If These Walls Could Talk

Remember Oliver? Of course you do.

Yesterday morning I was in the bathroom admiring my overgrown eyebrows (appt with the all mighty Leticia is today) when I thought I heard something… some strange noise coming from the kitchen. Weird. I listened for a bit but didn’t hear it again.

A few minutes later I was demonstrating my culinary genius by toasting English muffins (3 lovely ww points, thank you very much) when I heard the noise again… this time coming from the bathroom. I made Kike step away from whatever he was doing at his computer and listen for the weird noise. Of course he heard nothing. He went back to making fun of livejournal and I went back to burning muffins.

And then I heard it again. This time louder and scratchy.

“KIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIKE please come back, please.”

He got to the kitchen just in time to hear something scurry between the kitchen wall and the bathroom wall.

It was alive. And stuck between the walls.

Every few minutes we would hear the scurry of claws while the animal moved from one area to the other. It sounded pretty big and we could hear pieces of the wall falling. It would bump about pretty hard. It didn’t sound like a rat. Rats aren’t that heavy. Whatever it was, it was moving things and taking up SPACE.

Kike wondered if the guy that lives above us got a dog and we were just hearing it scurry about on the hard wood floors above us. This seemed sort of logical. It didn’t quite explain why the noise was moving from the floor to the ceiling, but you know… I believe in the power of optimism.

I came up with the brilliant idea of going upstairs and asking the gentleman if he A) recently acquired an animal and B) if not, did he hear the polar bear fussing about in the wall. I marched up the stairs. I was certain I could find the answer.

So I knocked on his door. TAP TAP TAP. I couldn’t hear any animals running around the joint. I could sort of hear the gentle sounds of someone moving, but nothing with fur or four legs. I was sort of annoyed he was ignoring me. I’m right here TAPPING away at your door. Come ask me what I want. I’m not selling anything or inviting you to some lame holiday party. JUST ANSWER THE DOOR.

And then I remember something.

He’s deaf.

So… he really had no idea I was at this door AND he would have no clue if a yeti monster was living in the wall.

I went back downstairs to tell Kike I couldn’t quite depend on the deaf neighbor and we’ve been watching too much Lost.

Kike was busy listening to our new pet run around in the frame of our apartment. We didn’t know what to do… so… we just left. We figured the bear would either find its way out or make comfy on our bed after busting through the wall. Either way, I was pulling for the thing, I really was. I didn’t really want to share my bed with any more creatures but if something growls, I listen. And if it was a polar bear I was hoping it was the cute one that does Coke commercials. He seems jolly and the added value of a roommate that works for Coke is nice.

I called the management company when I got to work. “Hiiiiiiiiii… This is Jo… I have A FREAKIN’ BEAR IN MY WALL!” I left that as a message because the answering machine answered. They never did return my call. Interesting. Management company may think I’m crazzzzzy. Now that I think about, I normally get the answering machine. Perhaps they avoid me all together?

When we got home from work we both tip-toed in. I pushed Kike in first and figured this was as good as any time for him to learn “dudes go first in cases of animals in your apartment”. We walked around a bit like clever ninjas. I freaked when I tripped on a mound of dirty clothes thinking the bear was eating me alive and Kike scoped out the kitchen. No animals.

So… I don’t know where the furry friend went. I hope it got out and is eating various animals at the Lincoln Park Zoo (soooo… that’s why they keep dying). I hope it didn't die or as my friend Wang suggested get "eaten by a larger animal in the wall... like an orca".

I wish it well and hope we never ever meet again.

Goodbye polar bear… or squirrel… or Shamu… or whatever you were. I’ll miss you.

I Am a Sex Addict

I sure fancy the film fest. It's fantastic!

Last night we saw I Am a Sex Addict.

I give this film two shockers up. Now... I just need to figure out if that's a good thing. All thumbs (which are never useless in shockerville) point to yes.

One of my co-workers asked me how I picked which films I wanted to see. She claimed the brochure was overwhelming and she wanted to know if I used any specific methods. I sort of blanked. Do I tell her the truth? Or do I make something up? I did neither and ran away claiming the need to use stall #1.

The truth is... I'm a shallow pig when it comes to picking out film fest movies. I always pick one movie randomly. It's always foreign and makes me feel smartz. I always pick one movie the critics tell me to see. I also go to at least one shorts presentation because I have the attention span of a fruit fly. And then... well...

I always pick one movie with the promise of hot women, lots of boobies, possible wang, and dirty dirty sex. This year I went for maximum nipple exposure in the brochure listing the movies and ended up with tickets to see I Am a Sex Addict.

While the film wasn't all that erotic, it had plenty of boobies and a playful hint of wee willy wang. All of that aside, the movie was funny, painfully honest (especially if you've ever dated someone that tried to convince you them fucking other people will help your relationship), and terribly charming.

If you ever get a chance, please watch this film. And when you're done... let me know if you got a prostitute. I didn't but I told at least 12 I needed to think about it.*


*I was joking. I'd never pay for sex.

I HEART JOGGING

As most of you are aware, I’m currently doing Weight Watchers. It’s going fine. I’m only on week two and week one was amazingly successful. I’ve done WW in the past and have always been happy with the results (just a tip to the fine folks in the Midwest… for the love of god and all that is holy and moly, never, ever, under any circumstances look at the nutritional value of the menu items at Culvers.)

Anyway… that’s not really what I’m writing about. All you need to know for this blog post is… I’m fat.

I’ve always been a porker. Sort of. There were a few years in high school I was a serious dancer and took to starving myself and throwing up lunches. I gave that up after my boobs started to shrink. Gotta love the healthy self image. But for most of my life, I’ve been chubby. It’s because of this that I’ll never understand why my mom did the following:

Let me take you back to my four year old portrait. My mom always got really great pictures taken of her children when they were young. Beautiful portraits. I really admire her for doing that. Or maybe I hate her. I haven’t decided. Most of my pictures are really fun and pretty. But year four things got sketchy. I’m not sure what I did to piss her off, but she got me back. Hardcore. First, I had a Dorothy Hamill bowl cut. Awesome. It really brought out my double chin. Thanks Mom! But wait… it gets worse.

I had a cute little jogging suit on. And across the breast pocket it said…

I Heart Jogging

WHO PUTS A FAT KID IN A JOGGING SUIT THAT SAYS “I HEART JOGGING?”

FOR EVERYONE TO ENJOY FOR ETERNITY?

I’m not kidding when I say I looked like a 50 year old man from south side Chicago. The only thing that picture seems to say is “I Heart Fried Foods and Beer” and all the jogging suit is missing is a pack of smokes rolled in the sleeve.

All this blog post is missing is a scanned copy for your viewing pleasure.

Over. My. Dead. Body.