Pictures

Down in Florida for the All-Military Soccer Tournament.


Bears first touchdown at McGinny's.


Last minute ski trip to Colorado. Night skiing at Keystone.

Nothing Degrees

One of the worst things about single digit temperatures is the overwhelming presence of immortalized dog pee. All over the sidewalks of my neighborhood there are small patches of yellow ice…petrified urine streams…marked territory frozen in time. You can see the distinct point where the warm flow began to freeze and the stream halted on the lower slope of the sidewalk. It makes a shape like a blob and I have no idea why I’m still writing details. But just think, someone, somewhere at sometime has slipped on frozen dog pee. What a bummer.

Of course the worst thing about single digit temperatures is single digit temperatures. I mean it is so damn cold that whenever I go outside a small ball of anger slowly grows inside me and pushes its way out in the form of tears. Why leave the house? Because it’s a competition between you and nature, clearly you are losing but you can’t get the obligatory “participate” ribbon (which is always purple) if you don’t compete!

And speaking of losing, nothing is more depressing than seeing 200 Bears fans looking across the bar at you like little kids who just hurt themselves and they are waiting for your reaction in order to decide whether they will cry or not. Well, they chose to cry and fortunately for me and my wallet, the band-aid was beer. Hooray emotional drinking!

Well I’m off to Kansas to stay with Todd for a while. I quit the bar, sublet my apartment and when I return to Chicago, I intend to find myself a full time job and see how that tickles my fancy.

D. Riggs

Small thing: The effectiveness of squeegees, very satisfying.

A long lost blog

I am a bad driver. I spent a long vacation back in Omaha this holiday so it was inevitable that I would eventually have to drive. In Chicago, I’ve learned to love my driveless lifestyle. I would go as far to say that I would be okay never driving again.

So anyway, I get behind the wheel to venture to Blockbuster to feed my new Grey’s Anatomy addiction, and as it turns out, I’m now the asshole who 1) cuts in front of people because I only get more indecisive when uncomfortable 2) who wonders why everyone is flashing their lights at me only to find my lights were off the entire drive as I pull in the driveway and 3) (the cardinal rule that you never break) who drives slower than the speed limit! I’m so disappointed. The “like riding a bike” factor did not come into play.

I remember when I was first learning to drive. My dad took me out in the Plymouth Voyager (if you’re picturing a mini-van with fake wood panel siding you would be correct), minutes before the end of some Husker game that they were shamelessly losing and then miraculously won in the final seconds. It’s pretty regular for my dad to turn off the TV when he has given up on the team; he makes an “ahherg” noise and shuts it off as he walks out of the room. It’s not particularly because he’s a huge Husker fan, but I think it’s maybe because it’s not an efficient use of his time to watch a bad game.

So we’re driving around a parking lot and my thigh begins to cramp and I ask my dad if that’s normal. He looks at my foot and realizes I’m not resting my heel on the ground; I have my toes on the pedal and have been holding up my heel the whole time. Sometimes I think that until about two years ago, I wasn’t very smart because I recall stories like that and I ask myself, “Where’s the common sense Diana?”

Now, I exercise the utmost amount of common sense. Like at my friend Nick’s birthday party when I did a handstand in the bar, I’m like the smartest person I know.

To all my genius friends and family,

D.Riggs

Small Thing: When I pour a Guinness correctly and someone notices.

It's All In Your Head

My dreams are out of control. Last night, I was working at my bar (in my dream) and a crazy gunman shot me in my temple. I had pulled one of those “you don’t have the guts to shoot me,” stunts and the little punk blew my head off (sorry for the graphics). Of course as dreams would go, I suddenly was a super stealthy police agent and I had secretly dodged the bullet and used a fake blood packet to pretend I got shot (so much for watching Miami Vice before I go to bed).

The other night I had a dream that I cheated on Todd. The actual act, or in fact guy, were not present in the dream, but in this bizarre world, cheating was illegal and I was going to get arrested. I must say I took it very well. A couple nights ago, I dreamed Chicago was a bunch of islands with about three skyscrapers on each. It was always nighttime and the sky was filled with huge elementary-school looking stars. You know the ones you drew with two triangles…one upside down and one right side up. Oh! I just realized that is the Star of David, crazy.

I’ve always had many dreams and very weird ones. I thought I read somewhere that dreams were just thoughts or memories re-organizing themselves in you brain (when I think about that, I always imagine two shelves on each side of my brain with books flying back and forth between them).

And why do people talk in their sleep and others don’t? When I was young, I used to be really embarrassed about talking in my sleep at camps, sleepovers, etc. When my friends would wake me up laughing, I would get really defensive and upset. One of my camp counselors told me that I was really smart because not only could I talk when I was awake, but when I was asleep too. I’ve considered using this impressive skill on my resume.

I’ve started keeping a dream journal. If anything, I’ve found that it helps me distinguish reality from dreams. You know when you have those moments walking down the street and suddenly a memory pops up and you think, “was that a dream?” (So many of you are saying, umm…no). Well, happy dreaming everyone!

D.Riggs

Small Thing: Geico Caveman commercials

Key West Pictures

Watch out, Odie bites!


Why on earth the crew trusted three drunkards to steer the boat is beyond me. I'm sorry Anne, I had to do it...I love this picture!


Kim and me on the "beach."

Open Call for Work

My first job was bagging groceries at an Airforce Base Commissary. I was self-employed, earned an average of 25 cents a bag, and worked about 10 hours a week. It was fun…like playing Tetris with food and brown bags (if you were anal like me and wanted everything to fit perfectly). Then there was underage beer cart girl at Willow Lakes, secretary (administrative assistant (file bitch)) for “Kiewit Construction, this is Diana.” 9 p.m. to 5 a.m. clothes folder at the horrific Abercrombie & Fitch, lifeguard at the world’s smallest pool (Leslie I can hear you laughing), front desk at a Women’s Gym called Curves before there was Curves, server at Brewsky’s, barista at Crescent Moon, caterer at the Cornhusker Hotel, master of the martini at Zen’s: The Art of Martini Maintenance (I’m not kidding, that was the name), bartender at Cliff’s Lounge, the greatest dive in Lincoln, all-knowing and powerful Birkenstock “specialist” at Footloose and Fancy, cashier at The Daily Drip, Irashaimase! server at Sushi Japan, junior copywriter at SKAR Advertising, the shortest lived hostess in history at Wave in the W Hotel (ahh! Secret shopper!), yet another intern copywriter for Two X Four Communications, and finally at present day I’m the world’s best bartender at McGinny’s Tap. I make opening a bottle of Miller Lite look easy, it’s pretty amazing.

Now if that isn’t the most impressive resume for emperor of my own private island, I don’t know what is. Any day now, I should get the call. Yep, any day. Could be tomorrow, could be next week.

But in the meantime, if any of my fine friends would like to throw out any ideas of what I might be qualified for, I’m very open. Make note that I can also stand on my hands for an extended period of time, put up Christmas decorations, and make creamy roasted red pepper soup.

Hope everyone is having a Happy Holiday Season!

D.Riggs

Small Thing: Cheesy jokes. What do you call a deer with no eyes? I have no idear. Hehe.

Halloween/Birthday Pictures

Magic 8 Ball and Rubix cube shouting out to the eighties.


Sexy Ninja spitting game on Sexy Cop.


Birthday karaoke! Introducing the Asian Kevin Bacon rocking Footloose!


"I Will Survive" Gap ad.

It's Just a Penny

I was standing in line at Dunkin’ Donuts the other day for my billionth cup of coffee and when the man in front of me received his change, he dropped a penny. I said, “Excuse me sir, you dropped your penny,” and he shrugged and did that little flip of the wrist that says, “It doesn’t matter" (or in some cases says you're flamboyantly gay). What’s that about? Are you too good for the penny? It took at least another minute for his donut and coffee to arrive thus giving him plenty of time to pick it up and a little too much time to look like a jackass (in my opinion). After he walked away, I picked up the penny and put it in the tip jar.

I think there is a divide among people; those that pick up pennies and those that don’t. Separating these two groups even more are the reasons behind the decision to pick up or not to pick up. Maybe the man was embarrassed to publicly make it known that he needs a penny, that he is financially unstable. Maybe he thought that someone else deserved it and leaving it was his way of giving charity. Maybe he was Michael Jordan and mathematically speaking, it really wasn’t worth his time to pick up the penny (although I should hope I don’t think Jordan is a short white guy).

I will admit, for one reason or another, I don’t want people to see me picking up a penny, but damnit! it adds up. My boyfriend picks up every penny he sees…covered in sludge, stuck to the ground, he’s “picked up some scurvy pennies!” as he would say. When he gets inquisitive looks he tells people it’s for good luck.

I guess there’s nothing really to conclude about all this, I just thought I would share the observation and encourage you to pick up pennies, nobody is above it.

D.Riggs

Small Thing: My day (and my friend Timmy’s) can be made by reading the “Stars are Just Like Us” section in US Weekly. (“They make the call signal with their hand!”)

Pictures

Liz and Tony painting pottery at Glazed Expressions, one of the best ways to resort back to 10 year old behavior.


Todd with Yayo, called so because she's all white...I don't like that so I call her kitty.


At Blue Bayou after the Cubs game. Bree putting Moch in her place...Canadian style!

Up Before Noon!

I went down to the Chicago Board of Trade yesterday with my friend, Anne (who works there), to watch the opening. If you're ever looking to stand in a room of about 500 and be the only one who doesn't know what the hell is going on (and everyone knows it), I encourage you to visit the CBOT, just a hop, skip, and a jump downtown. It's kind of like Vegas; just replace the blinking lights with piercing profanities, and the various slots, tables, and general gambling machines with creepy old men. I’m not kidding, these men are the guys who sit at the end of my bar mumbling to themselves and I’m just counting the minutes until they leave (that’s mean) (I tend to preface or conclude sentences by saying “that’s mean” as if being aware of it makes it okay).

It’s such a funny spectacle that money makes. People running around wearing very tacky mesh trading vests, throwing paper, making hand signals, and using a preposterous amount of acronyms (and my boyfriend and dad are military guys so I’ve heard my fair share). Anne kept apologizing because it was apparently slow and boring to her, but I was completely sold on the opening bell (imagine “RINNNNGGG” and then massive amounts of shouting), that was the excitement of my week, well a close second to the dollar I found in my winter jacket.

Speaking of my uneventful, lazy life, my friend Kim was talking about how bad she felt because she was so tired at work during the day, so I told her that when I don’t get nine hours of sleep and an nap around 3:00ish, I’m pretty much worthless…that made her feel better…and me worse.

Ta Ta,

D.Riggs

Small Thing: Seeing a shooting star. It last likes 1/100th of a second and sometimes you’re not even sure you saw it, but it gives you this wonderful sense of smallness and bigness at the same time.

Should I move to Seattle?

Since my move to Chicago about eight months ago, I've managed to sling about 10,000 drinks at people who probably didn't need them, hold down an unpaid internship (and come out completely fruitless maybe even less talented), go out to dinner 6 out of the 7 nights a week, and achieve more consecutive noon sleep-ins than most people will probably have in their whole life. And may I just say, it has been very fulfilling.

I say this all the time, but I'm pretty sure I caught this "lazy bug" in France. Blame France right, or is it Canada? Let's blame French Canada for a compromise. I used to be a very productive student at the University of Nebraska (that's probably an oxymoron) who felt frequent anxiety when there wasn't anything to do. Then I decided to go to France (the South mind you...think Mediterranean, blue chairs lining the street, 2 hour lunches with encouraged wine consumption) for a semester in 2004 (yeah that's right, I've been lazy since then). After my return to the States, I haven't been able to muster up any kind of desire to join the "rat race." (Whenever I use that phrase, I hear this crazy French man that I met in the city singing the Bob Marley song at the top of his lungs outside Tempo at 4 a.m. He was really trying to bring his point home about how lost Americans are in a sea of their own making).

My sister tells me that it's a leisure life. I agree with her because I care about my image. But really, it may be time for me to do something. The sense of urgency isn't there but maybe I can create something artificial. I used to want to be rich. Then I realized that I don't want to do any of those jobs that make you rich because well, as I've been saying, I don't really like to work.

Recently I visited my sister in Seattle and really enjoyed it (picture above is at Lake Serene outside of Seattle). The outdoor lifestyle really suites me and I really think there is something to say about being near the ocean. Even if you don't see it, just knowing it's there seems to make me feel better. So I'm thinking, maybe I'll move to Seattle. Hopefully if and when I move there I'm not thinking, maybe I'll move to California, or Hawaii, or Alaska. Is it unhealthy to move ever 6-8 months? Psychology would probably say I'm afraid of finding my purpose so I'm seeking change to occupy my time and procrastinate my future. I say there is nothing more invigorating than lifting insanely heavy amounts of shit that I had forgotten I bought.

Well welcome to my blog. If you choose to check up and read some of my posts, prepare yourself for a journey through a thoughtful mind of thoughtless material. It seems that my life is queuing in a line and I don't know what it leads to...maybe it's for free Frosties, hopefully.


My sister, Liz, killing a 5.9 lead climb with nine clips! The route was called "Ride 'em cowboy" and if my camera battery hadn't run out you would have seen why. Let's just say that straddling was a helpful skill.


Liz and I on the beach in Discovery Park. Love that laughing cow cheese!

By the way, I apologize for the massive amount of parenthesis I will be using. I'm a big fan.

Until next time,

D.Riggs

Small Thing: The "el" trains in Chicago have recorded speakers that announce, "This is [name of street]." Much to the delight of my friend Michelle and I, the Red Line has a stop named "Grand."


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