I’m not sure how I feel about Gap constantly emailing me that I recently earned some rewards dollars with their credit card. (Yes, I have a Gap credit card. When entering the working world, it saved me a $hit ton of money when professionalizing my wardrobe.) I earned these “rewards” by putting a giant charge on the card from the vet hospital that, in the end, still didn’t save my beloved basset hound.

Oh, since not updating for like months, Neil and I have gotten engaged & we had to put down Fergus Jackson, aged 14 months. So much happiness and so much sadness.

It’s almost lotion season.

And by that, I mean it’s almost that time of year that I wish I carried lotion with me, but I don’t, so I just sit around lamenting my dry, chapped hands and trying to hide them from those to which I need to remain professional. Maybe this year will be that turning point year, the year I become an adult and realize that picking my skin flakes is not an appropriate thing to do in public.

Sometime in the next week, I’ll be finding a place to live in Des Moines and moving there before starting my new job next Monday. This post could be filled with the tribulations of packing and finding someone to take over my lease, but that’s been done. It’s oddly similar to what I blogged about exclusively about three months ago. I could wax poetic about how if you’re unhappy in your life, you should just change it, though I’m not sure I yet qualify as the grand authority on that. I am over the moon about my new position, though if it hadn’t have happened to come available when it did, I’d probably still be at my desk job, secretly loathing my life and this city. That brings me to something I think about often, how I could just speak honestly about how much I don’t love Chicago. I don’t hate it, but I’ve never liked it. There are many cities in this world to which I could give my heart, but The Windy City has never been one of them. I realize this is blasphemy to the dozens of people I personally know who would bleed for their city. That’s great for them, it’s just not for me. I’m certainly not running back to Des Moines because that’s a place I couldn’t live without, but having been away for a bit does make me appreciate it a heck of a lot more than when I had just graduated.

So, for now, I’ve got nothing. This might also very, very possibly be my last post here & I might just switch on over to BrittneyW.com. I probably won’t post any more frequently, but what’s the point of owning your domain name if you’re not using it? (Now the link isn’t working, great. Well, it exists.)

And now, I leave you with this little gem: What To Do When You Disagree With a Blog Post. It’s hilarious and speaks to everyone who has at least one blog troll (their word, not mine, but I kind of like it.) See you all back in the 515!

One year ago tomorrow, somewhere on a quaint farm in Iowa (at least that’s what I was told) a young basset hound was born. I don’t really want to think of what that would have looked like, but at least he’s pretty cute now. Happy first birthday to Fergus Jackson, still very much a puppy, yet much larger and hairier and louder and bigger than before.

Tonight Roomie Lauren (yet no longer roomie anymore, sad) and her mom came by to bestow basset birthday treats from Wigglyville. Ok, they’re actually in town for the Paul McCartney show at Wrigley and also graciously bought me dinner, BUT– they also brought Fergus bacon treats and a squeaky plastic beer bottle. He’s pretty oblivious to both and instead is really fascinated by the empty Muscle Milk container he found on a walk outside.

On a completely unrelated puppy birthday note, many of my peers got married this past month. Yeesh.

Something about the horrid heatwave goes here.

I bought the world’s biggest zucchini at the Farmer’s Market today for one dollar. Holler.

RHYME.

After work today I attended a J-School alumni event downtown that was surprisingly great. At first I wasn’t going to attend because of my social awkwardness and inability to maintain any sort of professional eye contact that doesn’t make me feel like a creep, but it’s not like I’ve got much else going on.

On Friday, everyone in our office gets to leave work at noon and go to a rooftop for the Cubs game! Not only is it my first one ever, but I’m excited for the unlimited food and drink portion of the seating location as well.

One of my fellow PRSSA-ers doing some sick internship says in her Facebook status that Ryan Gosling wrote her a love letter this evening while she was hob-nobbing at an event. I’m not a huge fan of The Notebook, but color me jelly belly.

I’m getting bored of blogging (not that I’m exactly imparting a lot of deep life wisdom here.) I need a new angle. Nacho Lindsay is truly an inspiration. Jalapeno Popper Brittney doesn’t really have the same ring. Not to mention I feel all jalapeno poppers come out of the same industrial-sized freezer bag– the only thing that varies sometimes is cook time and type of frying oil.

Also, my hair looks like poop. I realize that is not the professional term, but it’s in an awkward “I’m too cheap for a haircut and I’m trying to grow out my bangs” stage. Ahhhh– Ryan and Simple Jack, I mean Kyle, on “Teen Mom” just met each other. Their semi-staged life events are far more important than mine.

If you want to know how the Britney Spears/ Nicki Minaj concert was on Friday night, just read this review in the Chicago Tribune. It says exactly everything Neil and I thought about it. It’s not that it was a bad show, but Britney really seemed to be phoning it in. If she truly doesn’t enjoy performing anymore, I hope the powers that be stop trying to milk her for cash after this tour and let her live her life.

The older I get, the more I realize I just want to bake for the rest of my life. I think I would be completely happy working in a Hy-Vee bakery right now.

Happy Father’s Day to the best dad I’ve got, referred to in some circles as Papa K. In fourth grade, he was the first person to ever paint my toenails. He took me to Legally Blonde 2 (bless him- what a terrible cinematic experience that was.) In second grade, he took me out of school for an afternoon to go shopping for Christmas dresses. He sent me flowers at school on opening day of the play in which I was the lead. Sophomore year of college, he same day express shipped mini liquor bottles, brownie mix, and a card that said “Fuck him” after my first boyfriend broke up with me.

My father is also the person who caught me smoking in high school, questioned my 2 am drunk dials to a boy he referred to as Skateboard Loser when they showed up on my cell phone bill, and still puts the fear of God in my heart whenever he summons me to his basement office.

Sorry I can’t be home today, Dad. I’m over here trying to put your 22 years of advice into something resembling a grown up life. I’ll come back soon so we can split some kettle corn and watch your favorite Tosh.0 clips. Love ya.

If I were to ever get a tattoo- which is not at all likely since I can’t wrap my head around the permanence of one– it may very well be a quote from The Departed (which is for surely my favorite movie, and yes, we’re watching it right now.)

So far I’m thinking, “No one gives it to you, you’ve gotta take it.”

…though I do enjoy, “How’s your mother?” “She’s on her way out.” “We all are- act accordingly.”

In retrospect, I could just write a post on all the best lines from this cinematic masterpiece, though you could also just visit IMDB for that.

Someone found my blog by searching “stupid blonde German bitch.” Yes.

The day of my commencement was spent not actually attending the (what was later described as) painfully long, dull three hour ceremony, but rather bathing da Fergs, festooning a strapless dress from freshman year into a passable shirt, and hanging out with multiple surrogate families. (I told mine to stay home since I wasn’t actually walking; we’ll celebrate together this coming weekend.) I tagged along with Roomie Lauren’s hilarious, wonderful kin to lunch and lots of celebratory shots. Later, NPH’s family came and we all went to dinner, ate cake, and discussed the housing situation in the greater Chicagoland area for a while. The rest of the night was spent much more tame than you’d imagine for having something so large to celebrate, but it was raining and frankly, after doing this for nearly four years, my body is quite tired. Perhaps why, after a relatively productive Monday, the first of “summer,” the first in the awkward but glorious time between school and starting work in the real world, I got sick. It hurts. I am beyond cranky. It’s some sort of sinus thing that has manifested itself in my lungs. It burns. Did I mention I’m cranky? Knowing that my mother will straight up murder me if I dare be ill during the many graduation festivities she has planned for this weekend, I’ve been taking it easy and laying around, drinking tea, and texting outrageous soup demands to NPH every hour on the hour.

I read Tina Fey’s Bossypants in one sitting on Friday, and Portia de Rossi’s Unbearable Lightness in one stretch yesterday. I cannot wait to get my grubby little mitts on Steven Tyler’s autobiography that just came out this month.

See, Roomie Lauren– I didn’t even once mention your hot older brother in this post!

Easter was wonderful. Candy and sugar need to get out of my life, but sadly, they’ve become even more of a presence.

Today I stopped traffic braking for two ducks crossing the street. I’ve seen them fly, but apparently they felt like getting some exercise across Dodge St. I figured Fergus had terrorized them in 713’s backyard enough that I’d let them take their time.

I had two interviews last week, yahoo! I’m excited about both positions, though they’re very different. Now we play the waiting game.

Today (before said duck-saving traffic incident) I got my hair cut. Yeah. I haven’t had it cut in a very long time, and this weekend I figured, “Oh what the hey, I’ll just take off some inches.” I suppose it’ll just take some getting used to. I don’t hate it, though it makes me feel a lot younger, and it definitely doesn’t look like what I had in mind. I went in using this photo as a reference:

HOT, right?! I'm not even a fan of hers, but you gotta admit-- that's good hair.

Now I realize I’m not blonde and I don’t have those cheekbones and I have bangs and I don’t part my hair down the middle and I don’t have Tracy Anderson kicking my ass every day and making sure I only ingest 800 calories, but still. Here’s what we’re now working with:

Yes, this is the only semi decent photo in an unnecessarily long photo shoot because I was disgusted by every picture.

A side shot, just for reference. Because you all want to know EXACTLY what my hair looks like now.

Sigh. I suppose now I’ll end and go buy a handle of Smirnoff and a pack of Camel Lights so I can feel older than the 14 years I currently look to be.