Elevators (also narcissim)

I had "pre-screening" today for a job--what I thought would be a half hour interview turned into me taking "personality questionaires" for two bloody hours. The upshot is I now know I am a good team worker and an "energizer" (whatever the hell that means) the bad part is now they probably think I'm a puffed up prat with an inflated sense of her own self-worth and an anal retentive tendency to need to be in charge. Oh. Wait. Curse my powers of self-esteem! Well, wish me luck--working for a publishing company would be cool.

Every time I go anywhere in this city it's an adventure...I just wish that I wasn't having these "adventures" every time I get on the damn bus after work. In Chicago, the bus signs tell you where the bus route ends, with a vague idea what street it runs on. So the 151 Sheridan--you'd think it runs on Sheridan, right? Sure, after about a forty-minute meander up Lake Shore Drive. I'm not saying London is better* but I will point out that ALL the bus stops in London have a map showing EXACTLY where the bus will go, how long it takes to get there, and clearly indicates whether it runs all night or not. And London has about three gazillion buses. Come on Chicago. It's not that hard.

But I did get to go past all the condos on Lake Shore drive, and I also had plenty of time to ponder whether or not I'd like to live in one. Well, it would be nice to have a view of the Lake, but I'm not sure that paying half a million dollars to live in a shoebox for the privilege is worth it. Chicago is a city of elevators. As a temp, I have been inside a LOT of them lately--maybe I should write a book. The best ones I've seen so far are the ones at 35 East Wacker: gotta love the Imperial imagery. (and by "Imperial" I mean "Napoleonic" of course.)

Meanwhile, it's 90 degrees here, and I'm cursing whatever gods thought up humidity. Honestly. This *sucks.* In a fit of passion (or heatstroke) I finally took a scissors to my bangs--fringe! Fringe, it's fringe, it were cut in Britain, so it's fringe--took a scissors to it anyway, and the result is sort of a cross between a 1970s fashion model and my ten year old self.



How do I know what my ten year old self looked like? 'Cause not only do I like to write about myself, take photos of myself, but I also like to scan old pictures of myself that I have lying around. (please note the book!)




PS: Don't worry Peter, Brenda--I promise to get a real haircut by July 20th. I want puppy pictures!

*West Ham rulz!