I have an embarrassing confession to make. I love Celine Dion and Don Henley.
These are two artists that I have secretly loved since I was a little girl. They are favorites of my parents and were embedded into my brain.
(insert snickers and puking noises here)
The hours I have spent listening to each is mindblowing. Celine and Heart were on heavy rotation in my mom's car, Don Henley and Delbert McClinton ruled dad's ride. Once Henley broke away from the Eagles, my dad couldn't get enough. I know every word to all of his songs.
Granted, I don't generally listen to these people on a regular basis when not around my parents. But when I was home for Thanksgiving, of course, Henley was in my dad's CD player.
I don't know how I missed this, but apparently I get my lyrics obsession from my father. He's the cutest. We'll be driving along and he'll say, "oh, that's a killer line," or, "let's skip to this song, I just have to hear it, great lyrics." I mean, come on. The best.
So, there are two particular Henley songs that my dad and I have to listen to whenever we are in the car:
1. "The Heart of the Matter" from Actual Miles
2. "Everything is Different Now" from Inside Job
You can check out the lyrics if you'd like, there are some nice lines in both. The first is about forgiving hurts in your past in order to move on and the second is about finally being at a place where you are ready to love someone and truly let them in. As bizarre as it may be, considering it's coming from Don Henley, there was something about those songs and the point that I heard them that got to me.
It's a complicated, tangled web of madness in this head of mine, but somehow some of it is sorting itself out. And not from my standard over-analyzation. Just all by itself.
Unbeknownst to me, I have adapted this new level of patience. Certainly not with little day to day annoyances (let's get real), but with my life in general. Patience. Just. Wait. Over the past few months I have developed this defense mechanism in which, when something bad or hurtful happens, instead of losing my mind or overthinking it, I just wait. If I occupy myself with things that make me happy, buckle down and hold on for a few days, the hurt will go away. Time takes it away. It hurts less with each passing day until it's gone, or gone enough to live with. It's amazing. Where has this been my whole life?
Another thing is this concept of forgiveness. I am THE WORST at this particular subject. I keep myself quite guarded and I'm embarrassingly defensive. If someone hurts me I hold a grudge like I'm competing for an Olympic medal. Wow, line up to date me, please. What I was too stubborn to realize (another one of my shining flaws) is that by holding such grudges, I'm only hurting myself. And driving myself crazy. Of course, it's ok to be cautious and take note that someone hurt you, but for christ's sake, just let it go. We all fuck up. How quickly I forget the horrible, hurtful things I've done to others and then expected them to forgive me and move on. I know it seems simple, but I wasn't programmed correctly in the forgiving department. I needed a little re-wiring.
Ok, so these are two huge concepts that are generally much easier said than done. But, I think that by acknowledging that we have the choice and ability to be patient or to forgive is a step in the right direction. Um, paging Dr. Phil. Sick.
I'm currently voraciously reading James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. An alcoholic and crack addict going through rehab, he come across Tao te Ching, a book of Chinese proverbs.
I'm mildly obsessed with the following:
"Practice not wanting, desiring, judging, doing, fighting, knowing. Practice just being. Everything will fall into place."
Read it a couple times a day, it's good shit.
On a completely unrelated note, I found out this weekend that my aunt, my sweet, kind-hearted, good-to-the-core aunt, reads my blog. When she told me, my blog life flashed before my eyes. I'm not prepared to know who looks at this thing. Ignorance is bliss.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
if one day i marry disgustingly rich...
I have to start this post (and maybe all subsequent posts from here on out) with a huge shout out to Mr. Tom Selleck himself, who appeared at some hazy point last Saturday evening while Jen and I were at Schoolyard accidentally drinking ourselves into oblivion:
5,435 pitchers after Jen and I arrived at 3:30pm "just to grab some wings and watch football" I spotted Selleck enter the bar. I had to make contact. I oh so casually asked him how he liked starring in Three Men and A Baby and if he was embarrassed by the final turnout of Three Men and A Little Lady; a real cinematic disappointment. He chuckled. I called him Tommy. It was all big fun. He was nice enough to humor me with a picture. I cropped myself out of this one, Selleck demands center stage. Wow. What an attractive older man. Yum.
Onto the topic at hand. In a valiant attempt to "do" something with our lives, outside of wasting away most weekend afternoons healing hangovers and vegging out on the couch, we took a little field trip. Thirty miles due north of Chicago is the gorgeous lakefront community of Lake Forest. There's a University up there but I refuse to give it air time due to the painfully rich, spoiled, Abercrombie/Hollister-d out student population. We didn't see one un-tan person around there, guys included. Gross.
We had no idea where we were going so we just kept weaving through the gargantuan mansions until we found beach access. I pretty much fell in love. Here are just a couple pics. You had to walk down this wooden path/bridge thing to get to the beach. I loved it. Just think of how sweet this would be after a good snow:
The area is beautiful. And full of money. There is no such thing as anything smaller than a mansion or sprawling estate. If I win the lottery or marry a gabillionaire and could put a force-field around my house to keep out the snotty North Shore types, I would totally live there.
Photo ops abound, it's a welcome serene escape from the city.
And, to really make your day, I present the 2005 Cheesy Roommate Christmas Card Photo:
Thanksgiving is hands-down my favorite day of the year (nearly tied with my birthday). Oh, the joys of a holiday that revolves solely around food. Um, and giving thanks. whatever.
5,435 pitchers after Jen and I arrived at 3:30pm "just to grab some wings and watch football" I spotted Selleck enter the bar. I had to make contact. I oh so casually asked him how he liked starring in Three Men and A Baby and if he was embarrassed by the final turnout of Three Men and A Little Lady; a real cinematic disappointment. He chuckled. I called him Tommy. It was all big fun. He was nice enough to humor me with a picture. I cropped myself out of this one, Selleck demands center stage. Wow. What an attractive older man. Yum.
Onto the topic at hand. In a valiant attempt to "do" something with our lives, outside of wasting away most weekend afternoons healing hangovers and vegging out on the couch, we took a little field trip. Thirty miles due north of Chicago is the gorgeous lakefront community of Lake Forest. There's a University up there but I refuse to give it air time due to the painfully rich, spoiled, Abercrombie/Hollister-d out student population. We didn't see one un-tan person around there, guys included. Gross.
We had no idea where we were going so we just kept weaving through the gargantuan mansions until we found beach access. I pretty much fell in love. Here are just a couple pics. You had to walk down this wooden path/bridge thing to get to the beach. I loved it. Just think of how sweet this would be after a good snow:
The area is beautiful. And full of money. There is no such thing as anything smaller than a mansion or sprawling estate. If I win the lottery or marry a gabillionaire and could put a force-field around my house to keep out the snotty North Shore types, I would totally live there.
Photo ops abound, it's a welcome serene escape from the city.
And, to really make your day, I present the 2005 Cheesy Roommate Christmas Card Photo:
Thanksgiving is hands-down my favorite day of the year (nearly tied with my birthday). Oh, the joys of a holiday that revolves solely around food. Um, and giving thanks. whatever.
Monday, November 21, 2005
update
The previous post was deleted because after I went back and read it a few hours later I realized that I don't want to semi-chronicle my dating life (or lack there of) via blog a la Sex And The City. Carrie Bradshaw was getting paid to write a sweet column, I'm just airing out my dirty laundry.
Plus, I'd feel like a total assface if he happened to read it. We do share friends, you can't be too careful these days, kids.
(i saved it in my drafts. maybe it will come back. we'll see.)
Plus, I'd feel like a total assface if he happened to read it. We do share friends, you can't be too careful these days, kids.
(i saved it in my drafts. maybe it will come back. we'll see.)
Friday, November 18, 2005
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Wherein I Proceed To Bawl My Eyes Out At My Desk
I sent my mom the post I wrote the other day about why I love my parents so much. I just got the following email from her.
THIS is why I love this woman. I dare you not to cry:
Amanda,
Now that I have stopped sobbing, I thought I would set something straight. You were NOT running AWAY from anything that was going on here, but TO something; your life as an adult. I have said it a hundred times. We gave you two things; roots and wings. We love you when you are home and nesting, but are just as happy and proud when you are flying. All I ever want for you is happiness and health. Enjoy your precious gift of independence. You can stand on your own two feet and achieve anything. I am so proud of you. I honestly don't know if I would have had the guts it took for you to go to Chicago and start a career and life. Always know how much I love you and I will always be here for you. Have a great day and thank you for being my daughter.
Love, Mom
THIS is why I love this woman. I dare you not to cry:
Amanda,
Now that I have stopped sobbing, I thought I would set something straight. You were NOT running AWAY from anything that was going on here, but TO something; your life as an adult. I have said it a hundred times. We gave you two things; roots and wings. We love you when you are home and nesting, but are just as happy and proud when you are flying. All I ever want for you is happiness and health. Enjoy your precious gift of independence. You can stand on your own two feet and achieve anything. I am so proud of you. I honestly don't know if I would have had the guts it took for you to go to Chicago and start a career and life. Always know how much I love you and I will always be here for you. Have a great day and thank you for being my daughter.
Love, Mom
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
On Sex and Dating
My thanks to Jen for calling attention to the following article in the Sex Playbook feature of the RedEye. It's a column about sex and relationships written by a 20/30something firefighter bachelor. Why I included the fact that he fights fires I have no idea. Probably because it's hot (pun intended).
This particular article really got the wheels turning because it's an issue that my friends and I discuss ad nauseum as we bounce around in this pinball machine that is "dating" in Chicago. I use the term "dating" very lightly as NO ONE IN CHICAGO DATES. NO. ONE. It's amazing. All of these single twentysomethings constantly in contact with one another and rarely does a date come out of these interactions. One conclusion we arrived at, considering we are all pretty sweet packages ourselves so we are clearly not at fault, is that there are so many girls out there that are content with the drunk hook-up that guys are satisfied. They have girls at the precise time they want one, after the bar, and other than that they are free to do whatever they please, no strings attached.
Now, I know that there are guys out there that actually would like to take a girl on a date or even, god forbid, enter into a relationship. I just don't know where they are hiding. It doesn't help that the major percentage of male/female interactions occur while intoxicated. I'm quite certain that I'm not going to meet the love of my life 10 deep in Jack and Diets. That state of being is reserved for incoherently screaming at people, getting into bar fights with friends and not remembering cab rides home. But then where to meet people? And further, should we be "trying" to meet people? That seems super lame.
The worst part, and what this article focuses on, is once you do actually meet someone that you have an interest in, then what? There are so many ill-defined parameters surrounding hanging out with someone of the opposite sex. Too many different things you can "be"; friends that do it, hooking up, seeing each other, going on dates, casually dating, seriously dating, or in a relationship (which, seemingly the most serious and defined of them all, in and of itself has many levels as well).
It's all a big crapshoot. I'm sure most of this ambivalence is due to the fact that at this point in our lives, we don't have much of anything figured out. It's quite difficult to make a decision regarding what you want in a relationship when you don't have yourself and your life figured out first.
Here's the article firefighter dude wrote. Enjoy. Leave some love and hot debates.
Can sex turn into something more?
Jon Ibrahim
November 2, 2005
Sometimes I think I would've been happier growing up in the 1950s. Sure, I
wouldn't have things like an iPod, boxer briefs or Portillo's hot dogs, but
my sex life would have been simpler.
I would have loved a '50s relationship. TV shows and movies set in the
1950s, like "Happy Days" and "Pleasantville," sure make relationships back
then look much simpler. You were either dating someone or you weren't,
period. Today, there are too many kinds of relationships out there. You can
be exclusive or friends with benefits. There are booty calls, one-nighters.
The list goes on and on.
It's so confusing.
As puzzling as these relationships may be, there's nothing wrong with any of
them, if that one is your thing. What's more perplexing is trying to figure
out what comes first, the relationship and then sex, or sex and then a
relationship? It's the chicken-and-the-egg question. You'll pull your hair
out trying to think of an answer.
All the time, people say that if you have sex too soon in a relationship,
then it is doomed to failure. But is that true? Or can a serious
relationship blossom out of a sexual one?
Many people believe that a friendship can grow into love. You might even
know an annoying couple who claim to be living proof. You know the ones I'm
talking about: They tell their sappy "When Harry Met Sally"-type story to
anyone who'll listen.
You get a cavity listening.
As nauseated as those stories make you, they do prove a good point. If those
couples built a relationship from friendship, then certainly you can build
one from sex. I know that's a fact because I could've had it myself. Only I
blew it.
Nicole and I have been close friends for eight years now. We met through
mutual friends, and eventually started messing around.
It started out as the classic booty-call scenario. She'd call me at 2 a.m.
to see if I wanted company or I'd invite her over. We both knew what the
relationship was, and it was a lot of fun. But then the party came to a
screeching halt.
Nicole said she wanted more than just sex. I avoid serious relationships
like I do liver and onions. I said no.
At the time, all I thought I lost was good sex with a fun girl. After a few
months of not talking, we started hanging out again, and, of course, having
sex. Normally, I'd say that she did it in hopes that I'd change my mind and
take that giant leap, but she gave no hint of that. Right after we were done
having sex, she'd say, "Well, I gotta go."
It was my dream come true. Almost.
A few years ago, she told me about this new guy she was dating. I've never
heard her rave about a dude this way before, and I got a weird feeling in my
stomach. Ruling out food poisoning or acid reflux, I concluded that this is
what jealousy must feel like. I told her I was ready to get serious.
That's right, you guessed it. I was too late. She chose the other guy
because he was a sure thing. She's now married to him, with a kid. We still
get together occasionally, but not for hanky-panky.
OK, dry your eyes; it's not that bad. There's a valuable lesson to be
learned here. Serious relationships can come from sexual relationships. I
could have had one, but I didn't take the next step. So if at any time you
begin to feel something stronger for your booty call, take a chance and just
go for it. You might freak her out, which could end the sex. But when she
finds someone else, it's going to end anyway.
If I'd grown up in the 1950s, the Nicole incident would not have happened.
My biggest worry would've been how to get Peggy Sue into the back seat of my
Edsel for some really serious necking. Ah, the good ol' days.
This particular article really got the wheels turning because it's an issue that my friends and I discuss ad nauseum as we bounce around in this pinball machine that is "dating" in Chicago. I use the term "dating" very lightly as NO ONE IN CHICAGO DATES. NO. ONE. It's amazing. All of these single twentysomethings constantly in contact with one another and rarely does a date come out of these interactions. One conclusion we arrived at, considering we are all pretty sweet packages ourselves so we are clearly not at fault, is that there are so many girls out there that are content with the drunk hook-up that guys are satisfied. They have girls at the precise time they want one, after the bar, and other than that they are free to do whatever they please, no strings attached.
Now, I know that there are guys out there that actually would like to take a girl on a date or even, god forbid, enter into a relationship. I just don't know where they are hiding. It doesn't help that the major percentage of male/female interactions occur while intoxicated. I'm quite certain that I'm not going to meet the love of my life 10 deep in Jack and Diets. That state of being is reserved for incoherently screaming at people, getting into bar fights with friends and not remembering cab rides home. But then where to meet people? And further, should we be "trying" to meet people? That seems super lame.
The worst part, and what this article focuses on, is once you do actually meet someone that you have an interest in, then what? There are so many ill-defined parameters surrounding hanging out with someone of the opposite sex. Too many different things you can "be"; friends that do it, hooking up, seeing each other, going on dates, casually dating, seriously dating, or in a relationship (which, seemingly the most serious and defined of them all, in and of itself has many levels as well).
It's all a big crapshoot. I'm sure most of this ambivalence is due to the fact that at this point in our lives, we don't have much of anything figured out. It's quite difficult to make a decision regarding what you want in a relationship when you don't have yourself and your life figured out first.
Here's the article firefighter dude wrote. Enjoy. Leave some love and hot debates.
Can sex turn into something more?
Jon Ibrahim
November 2, 2005
Sometimes I think I would've been happier growing up in the 1950s. Sure, I
wouldn't have things like an iPod, boxer briefs or Portillo's hot dogs, but
my sex life would have been simpler.
I would have loved a '50s relationship. TV shows and movies set in the
1950s, like "Happy Days" and "Pleasantville," sure make relationships back
then look much simpler. You were either dating someone or you weren't,
period. Today, there are too many kinds of relationships out there. You can
be exclusive or friends with benefits. There are booty calls, one-nighters.
The list goes on and on.
It's so confusing.
As puzzling as these relationships may be, there's nothing wrong with any of
them, if that one is your thing. What's more perplexing is trying to figure
out what comes first, the relationship and then sex, or sex and then a
relationship? It's the chicken-and-the-egg question. You'll pull your hair
out trying to think of an answer.
All the time, people say that if you have sex too soon in a relationship,
then it is doomed to failure. But is that true? Or can a serious
relationship blossom out of a sexual one?
Many people believe that a friendship can grow into love. You might even
know an annoying couple who claim to be living proof. You know the ones I'm
talking about: They tell their sappy "When Harry Met Sally"-type story to
anyone who'll listen.
You get a cavity listening.
As nauseated as those stories make you, they do prove a good point. If those
couples built a relationship from friendship, then certainly you can build
one from sex. I know that's a fact because I could've had it myself. Only I
blew it.
Nicole and I have been close friends for eight years now. We met through
mutual friends, and eventually started messing around.
It started out as the classic booty-call scenario. She'd call me at 2 a.m.
to see if I wanted company or I'd invite her over. We both knew what the
relationship was, and it was a lot of fun. But then the party came to a
screeching halt.
Nicole said she wanted more than just sex. I avoid serious relationships
like I do liver and onions. I said no.
At the time, all I thought I lost was good sex with a fun girl. After a few
months of not talking, we started hanging out again, and, of course, having
sex. Normally, I'd say that she did it in hopes that I'd change my mind and
take that giant leap, but she gave no hint of that. Right after we were done
having sex, she'd say, "Well, I gotta go."
It was my dream come true. Almost.
A few years ago, she told me about this new guy she was dating. I've never
heard her rave about a dude this way before, and I got a weird feeling in my
stomach. Ruling out food poisoning or acid reflux, I concluded that this is
what jealousy must feel like. I told her I was ready to get serious.
That's right, you guessed it. I was too late. She chose the other guy
because he was a sure thing. She's now married to him, with a kid. We still
get together occasionally, but not for hanky-panky.
OK, dry your eyes; it's not that bad. There's a valuable lesson to be
learned here. Serious relationships can come from sexual relationships. I
could have had one, but I didn't take the next step. So if at any time you
begin to feel something stronger for your booty call, take a chance and just
go for it. You might freak her out, which could end the sex. But when she
finds someone else, it's going to end anyway.
If I'd grown up in the 1950s, the Nicole incident would not have happened.
My biggest worry would've been how to get Peggy Sue into the back seat of my
Edsel for some really serious necking. Ah, the good ol' days.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Love The One You're With
A song originally penned by Stephen Stills of Crosby, Stills and Nash (and sometimes Young), this is a song that has plagued me for years. I grew up listening to classic rock music, my dad was/is obsessed with all that rock had to offer in the 60s and 70s. And that could be the greatest gift, besides life, that he gave to me. I know pretty much every word to any popular/semi-popular song of that era. And it continues to be one of my favorite genres of music. But this particular song, "Love the One You're With" has bothered me since I was a little girl.
I can remember riding along in the car with my dad, I couldn't have been more than 8, and listening to the lyrics of this song, "if you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with." Somehow at that young age I already had it in my head that you can't settle. You can't just be with anybody to fill the space, you have to be with someone that you really love. And, for christ's sake, if you know that there is someone else out there that you love, but you can't be with them, and you are just with this someone else, either go out there and get that person that you love OR wait until you find another person that you love THAT much. Simple, right? I protested loudly and my dad attempted to rationalize, but I wasn't having it.
Everytime I hear this song it still pisses me off. It just doesn't set right with me. Now, I understand that when Stills wrote this back in the very early seventies this was at the height of the Age of Aquarius/hippie/love everyone/pass the doobie mentality. And that's all fine and well, and maybe if I were alive back then I would appreciate it more, but as it stands in this brain of mine, I just don't like it. I certainly wouldn't want to be that "one" they're with if they have someone else out there that they love. I'd rather be alone.
It's unfortunate that the song is so catchy and easy to sing along to. Especially the "doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot". And the big choir? It's just plain fun. If only it wasn't advocating settling, maybe it would be my favorite song of all time. Who knows. But it's the only song that irritates me to the core for the message it sends. Even more so than rap songs glorifying killing and bitches and drugs and overall violence.
Sorry Stills, I'm gonna wait it out.
I can remember riding along in the car with my dad, I couldn't have been more than 8, and listening to the lyrics of this song, "if you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with." Somehow at that young age I already had it in my head that you can't settle. You can't just be with anybody to fill the space, you have to be with someone that you really love. And, for christ's sake, if you know that there is someone else out there that you love, but you can't be with them, and you are just with this someone else, either go out there and get that person that you love OR wait until you find another person that you love THAT much. Simple, right? I protested loudly and my dad attempted to rationalize, but I wasn't having it.
Everytime I hear this song it still pisses me off. It just doesn't set right with me. Now, I understand that when Stills wrote this back in the very early seventies this was at the height of the Age of Aquarius/hippie/love everyone/pass the doobie mentality. And that's all fine and well, and maybe if I were alive back then I would appreciate it more, but as it stands in this brain of mine, I just don't like it. I certainly wouldn't want to be that "one" they're with if they have someone else out there that they love. I'd rather be alone.
It's unfortunate that the song is so catchy and easy to sing along to. Especially the "doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot-doot". And the big choir? It's just plain fun. If only it wasn't advocating settling, maybe it would be my favorite song of all time. Who knows. But it's the only song that irritates me to the core for the message it sends. Even more so than rap songs glorifying killing and bitches and drugs and overall violence.
Sorry Stills, I'm gonna wait it out.
A few things...
- Behold, my Christmas present. I want it NOW. My fingers tingle at the thought of holding it. And pushing it's buttons. And making it zoom in and out. Yum.
- The Martin Sexton show sold out before we had a chance to get tickets. What could have been an utterly devastating event has turned into the event that could change my life. Well, not really, but it certainly should rule. Martin scheduled another show for 10pm that same night. A late night show? After he's all warmed up? Hopefully most people will have already bought their tickets for the earlier show and only a few will show up for the late one. That would be sweet ass.
- After holding strong for 2 years, I have to make an announcement. This will forever change the fiber of who I am and what I stand for. I have made it well known that I am a huge fan of Lou Malnati's deep dish pizza. There have been many a debate between myself and a particular friend of mine over the superiority of Lou Malnati's vs. Giordano's. I have maintained that, while Giordano's does supercede Lou's in the thin crust department, Lou's has the best deep dish. Well, my friends, as hard as it is for me to back down and admit when I am wrong, I have to come out to the world and profess that GIORDANO'S HAS THE BEST THIN CRUST AND DEEP DISH PIZZA IN CHICAGO. There, I did it. And I'm sweating. I think this could be the first time in the history of the world that I have admitted that I was not, in fact, right about something. It's making me dizzy. My thanks to the big M for pushing me to the brink of crossing over. Girl, you were right. Ouch.
- I forgot that I had this picture. A friend of a friend's peanut on Halloween:
Ok, quick, someone marry me and impregnate me. Um, or just impregnate me. I hate to ruin it, but this is what you will see each of my children in for their first Halloween. I can't take it.
- The Martin Sexton show sold out before we had a chance to get tickets. What could have been an utterly devastating event has turned into the event that could change my life. Well, not really, but it certainly should rule. Martin scheduled another show for 10pm that same night. A late night show? After he's all warmed up? Hopefully most people will have already bought their tickets for the earlier show and only a few will show up for the late one. That would be sweet ass.
- After holding strong for 2 years, I have to make an announcement. This will forever change the fiber of who I am and what I stand for. I have made it well known that I am a huge fan of Lou Malnati's deep dish pizza. There have been many a debate between myself and a particular friend of mine over the superiority of Lou Malnati's vs. Giordano's. I have maintained that, while Giordano's does supercede Lou's in the thin crust department, Lou's has the best deep dish. Well, my friends, as hard as it is for me to back down and admit when I am wrong, I have to come out to the world and profess that GIORDANO'S HAS THE BEST THIN CRUST AND DEEP DISH PIZZA IN CHICAGO. There, I did it. And I'm sweating. I think this could be the first time in the history of the world that I have admitted that I was not, in fact, right about something. It's making me dizzy. My thanks to the big M for pushing me to the brink of crossing over. Girl, you were right. Ouch.
- I forgot that I had this picture. A friend of a friend's peanut on Halloween:
Ok, quick, someone marry me and impregnate me. Um, or just impregnate me. I hate to ruin it, but this is what you will see each of my children in for their first Halloween. I can't take it.
Monday, November 14, 2005
brilliant idea
I think I should start a business for people who can't blog at work. I'll basically be their link to the blog world. I'll copy and paste the blogs they want to read, post for them, relay comments, etc.
I really think I'm onto something here...
I really think I'm onto something here...
Why I Love My Parents
I'm going to come out and say, with absolute certainty, that I have the greatest relationship with my parents that any girl could ever have. Besides being amazing people in general, the 'rents are a delicate balance of personalities, such that it maintains my sanity. A perfect example: November of 2003. I had been in Chicago for about a month and I called home bawling my eyes out, basically in hysterics. Things weren't panning out well in the big city--I was lonely, broke, sad, discouraged, and depressed. I felt like I was losing my mind. I call home, because of course they can fix anything.
My mom answers, senses my distress and utters the words that wrap me in an electric blanket:
"What's wrong, baby?"
I proceed to sob, barely getting out words, not making any sense, trying to convey to her how miserable I am. Her immediate reaction was for me to pack up my things and get my ass home. She would take care of me. Yes! Mommy will make it all better.
After a few minutes, my dad gets on the phone. He heard my mom's advice and quickly intervened. The voice of reason. He tried to listen to me, but like most men, he gets all flustery when a woman is in crying mode.
His reaction, "What, you mean just quit? You've only been there a month. You made this decision, packed everything up and now you are there trying to make a life for yourself. Sure, you can come home anytime, but when you look back on this in a couple years, you'll kick yourself for not sticking it out. You need to prove to yourself that you can do this. That you can make it. You can't just give up when things get hard, you'll regret it."
And here I am, 2 years later, secretly thanking that man everyday for talking some sense into my delusional, PMS-riddled brain that day.
So, my parents came to Chicago this past weekend. It was their second visit in 2 years with the first not counting because it lasted less than 24 hours.
Reason #5,456,678 why I adore my father: he is THE only man on this planet that can pull off jeans that are thisclose to acid-wash and a Dad sweater. And still strike me as the most adorable man in the greater Chicago area.
My dad and I have a very close relationship. Even though I am essentially my mother's clone, I did somehow, thankfully, pick up my father's sarcasm, wit and bone dry sense of humor. And a little of his laidback nature. Just a little. We're peas in a pod, people. That man rules my world. It's becoming increasingly difficult to find a guy out there that holds a candle to him...he rocks that much.
And really, there is nothing better than, after telling your parents about a big promotion, having your dad come up to you, put his hands on your shoulders, look you in the eye, and in the most genuine way say, "I am so proud of you." And then give you a big bear hug. Haven't stopped thinking about that for 3 days. It kinda makes me want to run for President.
Not neglecting the woman from whose loins I sprang forth (well, not technically, I was an emergency cesarean section), my mom and I are more like sisters than anything else. We bicker, fight, yell, etc. Despite our fiery, explosive personalities, she is practically my best friend (wow, sappy). Whether it's for recipes or life advice, she's always there to help. This woman bears the wisdom of a thousand Buddhas. When I need a reality check, I call her. She gives it to me straight, even, and especially when, it's not what I want to hear. She keeps me level-headed and reminds me how strong I am when I'm having those days when I'm not so sure.
For ten years my mom has been battling lupus, an autoimmune disease in which the body recognizes normal tissue as foreign and then goes in for the attack. In my mom's case, it is the joints in her hands. What started out ten years ago as some annoying pain that she could control without medication, has progressed to persistent pain, daily medication and frequent, sudden loss of muscle control. Things just fall right out of her hand. On several occasions, this has happened while operating her heavy artillery of curling irons and left nice burns on her forehead.
What she didn't tell me until Saturday is that in the past 6 weeks her lupus has severely progressed and is attacking her legs. I was such a bitch to her on Friday night when she was lagging behind and complaining of being tired. I thought she was just being difficult and whiney and I was livid. If I'd only known that her legs are in so much pain that walking two blocks is torture. She has to take elevators because steps are nearing impossible.
The lupus thing is just the icing on the cake of 3 horrific years for my family. I don't know how they keep on everyday. I don't like to admit this, but I think that when I made my decision to move to Chicago, even though it was seemingly for love at the time, somewhere deep down I was running away from the problems that began while I was a senior in college. The three months I spent at home after graduating gave me a real dose of what they were going through and it was not something that I wanted to be stuck in. All of that negativity and hardship was not something that I wanted to bear. Is it horrible to run from family problems to start a fresh, new life for yourself? Are you ditching out on people that you love or saving yourself? I wrestle with these questions and worry about my family every night, as I toss and turn until the early morning hours.
Having them in Chicago was awesome. It got them away from their troubles, if only for a couple of days, and it gave me a chance to have them here in my hood. They fit very nicely, I must say (well, minus the acid-wash denim). I kinda wish they would move here. I miss them. They've already called 3 times since they left to tell me what a wonderful time they had. Hello, electric blanket.
Wow. I didn't mean for this post to get all deep, it was originally intended to just highlight my dad's stellar fashion choices. Kudos to those who actually read the whole thing.
My mom answers, senses my distress and utters the words that wrap me in an electric blanket:
"What's wrong, baby?"
I proceed to sob, barely getting out words, not making any sense, trying to convey to her how miserable I am. Her immediate reaction was for me to pack up my things and get my ass home. She would take care of me. Yes! Mommy will make it all better.
After a few minutes, my dad gets on the phone. He heard my mom's advice and quickly intervened. The voice of reason. He tried to listen to me, but like most men, he gets all flustery when a woman is in crying mode.
His reaction, "What, you mean just quit? You've only been there a month. You made this decision, packed everything up and now you are there trying to make a life for yourself. Sure, you can come home anytime, but when you look back on this in a couple years, you'll kick yourself for not sticking it out. You need to prove to yourself that you can do this. That you can make it. You can't just give up when things get hard, you'll regret it."
And here I am, 2 years later, secretly thanking that man everyday for talking some sense into my delusional, PMS-riddled brain that day.
So, my parents came to Chicago this past weekend. It was their second visit in 2 years with the first not counting because it lasted less than 24 hours.
Reason #5,456,678 why I adore my father: he is THE only man on this planet that can pull off jeans that are thisclose to acid-wash and a Dad sweater. And still strike me as the most adorable man in the greater Chicago area.
My dad and I have a very close relationship. Even though I am essentially my mother's clone, I did somehow, thankfully, pick up my father's sarcasm, wit and bone dry sense of humor. And a little of his laidback nature. Just a little. We're peas in a pod, people. That man rules my world. It's becoming increasingly difficult to find a guy out there that holds a candle to him...he rocks that much.
And really, there is nothing better than, after telling your parents about a big promotion, having your dad come up to you, put his hands on your shoulders, look you in the eye, and in the most genuine way say, "I am so proud of you." And then give you a big bear hug. Haven't stopped thinking about that for 3 days. It kinda makes me want to run for President.
Not neglecting the woman from whose loins I sprang forth (well, not technically, I was an emergency cesarean section), my mom and I are more like sisters than anything else. We bicker, fight, yell, etc. Despite our fiery, explosive personalities, she is practically my best friend (wow, sappy). Whether it's for recipes or life advice, she's always there to help. This woman bears the wisdom of a thousand Buddhas. When I need a reality check, I call her. She gives it to me straight, even, and especially when, it's not what I want to hear. She keeps me level-headed and reminds me how strong I am when I'm having those days when I'm not so sure.
For ten years my mom has been battling lupus, an autoimmune disease in which the body recognizes normal tissue as foreign and then goes in for the attack. In my mom's case, it is the joints in her hands. What started out ten years ago as some annoying pain that she could control without medication, has progressed to persistent pain, daily medication and frequent, sudden loss of muscle control. Things just fall right out of her hand. On several occasions, this has happened while operating her heavy artillery of curling irons and left nice burns on her forehead.
What she didn't tell me until Saturday is that in the past 6 weeks her lupus has severely progressed and is attacking her legs. I was such a bitch to her on Friday night when she was lagging behind and complaining of being tired. I thought she was just being difficult and whiney and I was livid. If I'd only known that her legs are in so much pain that walking two blocks is torture. She has to take elevators because steps are nearing impossible.
The lupus thing is just the icing on the cake of 3 horrific years for my family. I don't know how they keep on everyday. I don't like to admit this, but I think that when I made my decision to move to Chicago, even though it was seemingly for love at the time, somewhere deep down I was running away from the problems that began while I was a senior in college. The three months I spent at home after graduating gave me a real dose of what they were going through and it was not something that I wanted to be stuck in. All of that negativity and hardship was not something that I wanted to bear. Is it horrible to run from family problems to start a fresh, new life for yourself? Are you ditching out on people that you love or saving yourself? I wrestle with these questions and worry about my family every night, as I toss and turn until the early morning hours.
Having them in Chicago was awesome. It got them away from their troubles, if only for a couple of days, and it gave me a chance to have them here in my hood. They fit very nicely, I must say (well, minus the acid-wash denim). I kinda wish they would move here. I miss them. They've already called 3 times since they left to tell me what a wonderful time they had. Hello, electric blanket.
Wow. I didn't mean for this post to get all deep, it was originally intended to just highlight my dad's stellar fashion choices. Kudos to those who actually read the whole thing.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
How To Ensure That I Will Not Date You (Version 2)
After not calling me for an inexcusable amount of time, send me the most pointless text message of all time:
"UL scores an early touchdown"
A few things. I had no clue they were even playing. It's 7:13 p.m. on a Thursday night, I do not give two shits about college football at this point. Never, ever in any discussion we have ever had, did I ever express ANY interest in the
I don't need to tell any of you that the remainder of the text conversation was the lamest thing I've ever taken in part in. You are thinking to yourself, "why did you respond to the lamest text of all time?" And I'll tell you to mind your own damn business, but if you MUST know, I have to see him on a fairly regular basis, so I'd rather not be any more of the group bitch than I already am.
Now. I know that, in general, guys do this thing where they like to keep the door open. It's nauseating, but I see it ALL THE TIME. They completely drop the ball as far as treating a girl right or having a normal dating relationship is concerned, treat her like shit, but then, THEN, just when the girl has sworn him off and affectionately refers to him as "a total fucking douchebag" he does something like this to string her along. Granted, my particular example is weak, and it actually did the opposite of what he was attempting to do--he basically dead bolted an already slammed door. But! I have seen this phenomenon executed quite deftly and successfully. When done right, it's awe-inspiring/vomit-inducing.
Just let it go, man, LET. IT. GO.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
my morning commute: no service, mating pigeons and public urination
Setting: Paulina Brown Line stop along the Chicago Transit Authority "El" rail system, 9 a.m.
I begin this day blissfully unaware of my surroundings, as is typical of every morning commute. It is important to note that on this particular day I am not only sans iPod (damned busted earphones) but I am also without reading material. So, I'm left to absentmindedly look around. Nothing to report. A couple other people on the platform blankly looking around at nothing as well. Standard. I'm bored.
Then I see the train in the distance! Hooray! Hurry! I'm late for work! As it approaches I notice that where it should say "Loop" in white letters on a brown background it says "Not In Service" in small, timid letters on a black background. What? Clearly the train is in service. It's trucking along, in a very service-y way, and blows right by me. Of all 5 million pet peeves in my arsenal, this one could possibly take the cake. I'm sure that particular train needed to be somewhere important, but next time could it please "Not In Service" someone else, because it's beyond annoying.
Waiting for the next in-service train, two pigeons catch my eye. They have their necks wrapped around each other pecking their beaks into the other one's feathers. Aw, kind of like hugging without arms. Then one backs away and starts doing this thing where it puffs it's neck out and lowers it's head repeatedly. Then they start circling one another and it occurs to me that they are either going to bird-fight to the death or have dirty pigeon sex right in front of me. My friends, this is when I had the distinct pleasure of witnessing the mating habits of Columba livia. They continue with the circling thing, then one (at this point I believe it is safe to say is the female) crouches down like she would on a nest and big daddy P comes over and jumps on top of her, facing the same direction, flapping his wings like mad to keep balance, spreads her tail feathers and then does something that I'm assuming would require a long appendage of some sort that in relative terms would make a human man cry. He stays up there for a mere 3 seconds, poor lady, then jumps down. This process continues a few more times. I want to stop watching--I feel like I'm intruding, but I can't look away because it's so bizarre. Or maybe because I haven't had any action in quite a while. But that's neither here nor there.
To save me from my bird-watching/voyeurism, the train comes. Between the Paulina and Southport stops the train runs along the backside of multiple apartment buildings. The train was moving inexplicably slow and as we pass a dark brick building with a 3-story deck, I see a guy standing in the back "yard" clearly in the boy pee-stance facing a wood pillar of the deck. I rubbed my eyes to make sure they weren't playing tricks on me. Still there. It's not like he was a homeless guy or wasted at a house party. He was in a fenced-in backyard in nice jeans, a navy blue polo and hat taking a piss at nine in the morning in broad daylight. He is either clearly insane, lacks any decency or has a raging bladder infection that keeps him from walking 10 feet without taking a leak. For the sake of his social/dating life, let's hope it's the latter.
The rest of the commute is a total haze as my brain was trying to make sense of these inappropriate public displays. Such things should be done in private. Like, I don't know, in your own BATHROOM?? Or maybe in the BEDROOM OF YOUR PIGEON HOUSE?? Jesus. Have some self-respect.
I begin this day blissfully unaware of my surroundings, as is typical of every morning commute. It is important to note that on this particular day I am not only sans iPod (damned busted earphones) but I am also without reading material. So, I'm left to absentmindedly look around. Nothing to report. A couple other people on the platform blankly looking around at nothing as well. Standard. I'm bored.
Then I see the train in the distance! Hooray! Hurry! I'm late for work! As it approaches I notice that where it should say "Loop" in white letters on a brown background it says "Not In Service" in small, timid letters on a black background. What? Clearly the train is in service. It's trucking along, in a very service-y way, and blows right by me. Of all 5 million pet peeves in my arsenal, this one could possibly take the cake. I'm sure that particular train needed to be somewhere important, but next time could it please "Not In Service" someone else, because it's beyond annoying.
Waiting for the next in-service train, two pigeons catch my eye. They have their necks wrapped around each other pecking their beaks into the other one's feathers. Aw, kind of like hugging without arms. Then one backs away and starts doing this thing where it puffs it's neck out and lowers it's head repeatedly. Then they start circling one another and it occurs to me that they are either going to bird-fight to the death or have dirty pigeon sex right in front of me. My friends, this is when I had the distinct pleasure of witnessing the mating habits of Columba livia. They continue with the circling thing, then one (at this point I believe it is safe to say is the female) crouches down like she would on a nest and big daddy P comes over and jumps on top of her, facing the same direction, flapping his wings like mad to keep balance, spreads her tail feathers and then does something that I'm assuming would require a long appendage of some sort that in relative terms would make a human man cry. He stays up there for a mere 3 seconds, poor lady, then jumps down. This process continues a few more times. I want to stop watching--I feel like I'm intruding, but I can't look away because it's so bizarre. Or maybe because I haven't had any action in quite a while. But that's neither here nor there.
To save me from my bird-watching/voyeurism, the train comes. Between the Paulina and Southport stops the train runs along the backside of multiple apartment buildings. The train was moving inexplicably slow and as we pass a dark brick building with a 3-story deck, I see a guy standing in the back "yard" clearly in the boy pee-stance facing a wood pillar of the deck. I rubbed my eyes to make sure they weren't playing tricks on me. Still there. It's not like he was a homeless guy or wasted at a house party. He was in a fenced-in backyard in nice jeans, a navy blue polo and hat taking a piss at nine in the morning in broad daylight. He is either clearly insane, lacks any decency or has a raging bladder infection that keeps him from walking 10 feet without taking a leak. For the sake of his social/dating life, let's hope it's the latter.
The rest of the commute is a total haze as my brain was trying to make sense of these inappropriate public displays. Such things should be done in private. Like, I don't know, in your own BATHROOM?? Or maybe in the BEDROOM OF YOUR PIGEON HOUSE?? Jesus. Have some self-respect.
Monday, November 07, 2005
torture is...
sitting next to a co-worker who is eating chipotle as I am eating plain tuna from the can in an attempt to save money and save my ass from getting any bigger.
Friday, November 04, 2005
merry christmas to me
And the hits just keep on coming, people. About a month ago I planned a trip to Ann Arbor for a Martin Sexton show in December at The Ark. That itself was enough to fill my life with purpose and meaning. I have a secret countdown going on my calendar.
Then comes the news that Sexton is releasing a Christmas album, Camp Holiday, due out November 15th. I've been waiting for new Sexton material for a couple of years now, and here it is. In all of it's holiday glory. Admittedly, I was a titch skeptical of a Christmas album, it's been done. And done. And done. And done. And, you can only listen to them at that particular time of the year. Or maybe that's just me. But upon hearing the clips of "I'll Be Home For Christmas" and "Blue Christmas" I slapped myself in the face for doubting Marty for one second. Shame on me. Even though they are songs that I've heard a million times before, (not surprisingly) he puts that soul in it that makes it seem as if I'm hearing them for the first time. Or at least feeling them for the first time. It gets me all warm and fuzzy inside.
THEN I find out today that the show in Ann Arbor is the CD release party for Camp Holiday. My heart can't take anymore. But then it has to because album sales benefit Camp Sunshine, a retreat for children with life-threatening illnesses.
Martin, if you don't stop this right now I could actually explode. A Christmas album AND a camp for dying kids?!?! Saint Sexton, ladies and gentlemen, Saint Sexton.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Satisfy My Soul
I woke up with a hangover the size of Texas this morning. And things in Texas are big. I was still tipsy at 7am and didn't get into work until 11. It was a monumental achievement to get myself off of the couch, pour a glass of water and then walk ALL THE WAY to the bathroom to fetch Aleve. My head was in a vice. It's the best hangover I've ever had.
Jarod Kline arrived last night from the land of the Steelers. All day yesterday an excitement reverberated through me, as I haven't seen this kid since college graduation. That's two and one half years, folks. It's been way too long.
Jarod and I became friends freshman year of college. Sharing the same major, we had most of our classes together and he was good friends with a girl down my hall. Truth be told, I didn't like him at first. He was loud and cocky and opinionated and schmoozy and could turn anything into something sexual and always told it like it was. Ironically, those very things are what make me love him today. And the main things we have in common.
The development of our friendship was a gradual one. In the beginning we were friends by association. Besides having classes together, we both joined the Pre-Medical Honors Society (which was more social than it was honorable) and ran in the same circles. He had a thing for one of my closest friends during the time that I didn't "approve" of him. And I made sure I let her know that. And I'm such a bitch. He dated another one of my close friends (who inconsequently was my roommate senior year) for a couple years. Then I dated one of his best friends/roommate junior year. Needless to say I spent many an hour and many a night at their place. I saw him everyday and partied with him most weekends. Without realizing it, he became a huge fixture in my life.
And then came summer of 2002, the summer following junior year. I stayed in Dayton to take classes and work. Jarod stayed to work. To round out the triumvirate was Jarod's friend, Beaner, whom I was semi-dating (or whatever we were doing) at the time, who also stuck around to take classes. Jarod and I started working at this swanky restaurant/jazz club, Pacchia, in the Oregon District. We manned the outside patio--he made the drinks and I delivered them. We were the best cocktailing duo to date. We spent many a slow, hazy summer nights talking and listening to the music playing over the outside speakers. We had control over what played out there, so it was a steady rotation of Martin Sexton and Bob Marley. As a trumpet player, Jarod was heavy into music. When he was really feeling a song, he would make what I termed "Music Face" wherein he'd scrunch up his face along with the really raw notes. It never ceased to make me laugh.
Outside of work, Jarod, Beaner and I spent the rest of the summer in a haze of pot smoke, Sexton, Marley, Jimmy Cliff, Miles Davis, Wynton Marsalis, John Coltrane, Terell Stafford (Jarod's man-crush), and Vanessa Carlton's "Ordinary Day" on repeat. I learned so much about music and developed a deep appreciation for jazz. It was three glorious months of reckless abandon, no responsibilities, all of which I have very little recollection of. It was as if the rest of the world disappeared and the three of us existed only to sit at 444 Lowes and make the best of it.
To the Summer of 2002, with a heavy heart, I say R.I.P.
Beaner also lives in Chicago now, Jarod is staying with him, so I went over there last night. Jarod was standing at the door of the apartment building with his arms wide open and a look on his face that said, "where in the hell have you been, young lady?" Unable to contain myself, I ran over to him and jumped into his arms, wrapped my legs around him and squeezed that man like there was no tomorrow. And then he didn't let go. And I didn't let go. And we stood there for quite a long time repeating "Arnanda" and "Jarod-Fucking-Kline" back and forth. It was in that moment that something in me filled to the brim. My cup runneth over, people.
It was a night of reminiscing, laughing our asses off, listening to music and getting mighty drunk off of vodka tonics with key limes (Beaner's special recipe means a half glass of vodka. Which means the largest of hangovers). Is it weird that I want to send them both Thank You cards? Although, I'd have to send them blank because there aren't words to explain how much it meant to me.
How is it that you can have a friend in your life that makes you so happy and you have such a connection with, but that you go years without seeing?? It's a travesty, really. Jarod, if we go this long without seeing each other again, you're dead.
Last night brought back so many memories that make up the integral parts of who I am and the life I've led up to this point. The nostalgia is setting in and I'm getting teary. Bring back the days before the 9-5 job and bills and life decisions and growing up, it's totally overrated.
Jarod Kline arrived last night from the land of the Steelers. All day yesterday an excitement reverberated through me, as I haven't seen this kid since college graduation. That's two and one half years, folks. It's been way too long.
Jarod and I became friends freshman year of college. Sharing the same major, we had most of our classes together and he was good friends with a girl down my hall. Truth be told, I didn't like him at first. He was loud and cocky and opinionated and schmoozy and could turn anything into something sexual and always told it like it was. Ironically, those very things are what make me love him today. And the main things we have in common.
The development of our friendship was a gradual one. In the beginning we were friends by association. Besides having classes together, we both joined the Pre-Medical Honors Society (which was more social than it was honorable) and ran in the same circles. He had a thing for one of my closest friends during the time that I didn't "approve" of him. And I made sure I let her know that. And I'm such a bitch. He dated another one of my close friends (who inconsequently was my roommate senior year) for a couple years. Then I dated one of his best friends/roommate junior year. Needless to say I spent many an hour and many a night at their place. I saw him everyday and partied with him most weekends. Without realizing it, he became a huge fixture in my life.
And then came summer of 2002, the summer following junior year. I stayed in Dayton to take classes and work. Jarod stayed to work. To round out the triumvirate was Jarod's friend, Beaner, whom I was semi-dating (or whatever we were doing) at the time, who also stuck around to take classes. Jarod and I started working at this swanky restaurant/jazz club, Pacchia, in the Oregon District. We manned the outside patio--he made the drinks and I delivered them. We were the best cocktailing duo to date. We spent many a slow, hazy summer nights talking and listening to the music playing over the outside speakers. We had control over what played out there, so it was a steady rotation of Martin Sexton and Bob Marley. As a trumpet player, Jarod was heavy into music. When he was really feeling a song, he would make what I termed "Music Face" wherein he'd scrunch up his face along with the really raw notes. It never ceased to make me laugh.
Outside of work, Jarod, Beaner and I spent the rest of the summer in a haze of pot smoke, Sexton, Marley, Jimmy Cliff, Miles Davis, Wynton Marsalis, John Coltrane, Terell Stafford (Jarod's man-crush), and Vanessa Carlton's "Ordinary Day" on repeat. I learned so much about music and developed a deep appreciation for jazz. It was three glorious months of reckless abandon, no responsibilities, all of which I have very little recollection of. It was as if the rest of the world disappeared and the three of us existed only to sit at 444 Lowes and make the best of it.
To the Summer of 2002, with a heavy heart, I say R.I.P.
Beaner also lives in Chicago now, Jarod is staying with him, so I went over there last night. Jarod was standing at the door of the apartment building with his arms wide open and a look on his face that said, "where in the hell have you been, young lady?" Unable to contain myself, I ran over to him and jumped into his arms, wrapped my legs around him and squeezed that man like there was no tomorrow. And then he didn't let go. And I didn't let go. And we stood there for quite a long time repeating "Arnanda" and "Jarod-Fucking-Kline" back and forth. It was in that moment that something in me filled to the brim. My cup runneth over, people.
It was a night of reminiscing, laughing our asses off, listening to music and getting mighty drunk off of vodka tonics with key limes (Beaner's special recipe means a half glass of vodka. Which means the largest of hangovers). Is it weird that I want to send them both Thank You cards? Although, I'd have to send them blank because there aren't words to explain how much it meant to me.
How is it that you can have a friend in your life that makes you so happy and you have such a connection with, but that you go years without seeing?? It's a travesty, really. Jarod, if we go this long without seeing each other again, you're dead.
Last night brought back so many memories that make up the integral parts of who I am and the life I've led up to this point. The nostalgia is setting in and I'm getting teary. Bring back the days before the 9-5 job and bills and life decisions and growing up, it's totally overrated.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
the t-shirt of all t-shirts of all t-shirts
You bet your sweet sweet ass that I just purchased this.
How To Ensure That I Will Not Date You
Tell me that you never know the name of bands singing songs you love.
When we're going to sleep, put on an album featuring piano renditions of such classics as "The Rose" by Bette Midler, the theme from the Phantom of the Opera, and the theme from "Love Story," a la John Tesh.
Declare proudly that your favorite band of all time is Def Leppard. And really mean it.
When we're going to sleep, put on an album featuring piano renditions of such classics as "The Rose" by Bette Midler, the theme from the Phantom of the Opera, and the theme from "Love Story," a la John Tesh.
Declare proudly that your favorite band of all time is Def Leppard. And really mean it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)