I'm New to Blogging Proper-Like

This would have been a proper first entry, but I'm not really known to follow all rules. Plus, three is my lucky number, so why not just do it up on a third entry?

Being in the advertising/marketing/PR industry, and a Journalism News/Ed major prior, it only makes sense that I step up to the 21st century and start blogging. I thought about it for a few years...friends and co-workers blogged away, with great, witty observances. Problem was, I couldn't think of one solid concept to focus on as my own in the blogosphere. I have notebooks and journals crammed with entries, stories, funny thoughts, store ideas, business ideas, you name it...many composed with said friends and/or co-workers (hello, Jenny Poo!). There HAD to be a way to bring it all to fruition, without shoving it down some unwilling's throat...

So "Musingly Incidental" is my random potpourri of said observances. You never know what you're going to get -- hello excitement! The grand agenda may eventually be deliciously reduced into more drilled-down theme; say, music, fashion, or one of my many loves. But until then, it's just me, rambling on, and those willing to endure the read, and (fingers crossed!) leave a comment, good or bad. Here's to blogging.

One Flew Over the Obsessive's Nest

Those who know me well, or are forced to sit near me at work, know just how obsessive I can be. I fixate on certain things--songs, catch phrases, clothing, food, beer, vodka--and the repetition ensues. A few highlights, to which some of you may relate, or just want to strangle me over:

-Music. Whether new or old, no music is safe. It could be a CD from 15 years ago that I rediscover because I overplayed it and hid it from myself, or something new that I become evangelical over. I will continually listen to the same song or album to the point of obnoxiousness. Anyone who has been in my car pre-11/2007 (before the CD player when ka-put) knows this, and if they were smart, brought along their own MP3 player and headphones. Because I do sing along, and I don't have a good voice.

-Blue jeans. I have close to 25 pairs, but there's always a reason to buy another (gain or loss of ten pounds; needing darker or lighter wash; fill in blank with some other lame excuse here).

-Food. I become addicted to certain eateries, and I won't stray from my usual order there. Some cases in point: Chipotle's Burrito Bol (it was a MAJOR day for me when I switched from chicken to carnitas); deep dish pizza: spinach. NO meat; breakfast stops out include omelettes, or something savory. I am NOT a sweet-breakfast gal; and, at most any Chicago bar, you will most definitely find me devouring Buffalo chicken wings. On the bone, with blue cheese, thank you.

-TV commercial jingles. This is BY FAR the most violating to those around me, especially at work. I will randomly sing the Luna carpet commercial, the Quatro's pizza jingle (from college), American Mattress, and the list just gets worse as it goes on (need I mention the seasonal songs?). But most offensive of the jingles are the '80s commercials, that by some odd twist of memory fate, I have remembered in full (how could I NOT have killed those brain cells in college?). Case in point: The My Buddy commercial. Does anyone remember the weird kid, dressed like his doll, swinging and playing in a tree and carrying on? I sure do, and I have the whole freaking song--chorus, bridge, whatever the hell else it's composed of-- ingrained in my head, forever to torment me. So I torment those around me by singing it. (And I wasn't even allowed to watch that much TV as a child, so I have no idea how this truly happens). Nevertheless, I'm sure it annoys my co-workers, as I'm usually belting something out, but I'm ALWAYS accompanied by my ingenious friend and colleague, Jamie (who has QUITE the set of lungs on her to boot). And it doesn't just stick to the lyrics proper, as I will stray and improv on work- or life-related lyrics ("My client and me, approves proposals does he..." Good God.)

I probably have a mild form of OCD. (OK, I admit I have a mild form of OCD. However, this has not been diagnosed professionally.)

I suppose admitting you have a problem is the first step. Until I seek therapy, I'll keep repeating and Rainmaning the songs, jingles, and life matters until I'm stopped.

Or, until someone puts a muzzle on me.

If life were a bar...

...I'd be the barkeep.

I like to make drinks for friends: I enjoy the mixing, pouring ever-so-much of the vodka (or decided liquor--but hey, I'm a vodka girl), mixer and garnish (girl loves her some lime). When the bar gets close to its max with buzzed, impatient patrons, sometimes the barkeep has to step up and lend a hand.

And after living in the city for eight years, I have the whole schlepping-of-groceries-or-Target-bags-from-the-car-to-the-apartment-while-hazard-lights-are a-flashing (and legs are a-climbing three minimum flights of stairs) thing down--almost to ridiculous proportions-- no matter how much my boyfriend or unfortunate friend recruit may offer their arm for a quick slide of said bags...no thanks, I got it. Grocery bags, garbage cans filled of ice...these arms can handle it (and I'm quite proud of my quasi-biceps, thank you)!

Most importantly, I LOVE hearing people's stories. Hands down, I'm a way better listener than talker. Sit down, tell me your life story, or your day's anecdote...or whatever the hell you feel like jabbering on about...and I will be enthralled! You may trigger some relic of a memory, causing my mind to wander...but no worries, I'll remember (most of) the chatter. And I promise not to glaze over.

How can these traits NOT make me an excellent barkeep? I can haul ass with the physical goods, I can make or fetch drinks with the best of them, and above all, I love to listen to people. Now before you go pointing out that listening is the bartender's job, remember that they also converse...how about the barkeep just getting the opportunity to listen in and observe?

Observation is overrated, and I'm here to profess my love for it.

Someone hand me a towel, an apron, and a bag of ice. I'm here to report for duty.