MFBT 2006

It's that time again, folks. That glorious time of year when the weather is warming up, the trees are budding, and the skirts and flip-flops are out of hibernation. That's right, it's Flip-Cup Tourney time.

I've mentioned before that my single greatest night thus far in Chicago was in April of 2005 when my team won the flip-cup tournament that my dear friend, Ann Marie, organized to raise money for Cystic Fibrosis (unfortunately, her super cute nephew has the disease). We beat out 20 other teams and emerged as champs. Completely undefeated. We then continued on to other bars where I proceeded to Napoleon Dynamite the crap out of the dance floor. Sigh.

All the way back in November, Ann Marie started talking about the 2006 tourney. My flipping finger started to tingle with excitement.

As game time approached, our team had a bit of a setback. Scott didn't think he could make it. There were a couple of really stressful weeks there where we were thinking that an alternate would be coming in. Which (we love you Eric!) would have seriously affected our winning team combination. Right at the point that we has resigned ourselves to the fact that the full team would not be making an appearance, Scott pulled through. The returning champs would be there in full force. Praise jesus.

First of all, our t-shirts were sweet as all hell:

Jen and I arranged them on our barstools and then just stood there basking in their glory. And then we took about a thousand pictures each. No, we didn't have anything better to do. Shut up.

Both Jen and I were so nervous that we were nauseous and crapping our brains out all day on tournament day. Hmm, maybe Jen didn't want the internet to know that about her, so scratch that. It was only I that was so nervous that I was nauseous and pooping. Much better.

Tournament time and the team assembled at Durkin's. Jen, Scott, Adam and I were back together again to fight for a repeat victory. As team "Mother Fucking Booze Time" (MFBT) we were ready for action (and nervous pooping).

Jen and were so ready we were flexing:

Ann Marie, The Hostess with the Mostest:

Just so you know, this isn't some dinky-ass drinking game competition. No sir-ree. There were over 40 teams in on this. That's a huuuge bitch. It started out with pools of 5 or 6 teams, where we played each pool team once. The top 2 teams in each pool played each other in a sudden death match, and then the top teams from each pool went to the tourney. We annhilated pool play 6-0. Boo-motherfuckin'-ya.

One of the teams that we beat the hell out of was our friends in Quatros Orangutangos (more like, Quatros Retardos) :

These guys would have been SO much cooler had they stuck with their original team name idea: The Vagitarians.

Here's a sweet action shot:

Good work, Rachel.

MFBT entered the tourney pretty confident. We were undefeated. We were kicking some serious ass. Our first opponent was Team H3. Here's a glimpse at what we were up against:

And he was the small one of the group.

Here we are, hard at work against the fat guys with horrible hats:

It went down to the wire...

Here we are, at the very moment we lost. Adam's cup landed up-side down .00000345 seconds AFTER the other team. It was so fucking close. Ugh.

Those guys were gross and fat and assholes anyway.


Defeat. Horrible, terrible defeat. We couldn't even talk about it. So Adam and I hugged.

Not accepting our "loss" we chose to ignore it and instead focused on getting as drunk as possible. Hooray!

That's when random, fun pictures happened. And a sombrero.

Oh, look, Scott is rambling on about something and I'm making a face demonstrating that he is full of shit:

That almost never happens. Wait. No.


Oh, look, I'm trying to take a picture with Adam, and Scott is ruining it by acting like a douche:

In devastating news, here are the girls of Melrose together for the 2nd to last time:

In even more devastating news, check out Trisha there in the backgrund striking quite the pose.

Somewhere along the way a sombrero appeared. So we had to take lots of pictures. Cause that's what you do with a sombrero at a bar.

Rachel and the Sombrero:

Jen and the Sombrero:

Jen and the Sombrero and Me:

Gary the Raffle Guy and the Sombrero:

Me and the Sombrero and Eric on my boobs and Jen oh my god what's happening here?

Me and the Sombrero and Jen Kissing My Face (in what could be the most fun picture ever that I will require Jen to have blown up, framed and prominently displayed in every home she inhabits for the rest of her life because we look so happy and I can't accept the fact that she's leaving in 16 days) :

(sidenote: this little flip-cup tournament raised $4000 for CF. In one night. That's fucking amazing...congrats Annie!!!)

it's like the man is in my brain

(from toothpaste for dinner)

Google Calendar

get it.

awww, our little girl is all grown up

It took me until 2:16pm to realize that today is 4/20 (huh huh, 4/20 dude, insert any pot reference here).

Waiter Rant on Dating:

"Men and women are complex creatures, acting within and through a host of motives, histories, and hopes. Happiness can be tantalizingly glimpsed, the Promised Land seen - only to be blocked by a gossamer wall of intangible otherness. It's frustrating.

I sigh to myself. I hope this date goes better than the last one. It might.

Love is like hope.

And we keep hoping in spite of ourselves."

happy birthday

Today would be my aunt Maggie's 43rd birthday. I remember last year I went to the cemetery to wish her a Happy Birthday and make fun of her for getting old. It was a gorgeous day, the sun was bright and although I was sweating a bit as I sat there crying, the air was just cool enough to be considered perfect.

On the morning of Monday, September 25th, 1995, I sat in Mrs. Meyer's freshman Algebra class working on the day's "Starter." This was Mrs. Meyer's way of keeping us quiet from the get-go. She would put a problem up on the board, and once the bell rang signaling the start of class, we had exactly 3 minutes to complete it. I hated those fucking "Starters" and I hated Mrs. Meyer. Long story. As I wrote the date on my paper, "9/25/95" there was something about it. I just sat and looked at it and knew that it was a day I was going to remember.

After Algebra I moved on to English with Father Butler. Cutest little priest. He was at least one hundred years old, and his breath supported this assumption. He always used the names "Jack," "Jane" and "Mrs. Snodgrass" for examples. Only those three. Ever. And he repeated himself incessantly. And the man loved mythology. Two minutes into class, one of the ladies in the office came on the intercom requesting that I come to the office. And to bring everything with me, as I would be going home for the day.

As I stood up and collected my things I was fighting hard to hold back my tears. They were coming fast, my eyes were full and my throat was tight. Only one thing would bring my dad to get me out of school; Margaret was dying.

As I walked up to the car, my dad's face was expressionless. He looked at me with empty eyes and knew he didn't have to tell me why he was there. We were silent for the first couple of minutes listening to Harry Chapin when he reached over and turned down the music.

"She's been passing all blood in her catheter since this morning and her breathing is getting bad. She's going to go today and your mom and I wanted you and your sister to be there."

I nodded my head "yes" as tears spilled over my lower lids.

Margaret had been living with us since early August when her metastatic breast cancer had progressed to the point that she could no longer live alone and take care of herself. My grandmother and mom had been taking care of her full-time, as any mother and sister would do.

At fourteen it was hard for me to process everything that was going on at the time. I knew Margaret was sick. I knew she'd been fighting her breast cancer off and on for three years. I knew that when she found the lump on her neck in February, the doctors told her that she wouldn't make it through the rest of the year. But knowing all of these things did nothing to help me grasp the concept of death and how it would affect me and everyone around me.

Besides the day she died, I have two vivid memories of her. Being the "cool" young aunt, I always wanted to be around her, it was a treat. I remember she drove this red truck, and every time we would get off the expressway and head down the ramp, she would pump the breaks as she slowed down. As my head would bob forward I would laugh. And laugh hard; that genuine deep belly laugh. As a little kid I thought that was just the greatest thing in the world.

My other memory was about a week after she moved in with us. She needed me to help her walk from the couch to the bathroom. The cancer had spread to the bones in her neck, shoulders and back. She winced as I lifted her off of the couch and she yelled out in pain with her first step. And as she cried harder with every step, she said to me, "Amanda, I'm 32 and I feel like I'm 92. I can't believe that I feel this old. I'm not supposed to feel this old. It's not fair."

Words of comfort didn't come easy to me then. Hell, they don't come easy to me now. But, as a freshman in high school I didn't know what to say to my cool aunt Margaret who was dying in front of my eyes. I wish I would have said something profound to ease her pain, but instead all that came out was, "I know. I'm sorry."

The two months that she lived with us, I kept up my business as usual. Swim team practice, homework at the kitchen table, watching TV and shutting myself in my room to listen to music and talk on the phone. Of all of those nights that she sat downstairs with my mom I think I joined them twice. When you are a teenager you think you are invincible, that you'll live forever; you're selfish and don't stop for one fucking second and think that there is a person in your home that is living out her last few months and all she wants is to have people around to distract her from that reality. And all you do is stay upstairs in your own world. You have no idea that you will come to regret those two months for the rest of your life.

My dad and I pulled up to the house. It was dreary and rainy. I walked in and saw her. She was in my grandmother's pastel pink recliner. She was sedated; on a morphine drip to keep her comfortable. The Hospice people were there milling around and checking things. My mom, grandmother and various family members were gathered around her. Her breaths were shallow and far apart. I grew up ten years in that moment. There is something humbling about watching someone die; to literally take their last breaths. You realize you need to get over yourself and stop worrying about whether Libby really said that to Sarah and wondering if Jacob is going to ask you to Homecoming. This was so much bigger than all of that.

Even though there were over a dozen people at our house that day, Margaret chose to take her last breath with just her mother and two sisters by her side. My cousin and I had been at Kinko's making a collage and programs for the funeral; she was gone by the time we returned. I sat next to her and held her hand before the coroner got there. Her skin was still warm. I told her I was sorry for not appreciating her more and spending time with her before she died. I told her that I loved her. I kept repeating, "I'm sorry."

The reason I started out doing clinical research in breast cancer was for Margaret. I got emotional in my interview when they asked me why I wanted the job and I told them about her. When I looked in the eyes of patients dying of breast cancer, especially the young ones, I saw her. And it broke my heart. It inspired me to work my ass off for them and reminded me to take a step back and stop focusing on the difficult things in my life and to be grateful for every day.

Sometimes (often times) I forget to be grateful and get consumed with stresses and worries in my life; am I happy in my job? Am I making enough money? Why do I owe money for taxes? What am I doing with my life? I need to lose weight. Where is a decent guy to date?

And then I'll think of her and how she only made it to 32-years-old. She lost a baby, was initially diagnosed with breast cancer, had a breast removed and lost her hair at 29 years of age. That seemed ancient to me at 14, but scares the hell out of me at 24. It really puts things into perspective.

It's amazing how the pain of missing someone doesn't go away after almost 11 years. The tears come and my gut tightens like it was yesterday.

So, Happy Birthday, Maggie. I miss the shit out of you, we all do.

Helpful Tips For Fighting and Winning the War on Easter

Tip #4:

For Lent, give up not talking about the Glorious Resurrection of Christ.



(you can find the rest of the tips here)

Jesus Is My Coach

I can't tell you how many times I've caught myself thinking how inspired I would be to get out there and take part in more sportly type things if only I had a statue of Jesus actively participating with boys and girls in a variety of sports.

Here, today, in honor of the season, I bring you the Jesus Inspirational Sports Statues.

With favorites like:


Jesus Playing Football

Nothing says brotherly love like tackling the big JC.

Jesus and Martial Arts

Um. Martial arts originated in China, Japan and Korea. And these countries are predominantly Buddhist. It just doesn't make any sense.

Jesus Playing Hockey

What is he teaching these kids about safety? Helmets, Jesus, helmets.

Jesus Playing Golf

Watch where you put your stick, Jesus. This really sheds some light on the whole priest-molesting-children phenomenon.

Jesus on Skis

uhhhhhhhh...... I love how his holy powers protect him from the arctic chill.

Most importantly, why does every kid have some shade of red hair?

You can see the rest of these fine statues here.

Go Jesus.

down with uptown

I love how Wikipedia makes the area that I'm moving to, Uptown, sound so glorious and fascinating. Sure, there's plenty of Chicago history there, but they really make it out to be quite the place. So much so that it almost makes me forget about the extensive homeless/drug-dealing/sketchy population that inhabits the main intersection around the corner from my condo complete with a guy, high on something, bitch-slapping the crap out of his girlfriend/wife/ho and the ever-present police force regularly frisking and hand-cuffing people in alleys and right there on the sidewalk next to the convenience store.

things i found today that don't suck.

This and this.

sick to my stomach

Perusing the news over lunch, I read an article about Zacarias Moussaoui's ongoing trial for his role in planning the September 11th attacks. Today they played the last thirty minutes of the audio tape from the cockpit of Flight 93, the plane that crashed in Pennsylvania on it's way to Washington DC. The tape featured the hijackers first taking over the plane, the struggle between the passengers and the hijackers, and the final moments before the plane, belly-up and nose first, hit the ground. I was "fine" until I read the following:

"The last words heard as the plane nears the ground were repeated four times in Arabic: 'Allah is the greatest. Allah is the greatest. Allah is the greatest. Allah is the greatest.'"

I am so taken aback by the devotion to destruction that those men had, and all in honor of Allah. Maybe it's because I'm not a very religious person, but I can't imagine going to the lengths of killing a plane-load of people in the name of any god.

I couldn't finish my lunch.

Ugh.

new commute

It's Day 3 of my new commute to work. I get to drive now. I don't know if you understand the gravity of this development.

For the past two years I have lovingly endured the pain of the Chicago Transit Authority. That's approximately 500 days (1000 commutes). Be it the train or the bus, it's almost always a negative/bothersome experience. Delayed trains/buses, track construction, standing outside in bad weather, being crammed in train cars that smell like B.O. and/or urine, awkward eye placement when you don't have a book to keep you occupied (how many times can you possibly read an ad for a clinical trial on antidepressants?), "beep beep beep...we are being delayed waiting for signals ahead/because crews are working on the tracks ahead/or no reason at all, we expect to be moving shortly..."

All of that is behind me now. I feel human again. I just get in my car and put on some tunes and drive. Thirty to forty minutes or an hour or more on the train twice a day has now been replaced with 20 glorious minutes in my own private vehicle. Amen.

This morning I made it from my apartment to the parking garage at work in 18 minutes feeling refreshed and stress free. That sure as heck beats the usual post-train feeling of needing a shower and that the guy who was crammed all up on my ass at least owes me dinner.

clearly the apple lands directly next to the tree

An excerpt from the email I received today from my dad, referring to his upcoming visit to Chicago:

"Just about two weeks; I'm pumped! I hope the weather is good, but even if it's not, we'll just hang out in the bars."

damn it.

Searching back through pictures in my camera, I came across the following in which I could not, for the life of me, remember where/when they were taken...

After a few minutes of squinty-eyed contemplation, I realized they were taken approximately 20 minutes before the unfortunate incident wherein I almost ralphed all over Katie and Brigid's apartment.

God, I need a tan.

f bombs

thanks to toothpaste for dinner

oh hell no

How could you possibly put a price on this?


(Been under a rock for the past couple of weeks?? It's from this gem.)


thanks, steve.

God help him.

On the way into work this morning I stopped by my trusty Starbucks at Michigan Ave and Superior. Standing in line behind me was an eight-year-old little girl and her father. She's tapping his arm and pointing at a table where a very polished woman is sipping her latte and chatting on her cell phone.

"Daddy. Daddy, see? Daddy, look! Daddy! See! That's the Coach wristlet I want."

stuff.

Due to an exponentially increasing workload at the job, a dead laptop at home, looking for new jobs both in Chicago and Cincinnati, and condo searches, I have been a horrible blog person for the past month. Not that many of you care, but a couple are angry that I haven't been providing a means of procrastination. For that I am profoundly sorry. Not really.

I'll try to come up with something soon, in the meantime here are some random things:

I'm going through one of my nesting phases in which every guy that talks to me is a potential husband and pregnant women and small children cause a massive ovary explosion.

I found a glorious condo in Uptown that I will be inhabiting come May. Think brand new with a bad ass kitchen and MY OWN BATHROOM. Yeah. It's freakin' sweet.

Finally got a parking spot at work after waiting 2 years. And it's cheaper than what I'm paying to ride the train. From the new condo it will be a quick trip down Lake Shore Drive. And I'll have 24/7 access to parking downtown. And I'll be free of CTA commutes full of urine-scented packed train cars. Hallelujah.

Joshua Radin's song "The Fear You Won't..." was on Grey's Anatomy last night. It's available on itunes. Get it.

Saw Coldplay last week at the United Center. It was good, but just ok. Highlight of the show by far was "Politik."

Jack Johnson's song "Upside Down," besides being yawningly similar to every other song he has produced, sounds exactly like the Stones' "Sympathy for the Devil" at the beginning. And I find that so irritating.

Fingers crossed to win tickets to the free Guster show at Cubby Bear next week. Other upcoming shows include Cloud Cult, Pearl Jam and Lollapalooza.

My dad is coming to Chicago at the end of April for a weekend full of baseball, beer, thai and steak. He can't get here soon enough.

April Fools Day is quite possibly my absolute least favorite day of the year.

Make it summer. Now.