That's the sound of the men, working on the chain...ga-a-ang.

I had been at my new job for almost a month when I confided to my friend Erin that although I was very very important at my place of business, I was finding myself with...Down time. Lots and lots of down time. I was spending (well over) half of my day staring at the computer screen, reading emails 20 times over, Googling this and that, trying to keep things work related but drifting occasionally.

So I says to Erin, "Dude. I'm thinking I'm gonna ask Marcy what I should do when I don't have anything else to do"

And she says "Dude, don't say that!" (like she knows everything.)

And I'm like "Oh. I didn't realize"

And she goes "Yeah man, everyone has downtime. That's the shit of work."
And up until that very moment I had never thought about it in that light. In fact I thought that as a good American capitalist, the work day is not a work day unless I was as amped as Barry Bonds, gripping onto the edge my desk enslaved with all of the other lemmings yelling BUY SELL BUY SELL BUY BUY SELL SELL until the big whistle on the top of the building signals the day is over. At which time my colleagues and I would pick up our metal lunch boxes, throw our coats over our shoulders and walk in a single file line out the door avoiding eye contact and taking turns to stamp our time cards as the monotony of the world bares down on us.

Original Gangster

Since my mom had surgery on her back, I have spoken to her everyday. There isn't always a lot to say and at times I find myself scraping the caverns of my mind to just keep her on the phone with me for 5 more minutes. She has been bored at home for two weeks since her surgery, unable to go back to work until she gets her doctor's signature. That was supposed to happen last Thursday, but the doctor's exceptionally inconsiderate wife had to go and break her water on the very same day thus forcing my mom to reschedule and stay home for another week. She was bitter about this fact and calling me to complain about how bored she was and as our conversation was clearly winding down, I hit her with this:

Me: Oh, you know what? I started a blog and you can read it.

Mom: Oh Jesus Christ.

Me: What? What do you mean?

Mom: Just what the world needs, another person’s opinion.

Me: Well you should check it out, you might think it’s funny or cool, or you know…it could be an insight into your daughter’s life.

Mom: No no. I don’t need it.

Me: Well it’s not like political or anything, it’s more like a “Dear Diary” sort of thing I’m not trying to sway you towards anything.

Mom: Even worse.

Me: Thank you so much Mother, for your support.

Mom: I called you to bitch, not the other way around.

BAD MAMA

I don’t know when it happened, but at some point in the evening (I would say during a 13-18 minute span of time) our rambunctious 3 year old pup was, apparently, locked outside…In the rain…in an apartment/townhouse complex. In San Francisco.
There was some discussion between Mr Rose and me as to when it may have happened and we were forced to conclude that it was when I took the recycling out front. I heard him say “Lucy, Stay!” and I guess I just assumed she never left the front doorway. (which was stupid because her listening is never a safe assumption).

I should have known something was awry when I sat on the ground and started working on fitting something into a frame and didn’t get harassed by her constant need for attention. I noticed my other (good) dog was acting sort of silly so I took him out back and let him “go potty” as it were, came back in, closed the door- and then continued on with my project. Then lo and beholden! As I sat on the ground I glanced over at the back door (where the blinds are opened enough to see about a foot and half on the bottom) there is my gorgeous little, crazy little, fuckin’ Frisbee super dog wondering what the hell is going on.

“Lucy!!” I said as if she had done something wrong. And she furiously shook her tail-less back side as though to say I WIN!!! Then I went and opened the door.

She was of course soaking wet and excited as all hell and Mr Rose and I felt like the worst parents ever. I did however regret that I opened the door before I got a picture of her.

Save your criticism Citizen, I neither want nor need it.

Anyways, shortly thereafter I went to go babysit two kids But fear not ~ Dear, sweet, indulgent blog , I managed to keep both children within sight and out of the dark night rain for the duration of my evening employment.

Hello World

My name is Allie. I’m not Alicia, I’m not Allison, I’m not Alexandra, Alexis, or Alana and I’m certainly not Alice. I am just Allie. My middle name is Jade and I was born on St. Patrick’s Day. My last name is Schuman. In high school my friends gave me the nickname Schumanator and it is obviously rad.

I was born in 1984 in San Diego, California where I lived and attended public school until I moved away to college. It is probably a temperate 70 degrees there right now. I can look back and laugh at the fact that I moved away from the best city in the world because I am a sarcastic and bitter son of a bitch and frankly this is just another notch on my belt.

No, I no longer live in a part of the world where the sun shines-I live in San Francisco. After high school I moved to Chico to go to the state school there and did what Wildcats do. While I was there I met The Man (not like “the man” but THE man) and after my junior year we moved in together and both attended San Francisco State. I graduated August 2007 with a degree in Anthropology. Yes- Anthropology, the most practical major in the world. I would make a comment about how he hasn't finished college yet, but that would only piss him off.

I do have a job (after a fabulous 5 month unemployment) that I do, surprisingly, like. The rest of my time is spent contemplating the endless blanket of fog that engulfs my house daily. How can it be so gloomy so consistently? As a California native it goes against all that I knew to be true and pure about the Golden State.

Speaking of Golden State, I am a big Golden State Warriors fan (NBA). Being a fan of any professional sports team goes against a hitherto vow of non-involvement but I just love me some Warriors basketball. I also play tennis with Mr. Rose which has become increasingly more difficult since we became adults or whatever.

We have one sort of bad dog, one really good dog and one cat that Mr. Rose often refers to as “creepy”.