Ugh. I want to cook all the damned time. I don’t even always want to eat it – I just want make, shape, design, CREATE all the time. I could list a million reasons why I can’t wait to purchase a house (soon… soon) but the two biggest ones would have to be a yard (for the garden to grow vegetables that I can cook more things with, of course… oh, and the dog… can’t forget the big dog) and a kitchen that I can make my very own. Being forced to use an electric stove is absolutely killing me. Then again, not always having the budget to go and buy all the fancy (or even basic) foods needed to make anything is a problem too. But eh, I’m going grocery shopping later this week and I don’t care if it means cashing in all my savings bonds, I’m going to buy everything I need to make a few decent meals. As yummy and as convenient as they may be, one cannot live off yogurt, diet root beer and Polish chocolate candy bars alone. So, I took the plunge today and went ahead and applied to the Culinary Institute here in Chicago. If I qualify for financial aid, I’ll start in June. This works out well because I’ll have my AHP/CNA certification in mid-March and then I’ll be able to work in a hospital to support myself through culinary school. Of course, this all sounds good on paper (PC?) but whether or not it’ll all work out in the end… well, only time will tell. But for now, it’s the plan that fits my life the best and it’s something that I’ve wanted to do since I got out of high school and it’s high time I went ahead and tried something new, no? Even if I do horrible and drop out or I do quite well but can’t find a damned job to save my life once I graduate, at least I’ll have the experience and the skills to fulfill my life (and the Significant Other’s and anyone else I cook for) needs.

Speaking of school, my instructor is now officially insane. This woman is a freaking riot and it’s not even intentional. She was talking about how to dress for job interviews and she blurts out “and don’t go wearing those tummy-showing (she’s a 50 year old Filipino – her English leaves a lot to be desired) shirts, you know, like you are going to a kegger, whatever that is”. Then it’s on to male reproductive organs. “The man, he has a penis and a testicle. Testes. Testicles, actually, ‘cause he has two them. At least most of the time. You know, the little balls, the testes? They hang between the legs by the penis. So man has testes and woman don’t. Okay?” Yeah. Like I said, insane. I’m not even going to start about how she discusses her colonoscopy and beginning of menopause with the class.

My tattoo itches like a motherfucker. The new tattoo, that is. About a week ago, the S.O. went to get his tattoo fixed (he had to have The Sex Toy Stealer’s (I will have a cast up soon) name removed from his tattoo and he also got a few things touched up) and since I was there, I decided to get something done myself. Mind you, I already had something in mind that I wanted and I went ahead and talked to the artist about it. He made me up a rather nice sketch but in the end, wanted 300 bucks for it (but he quoted 250 eventually) and that was just a little more than what I was looking to pay so I saved it and one of these days, I’ll get myself back there. But in the meantime, I have my lovely one now and it’s quite nice, if not extremely itchy. The bitch of it all is that it’s on my back (smack dab in the middle of the shoulder blades) so number one, it’s constantly being irritated by the tags of my shirts and number two, scratching it proves to be more than a little interesting. Plus, well, I really shouldn’t be scratching it so all I really do is rub it very softly until the urge to peel my skin away is gone. If nothing else, it’s definitely made me glad I’m not a person who sleeps on my back. I prefer my side or stomach over anything else and if it’s gonna be the side, it has to be facing the wall (my bed is in the corner of the room – I get the inside, he gets the outside – it works) with my body pillow and stuffed bear (bears, actually, counting mine and the one he gave me and, well, my stuffed dog... yeah, I’m such a mature woman, huh?) all smooshed in between me and aforementioned wall. I suppose the funniest part is that even though I fall asleep that way, I generally wake up on my other side, twisted up in the covers, strewn all over him. It’s all fair though because he’s more than willing to wake me up from a deep sleep to inform me that I’m “Snoring really loud and I can’t get back to sleep now that I woke up and had to pee”. Ah, love aka the subconscious urge to make someone wallow in misery with you versus going at it alone.

Speaking of bed, we got bunches (well, two but I plan to get more) of sheet sets at Target yesterday. For some reason (maybe because it’s almost February which means it’s almost spring, at least in the eyes of the same overeager retailers who start selling Christmas decorations immediately after the Fourth of July) Target had most of their flannel and fleece bedding on sale so they had queen size Woolrich flannel sheet sets on clearance for 12.49. That’s twelve dollars and forty nine freaking cents, people. These things are normally 25 bucks and that’s just at Target, usually I pay about 35 bucks for semi-decent queen size sheets. They also had most of their pajamas on clearance so I got a pair of flannel pajamas for the extremely cold nights that we seem to be having lately (we’re having a heat wave tonight – low is a nice and balmy 16!). We also picked up a two liter of the new Diet Coke with Lime. I, of course, knew at first glance that I’d love it. The S.O. wasn’t 100% sure (and still isn’t, if you ask me) but approved of it once he had a sip. Now my only problem is that I’m sure now that I admitted I liked it, it’ll do horrible and they’ll take it off the market in a month. Sigh. Anyway, after the trip to Target, it was decided that I needed more P.J.’s so we stopped at Wal-Mart and I got a nightgown and some men’s knit pajama pants (8 bucks for the men’s versus 11 bucks for women’s – psh, I wasn’t born yesterday). They also had huge bags of kettle corn for a buck so that was thrown into the cart as well. I can’t remember what else and this is sounding a little bit too much like the website of the guy that used to post his Wal-Mart recipets so I’m going to change the subject now.

The Ex Roommate (not to be confused with The Ex Lesbian Roommate) is officially off the lease. Talk about your fucking drama. I got a phone call earlier today from a detective with the Oak Brook police department. The thing that concerned me was that I don’t KNOW anyone from Oak Brook. I live in a different town. My parents live in a different town. All my friends live in different towns. The S.O. lives with me. The only person that I have any connection to in Oak Brook is The Ex Roommate who works there. So, I was very confused when I get this message saying “Please call us back”. Now even though I didn’t know anyone other than The Ex Roommate in Oak Brook, I couldn’t shed the nagging feeling that she was the one behind this mysterious phone call. I finally call them back and I speak with the detective and it turns out that The Ex Roommate claims I’m harassing her by calling her and having my family and The S.O. call her. Needless to say, I told the detective the same thing that I would’ve told anyone else if they’d accused me of harassment – pull the god damn phone records. Prove it, buddy. He said he didn’t want to have to do that but I went one better, I told him I’d have my own records pulled and sent to him. The only times I’ve called the woman is when I was instructed to do so by my leasing office because SHE couldn’t pay rent and their exact words were “You signed the lease with her, not us – YOU call her”. So that’s exactly what I told the detective and I went ahead and provided him with the number for the leasing office manager who I had a looooong discussion with about all the legalities involved with calling her (call only once a day, always leave a voicemail, make sure you state the purpose of the call on the voicemail, etc…) and also with the hospital administrator. Oh god, the hospital. I was in the ER a few weeks ago (most of you know what for, if not, feel free to email me and I’ll give you the details) and this just so happened to be the same ER that The Ex Roommate’s mother worked at. But she wasn’t working that day (or at least if she was, she never came in contact with me or was involved in any of my medical care) and so I went ahead and got the treatment that I needed and went on. About a week later The Ex Roommate and her mother showed up for a meeting at the leasing office and I was in the middle of explaining to the leasing office that I was having health issues and she NEEDED to pay her rent because I can’t afford it on my own (he’s not on the lease so his income can’t be brought into discussion) when her mother pipes in with “You were just in the hospital last week, they wouldn’t have sent out the bill yet”. So, of course, I turn around and ask her “How did YOU know I was in the hospital?”. She fed me some line of bullshit about A. (from Communications who now works in the ER) telling her. Well, I didn’t buy that one bit so I called the hospital and filed a complaint because she was in MAJOR violation of HIPAA. I mean, come on, there was a reason I signed that nice little 5 page pamphlet that says the hospital will protect my privacy and my rights and not let anyone other than the medical professionals INVOLVED IN MY CARE access my records. So the hospital and emergency room administrator called me today and apologized profusely for what happened and informed me that they have taken “all the necessary actions and the employee has been reprimanded” and all sorts of other mumbo jumbo. The funny thing though (and the administrator even agrees with me) is that on the day they find out that she was indeed looking at my records (gotta love computers) and they inform her that they know, her daughter goes and files a harassment complaint. Retaliation much? But she’s off the lease and she can get in deep shit if she shows up here ever again and the lock is set to be rekeyed tomorrow and then everything will be final. It’s nice because now we have the spare bedroom to mess around with. It’ll either become a guestroom or a library/den of sorts, not sure which yet. The only thing that bugs me is she stole my damned Winnie The Pooh comforter that I lent her. But hey, she reads this diary (hey, since I can’t call her, why not address it here? It’s not harassment since she shouldn’t be reading it if she didn’t want to hear what I had to say. The same goes triple in spades for ex wives and their best friends who can’t seem to keep their mouths off other people’s husband’s cocks. Don’t check someone’s history and go to a webpage and then bitch when they write about you or the stupid shit you do or, god forbid, read yours and link to it and then let people tell you just what sad fuckups you really are) so maybe I should just broach the subject here. I would greatly appreciate it if my comforter was returned to me but if she’s unable to return it to me, it’s all right .I understand that she’s probably unable to purchase her own comforter right now, what with living with her parents who are living with THEIR parents and all. So I’ll move on, if I have to. Hell, I’ve already had to deal with the red tank top and sex toys that went miraculously missing after a certain someone moved into my old apartment. I guess I’m just destined to a life of people taking shit that doesn’t belong to them (tank tops, comforters, microwaves, boyfriends).

Spud was joking with me after I was telling her about The Ex Roommate situation and she called it “Drama in the City”. I think I’ve found myself a new title for the page. Christ, my playlist (the wallpaper is Mandy, Steve sends me pictures on a fairly regular basis – isn’t she a doll?) is fucked up. I’m reminded of an entry that I read awhile back about disk transitions. I generally am quite fond of keeping up a “theme” of sorts with my playlists and CD’s. I have my country CD’s and I have my rap CD’s and I have my Tori playlists and I have my blues playlists. But this one, man, this one is just plain fucked up. Who the hell mixes Nina Simone with Eminem with Pat Green with Toad The Wet Sprocket with Dusty Springfield? Spud does, apparently (psh, but that’s because of PM – dear god, I wonder if Eric even remembers PM!) but I would venture a guess that not too many other people do. I’ve been on a rather large Keith Urban kick for the last few, well, months. As soon as I get around to it, I want to get his latest CD and also, Dave Navarro’s. I downloaded both CD’s ages ago but they’re so good, I want to buy them (yeah, I’m one of those morons that actually buy the CD if it’s good enough even though I can burn the whole thing myself) and have them in my personal collection. For Christmas, we went to Best Buy with the cards my parents got us and got the Ryan Adams “Love Is Hell”, Parts One and Two (in addition to “Rock N Roll” that I gave him as a gift) and Leona’s new one plus Dido’s “Life For Rent” and then “Igby Goes Down” on DVD. I want to go back one of these days and get the two CD’s I mentioned plus a new Xbox controller since the spare one is busted all to shit. I want, I want, I want… Wah. Anyway, all I want right now is to crawl into my flannel pajamas and then crawl in between my flannel sheets and fade into a nice and peaceful slumber.

before & after