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Daley just won his sixth term as da mayor.

Read all about it!

Big win for da Bears! I wonder what they’ll have them do this year? I was 16 when “The Super Bowl Shuffle” came out and yeah, I actually owned this record. Not CD–those didn’t exist back then, kids. The record. This song was on the radio fucking constantly. You could not get away from it–and now I’m not letting any of you get away from it!
edit, 1/23/07: looks like YouTube took this video off their site, or something.

As Brian and I drove home from the gym late this afternoon, I saw a bank sign that said it was 26 degrees out. That’s pretty fucking cold. And yet, we saw like, three people out there riding their bicycles! WTF?????

The only explanation I can think of is that they’re the type who are totally into extreme sports, you know, like those X Games or whatever. I bet they’re also the people I see at the gym who work out in cargo shorts and wear flip-flops in the frickin’ free weight room! Hello! I can accept the cargo shorts thing, but open-toed shoes in the weight room? :s That isn’t exteme insanity, that’s extreme stupidity. And riding your bike in this weather is insane and stupid, so there!

I’m no stranger to hitting objects while driving. I even hit a policeman once (emphasis on “man” because it wasn’t a squad car–see here and here). As I left the gym last Tuesday, I hit an SUV while backing out. Yes, I was on the phone with Brian, but I was at least wearing my headset, which I always do when I drive. Also, the SUV was backed into the spot in which it was parked and was over the yellow line line, partially in my space. Unfortunately, I hit the right, front end near the tire and running board, which wasn’t over the line.

This was the first time I hit a car, and I didn’t know what to do, so I was understandably anxious. Thank God for Klonopin. Brian, who was still on the phone, told me to leave a note explaining what happened and to include our insurance information. Meanwhile, this “witness” fucking cunt busybody on her way to the gym began yelling at me: “You can’t just leave! That’s illegal!” Um, I wasn’t leaving. I was still in my car, foot on the brake, frozen in the position in which I was backing out, shocked. I so didn’t know what to do–I wasn’t going anywhere!

Meanwhile, this bitch continued to screech at me and the parking lot attendant, asking him where the owners were and demanding that I find them. Apparently, they took their kids to the Kids’ Club, which is in a separate building from the gym, so I went inside and told a staff person what happened, and if anyone in a gold Lexus SUV dropped off their kids. She said they did before going to work out, but that neither they, nor the front desk at the health club would have any license plate information. What did she suggest? Leave a note.

Another lady, who had just picked up her child and happened to follow me outside corrected me–nicely–to say that it was actually an Infiniti SUV, “if that helps,” she added. But the fucking douchebag was still there! I told her what the Kids’ Club staff person said, and she screamed that there was no way the owners have kids because there were no car seats in the SUV! WTF? Apparently, I’m a liar now, too. She left a note of her own that I of course read, but she didn’t leave a name and number, and I was surprised she didn’t ORDER them to purchase car seats.

I did exactly what Brian, the Kids’ Club staff person, and the parking attendant suggested–left a note explaining what happened and that included our insurance policy number, name, and phone number. The upside to this (as if there is one, since we’ll have to pay a deductible and Brian’s now jobless) is that the owner was polite and said the car would probably just need a touch-up paint job.

So FUCK OFF AND DIE, you busybody bitch, and learn to mind your own fucking business. You’re lucky I didn’t have a panic attack right then and there, though I’m sure you still would have treated me like I just murdered the SUV owners instead of hitting their car. I hope you get hit by a car and die that way, after you fuck off. Cunt.

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It’s been unseasonably gorgeous here in Chicago–mid-60s at the end of November? Unheard of! So one of my hockey teammates coordinated an impromptu game of kickball at a local park this past Sunday. It was too warm to spend the day indoors, so Brian and I went.

OK, I didn’t actually hurt myself playing kickball. I did it when I hopped over the wrought iron fence nearest to the field where the game was taking place. There were no nearby entrances, you see. Anyway, I fell on the other side, which fortunately consisted of grass rather than concrete. I must have used my left hand to cushion my fall. That wouldn’t be so bad, except that I was wearing my Official Ring of The Ohio State University (in white gold, thank you very much–I hate gold-toned gold). The ring cut a nice line across my finger, but didn’t sever it at least. However, the finger has been swollen for days now, and I’ve been icing it since we got home. I will be utterly devastated if the ring needs to be sawed off. It was a gift from my parents, after all, and a reminder that I managed to finish grad school in spite of my depression.

The next day, Brian lost his job! That has nothing to do with the kickball game, either, which was lots of fun, by the way, but I just thought I’d add that. If you want all the details about his job loss, you’ll have to register since it’s a private post. You can read more about my private posts here.