It seems that my hip has gone bum again, a result from a car wreck long past. And because I hate doctors and their �we�re not sure what�s wrong, but we�ll medicate the bejesus outta ya and see what happens,� I just put up with the limp two or three times a year. Since my blades� wheels currently need a switcharoo and I can�t find the turny-key tool, there�s no temptation to chip off any more cartilage by doing something stupid like blading 11 miles with the Wednesday night group.

This entry isn�t about my slacker hip though. It�s about my first day of work.

I arrived on time and ready to go. The boss gave me some papers, and I made comments in the margin. And I rewrote stuff. And I reformatted stuff. And I did all those other writer things that I�m good at that made them choose me over everyone else for this posh position.

I took off with the boss and a coworker for lunch at Marshall Fields, ate some salad, and talked with them a bit. We yakked about the different restaurants I had tried since moving there, her exclaiming that the team was made up of some serious eaters.

Later in the conversation the coworker mentions that his softball team went out to a nearby bar after a game and got all sloppy on $4 pitchers of Long Island Iced Teas.

So, they�re paying me well to do something I enjoy doing... They�re nice as all heck to me... They�re hooking me up with the mother of all laptops... And you�re telling me that they�re drinkers too!?

ChicagoJo has died and gone to worker�s heaven where she�ll be recognized for her talent, appreciated for her previous experience, paid royally, considered a friend, and never ostracized for her booze consumption!

What more can a girl ask for???

Onto my weekend report now.

My Friday night was all-you-can drink night at Kendall�s. I managed to sport some pleasant alcohol maintenance and not get too drunk that my night was over. After the free-flowing booze was up, my two Stooges and I went to The Apartment for some dancing. I danced like a rockstar and then decided to go home when I had shaken my innards sufficiently. I met some strangers who bought me pizza, and I drunk-typed you this letter to let you know that you were in my thoughts.

I spent Saturday lounging, and I talked on the phone to the fam and some friends. Brian and Lorinda called and we went to a crappy outdoor festival where we paid another $5 to see the same bands we see every weekend, avoided the temptation to drink any $5 glasses of beer, and then sweat like mad because we dumbly wore jeans in 85-degree weather.

Lorina and I bailed, walked back to Brian�s place, and split the bottle of vanilla-flavored Smirnoff that was resting in the freezer. I got a call from Holger, and we headed to Wrigleyville for a BBQ thrown by the Germans.

It was a pretty typical house party, which left Lorinda and me leaning against the wall and drunkenly eating some BBQed vegetables. We were bored, and she left. I was too drunk to stumble the blocks back to her place, so I looked for some Germans that I recognized.

When the super-fun Germans were found, the party suddenly got a lot more fun, and we danced like the drunken fools we are. The cops busted the place (crap -- how old do I have to be before the police stop busting my parties?!), and we stood outside and debated where to go next.

Holger is housesitting this week for an executive architect in his firm, so we stumbled back to his temporary place of residence and made use of the master bedroom in the same way the home�s owners certainly do.

Mind you, they�re old and married: We crashed in the master bed while Holger snored and I drooled.

At 11 o�clock the next morning we skipped hangover-free to Wrigley Field where we shared some brunch and then parted.

I later found myself at the Taste of Randolph with Brian, etc. but left soon after getting there when some band from Dallas started playing. I�m not knocking this band, but I was tired and cranky, and I wanted to go home and clean the place in preparation for my big day at work.

If I�m going to work like an adult, I might as well live in an apartment that appears somewhat adult-like. It�s like cleaning the house head-to-toe right before vacation. It just makes it more pleasant when you come home.

Such is the story of my weekend. This next one holds Pride Fest (where I will hopefully meet, my secret gay-boy crush), and the Taste of Chicago should be coming soon. Sheryl Crow is playing, and I�ll be there rocking out with the longhorn fingers and a bobbing head.

Because, yeah -- If it makes you happy / It can�t be that bad.

I�m glad you all enjoyed the entry, �Other Retarded Things My Dad Has Done.� And although I am truly my father�s daughter, you will not see a list of brainless things I�ve done.

I really think that I need to start my dad his own diaryland site with a special template and allow him to entertain you himself.

Of course, I had better not lose any of the ChicagoJo clique. Every day I logon and write you a little ditty -- a personalized song from my heart -- that speaks only to yours. My rhetoric rocks your ribosomes, and you want me to have your love child, your very own half-you-half-ChicagoJo to love and squeeze and not have to surrender to the second city. You belong to me, and I�m in love with you too.

What am I saying? You�re totally my bitch, and you know you like it.�