bookshelf, and annoyed at the fact that something is missing from it.  So when this short list of loaned and lost books came up in my memory the other day, I surprised myself by not really giving a shit.  Instead, my next thought was how can I get rid of the rest of these???

This mood makes me want to sell all of my things, and all of the things I’ve had to buy to hold my things up off of the floor.  I feel the need to live as simply as possible.  I feel the need to be lighter, to be able to leave easily.  I often have the feeling that there is nothing for me here, in this city, that this is definitely not where I’m supposed to be.  But now it’s stronger than ever, and I just have to find out where the fuck I am supposed to be.  I need to do everything I can to avoid taking root in what I know to be the wrong place.

I know that this is what old people do before they die, and that creeps me out a little.

So, I walked around my apartment and mentally marked everything to sell.  I got to my couch and realized for the millionth time that it needs to be thrown away, that only an idiot would pay money for it.

When I was sixteen, I got it into my head that I wanted to redecorate my room.  I put wall paper on the ceiling, painted furniture, re-arranged my Tori Amos posters, and bought a futon.  It was this deluxe model with an innerspring mattress and a blue cover that matched my ceiling cloud wallpaper.  I paid $300 for the futon and the frame, and my boyfriend and I drove out to pick it up and pay the guy at the warehouse, who wouldn’t accept my check.  I gave him cash and left without a receipt, and my mom freaked out when she heard because she said I could “get screwed over.”

I put it together.  I slept on it quite comfortably all through high school.  I covered it with pillows to lean against so I could sit up and stay awake for each instalment of Anna Karenina on Masterpiece Theater at 3am, every morning, for a week.  I read all seven Harry Potter books on it.  It’s where my sister and I cuddled to watch The Last Unicorn one more time before I moved to the city.

I took it apart.  I put it in a truck and took it out of a truck and put it together again.  It has been disassembled and reassembled at least five different times, losing more little pieces every time.  At least three boys have “helped” me reassemble my couch from scratch, and each time I have let them give it their best shot before asking them to stand the fuck back while I build it from memory, thank you very much.  It has been nicked with screwdrivers and spattered with nail polish and all of the parts have been dropped separately.  I have made out with a few different boys on it in the last eleven years, and slept with a couple of them on it.  (If you have enjoyed sitting on my couch and think that’s gross, well, I don’t ask you what you do on YOUR couch, Princess.  If you have enjoyed me on my couch and thought it was a good time, well, you’re right on the money.)

Travelers have come from Seattle, the Quad Cities, St. Louis, New York, and various parts of Southern Illinois to sleep on my couch.  It has been voted Most Comfortable by all (with the exception of Seattle, quite possibly…due to the couch being quite literally on its last legs by then…).

At least two people I do not like have sat on my couch.  I did not like it.

At least one artsy, blurry, black-and-white photo shoot took place on my couch.

One fateful Laundry Day, I accidently left a giant bottle of laundry detergent lying on my couch, with the cap only half on.  The result was a big puddle of bright blue laundry detergent, which soaked through the cover and onto the black cushion underneath.  My best friend was visiting and when he saw what I’d done, he exclaimed my name really loud, and like he was sorely disappointed in me…like a father would be disappointed in you if you drove the car into a ditch or got a dumb pink heart tattooed onto your ass cheek.  And I didn’t think his reaction was weird at the time, because I felt bad for doing it to my couch, and for proving myself once again to be completely absentminded about things like lids and leaky fluids and a surrounding world of thirsty fabrics.  (Also, my best friend has always had a special place in his heart for furniture and rugs and wall art and lamps, so to commit a crime against a futon was to commit a crime against someone in his family.)

The detergent left a large, soapy, Mountain Breeze scented stain, and he would look for it every time he visited and slept on the couch.

I have taken countless naps on the couch.  I have watched endless epic television on the couch, and endless crappy television.  I slept on it when I was mad at my boyfriend or when I was just too lazy and sleepy to get up and go to bed.  I have stayed up late on the couch, and gotten up early on the couch.  I have sat on the couch while thinking about how great the couch is.

Last fall, the couch uttered a plaintive creak beneath me, more than once, as I innocently curled up on it.  I ignored it for as long as possible, but it’s hard to ignore your couch when it crashes to the floor in pieces under you.  I tried to fit the parts back together.  I got new screws that looked a lot like what I remembered about the original ones.  I used duct tape, Superglue, nails, stacks of crappy books, and rope…and still the whole thing would clatter to the floor, creating a fluffy mattress slide that would just roll me down onto the rug, gently, but firmly, as if the couch was telling me to move on.  Not one to let go of something I love without a bitter fight, I borrowed a power drill and bought a bunch of bracket sets at the hardware store, and though the parts of the couch that were meant to fit together do not even touch, meaning that the only thing holding the couch up is little skinny brass bits, the damn thing has held on and allowed me to enjoy it for just a little longer.

But in September, it will have to go.  And I will miss it, but I will be happy to have one less heavy thing in my life, and I will not buy anything to replace it.

At work on Wednesday night, I looked down at a to-do list someone had left on the desk.  All of the to-do’s were crossed out, so I’m pretty sure that the dog got food and copies of keys were made for the new apartment, but the last one was left un-crossed, and it said, in all caps, “SELL COUCH!”

It is quite possible that, out of all the stuff I own, this couch will be the one thing I miss.

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I work in this uh, library…for uh, children with tit cancer.

The Occasions When It May Be Inappropriate To Blast Lady Gaga’s Just Dance, OR When It Would Be Inappropriate For Lady Gaga To Bust Into The Room And Perform Just Dance

1. At a funeral.

2. At a small child’s funeral.

3. During a movie.  I paid my money.

4. In the waiting room of an abortion clinic.

5. At the scene of a terrible traffic accident.  Brains on the ground and stuff.

6. At the scene of a terrible traffic accident involving two vans full of teenage Vacation Bible School students.  Brains on the ground and stuff.

7. Outside the Holocaust Museum.

8. Next to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

9. In an AIDS clinic.

10. In the hospital, JUST after the doctor tells you you’ve got tit cancer.

Just dance!  Dadadee doo doo!

Today I told a huge lie! But it was only because I wanted something, which makes it okay.

I went to see that shitwad movie The Hangover because Andy Bernard from The Office, or, well, the guy who plays him, was in it.  Total waste of my time and money, of course, because, as it turns out, I’m a little over bachelor party hijinks stories.  Stripper jokes, drug jokes, bare dude butts, drinking jokes, masturbation jokes.  Then the whole dude-your-life-is-over joke.  And all of the girlfriends in these movies are mean assholes anyway.

Wait, but, first…I was handing my ticket to the ticket-ripper girl when I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask what they’re going to do with their giant Harry Potter character posters hanging from the ceiling.  I mean, if they’re just going to throw them out…

So I asked the ticket-ripper girl, who had to summon another girl, who waved over another guy, and pretty soon I was swarmed with Kerasotes employees, who each had a different story for what they do with the movie promo shit when they’re done with it.  The running theme seemed to be that the staff got first dibs, and whatever was left was trashed.  So I tried to appeal to them first.  “Well, see, I work in this…children’s library, see?  In um, Humboldt Park?  And well, we’re a really poor library, and uh, we’re always looking for stuff to put on the walls, to sort of, you know, brighten the kids’ days.”

One girl nodded in sympathy, two girls shuffled away, disinterested once they had been unable to give me a stock answer and get me out of their faces, and one boy whose eyes were looking in two different directions stood next to me and explained that the first girl was going to get the manager, who would be able to tell me exactly what they would be doing with the posters.  That’s when the manager, a tall black man in a green suit, giant black walkie in hand, strode across the spangled carpet to meet me.  “How you doin, ma’am?  My name’s Shelby.  How can I help you?”

I told him about the poor children at the library (which I relocated to the South side), and talked about how it would really just make them so excited about life if they had those posters in their library.  I don’t know if he bought it, but he told me that with any Harry Potter related promotional materials, the theaters were always bound by contract to pack them up and send them back to the movie studio when they were done with them.  “Well, you know how it is with the big movies, Harry Potter and Transformers,” (which I don’t even consider being in the same league or on the same level, but okay) “and people be sellin’ that stuff on eBay and all.”

And here I put my hand on my chest, a bit melodromatically, maybe, but I wasn’t faking, “On eBay??  Really?”

“Oh yeah, oh yeah,” said Shelby.  “People will do that.”

I felt like reassuring Shelby that if any one of these posters was in my possession, I would never, ever, EVER sell it on eBay, or in any other way.  I want them because I want to HAVE them.  So I just said, “Well, that’s too bad…”

That’s when Shelby seemed to soften a little.  “Ay, ay, aaight.  I’ma tell you what you need to do.  Here’s wassup,” he said, coming closer, lowering his voice.  “Everybody be leaving their name and number and stuff, that gets too crazy, you know, so girl, you just come on back and check in every once in a while.  You know, just come on over here after the movie come out, and if they down, ask for me, I’ll see if we can’t do something for you, girl…aaight?  Ay.  My name Shelby.  You ask for me.”

So I smiled an enormous smile, and thanked Shelby for offering to help, and shook his hand.  Then I sat through that stupid 90 minute fart joke they called a movie, and all I could think about the whole time was that giant Snape poster, and how good it was going to look on my bedroom wall.



And what I might have to do to get Shelby to give it to me.

Probably some of the stuff they did in that movie.

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