over it.

Nothing that some vodka, a nice chat with an old friend and Heroes couldn't fix.

Public Service Announcement: The pharmacy on the first floor of Northwestern Memorial Hospital's Galter building is a cleverly disguised black hole. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

The pilot for The Black Donnellys wasn't bad. I enjoy myself a mafia-type drama and it held my interest. Although, I couldn't watch the Kevin kid without picturing him with a mandolin a la Chris Thile (of the now disbanded Nickel Creek) :



We'll see how things go next week.

Just got a call from Andrea and she is stuck in traffic. In front of a man in a truck who is repeatedly digging in his ear and then EATING IT.

Sushi tonight. I love this place.

I didn't want to say anything, but...

It astounds me sometimes, just how horrible people can be. And for no reason except to fuel their mean-spirited, immature and ignorant nature. I haven't experienced behavior like this since high school (maybe middle school?) and it's hard to put into words how nauseating it is to be reminded of such things--that, even after you've taken the time to surround yourself with good people that make you happy, you can lose your faith in humanity all over again (a tad overdramatic, no?).

I never thought having this blog would ever bring about any kind of negativity; it's just a personal space to rant/vent/whatever, so it absolutely blows my mind that someone would actually take the time to sit down and write shitty things that attack me personally. These anonymous comments have been happening increasingly over the past few months and it's really getting old (I deleted most as soon as I got them so no one would be bothered with it). And, unfortunately, it's taking away my desire to write on here (which, isn't permanent or anything, I just need a breather from the bullshit).

I'm moderating the comments and depending on how that goes, I may take them down completely.

For the time being, I'll be working on posts for Chicagoist.

eyes wide shut.

The roommate wrote a post the other day regarding cheating. Her intriguing questions and insight have been weighing on me all week. Cheating is such a hot-button issue and draws the boldest fine line down the middle of a relationship. I, back in my days of naivety, held strong to the belief that if I were cheated on I'd be out that door in a millisecond and never (ever) look back. Now, though, I'm not so sure. There are so many facets to infidelity, and I have no desire to make myself sick to my stomach and get into all of it (plus, Andrea already did that for me), but I do have one situation that is perplexing me.

Earlier this week, Andrea and I met up after work for a cocktail. Our new favorite place, when we're in the mood for a good martini, is Mrs. Murphy and Sons Irish Bistro. The martinis are made just right (Ketel One, straight up, dry, dirty, blue cheese stuffed olives), the wine is half-price two days a week and the service can't be beat. (This paragraph brought to you by Mrs. Murphy.)

Walking in we immediately noticed two attractive men, late twenties/early thirties, seated at the bar. From our seats we had a clear view of them. Eyes were made back and forth. Mostly, everytime Andrea or I looked up, one of the two made eye contact. After about an hour of this, this blantant eyeing game, I happened to look over as one of the guys was raising his beer to his mouth. With his left hand. That had a ring on it. Then we noticed that the other guy was married as well.

Now. It's not that once you get married you can't check out the opposite sex. Or be checked out yourself. But, there is a difference between casually checking someone out and continually making eye contact with them across a bar. So much so, that the person would assume that there is no way that you are taken (although, due to my experiences, I assume that everyone is involved and any suggestive eye contact or conversation is merely a guy being a slimeball. sorry, good guys).

I must reiterate that there is NOTHING WRONG WITH LOOKING. AT ALL. But, in what situations is that all it is?

Is it, (a) all guys, you know, the whole males-are-more-visual kind of thing, wherein it's seemingly rooted in their genetic make-up to gawk at things with boobies? Or (3) that some guys are a little more slimy than others and make a point to stare at any woman within their range of sight? Or, OR, (d) am I just being an irrational, overanalytical female?

"Tonight on your six o'clock news...a shocking development: all males that read this post voted for option (d)"

and just like that, it ended.

(via instant messenger)

Ben: These three elephants are absolutely destroying this village for no reason. I mean, destroying it.

Me: what are you watching?

Ben: I'm not sure the name of it. It's on the sci/fi channel.

Me: mid-afternoon sci/fi, I can dig it.

Ben: due to these attacks from elephants, pregnant women are going over a mile into the forest to birth their child in treetops. The husband builds a "nest" platform, and takes her ass up there.

Me: no.

Ben: If I were that pregnant lady I'd be all, "Excuse me? Derrick, I am NOT having my child in a tree top. Have you any idea what century we're in?"

Ben: [Derrick:] "Bitch, what do you want me to do? Rogue elephants are attacking our fucking village! Get your ass up there, Debra."

Ben: [Debra:] "Ok, Derrick, but I swear to the gods, if Dean Cain ever relates this story to America on Ripley's Believe It or Not on the Sci/Fi Channel (weekdays at 4 pm, 3 central) I'm going to rip your balls off and feed them to the goats."

Ben: [Derrick:] "Oh, ok. You'll rip my balls off. ok, yeah. You're tough. Get your ass into your nest."

Ben: [Debra:] "Allah, a nest? This guy couldn't just get some chocolates like everyone else? Great, a pregnancy nest. Just what I needed."

Me: a nest. that's comforting.

Ben: Amanda. Seriously. If rogue elephants crush your village, you're fucked. They just knock over trees like it's nothing.

Ben: Though, I don't know why they're tearing down the huts to begin with. Kind of bullshit.

Me: total bullshit. what could they possibly be so pissed about?

Ben: I'm not sure. I think it's totally inappropriate, there's no way they have a reason, just boredom.

Ben: or maybe they're pissed at their elephant wife. And since they can't beat her, they have to go knock over a hut.

Me: or maybe they're pissed because they've been roaming those jungles for the last 100,000 years and here come some assholes with hide-flaps covering their crotch, building mounds of clay and straw right in the middle of where the elephants previously gathered to catch-up

Ben: Yeah, that could be. Still, they should be used to it by now. I mean, they're in a jungle or whatever, right? What, the jungle isn't big enough? It's a jungle! How much space do you need?

Ben: You're probably right, though. Elephants don't know what to make of these things.

Me: I don't know man, maybe the elephant just snapped. One day he was all, "awww, hell NO."

Ben: That's what I think it is. His boss has been riding his ass, and as soon as he gets home the bitch wife is already complaining. He couldn't take it any more. And since he couldn't exactly go bowling with the guys, he had to bowl over some motherfucking huts.

Me: Exactly. And, after having done so, he feels a little bit better, but then the guilt sets in and he needs a drink. Which he can't get because there's another fucking hut village where the bar used to be.

Me: needless to say, that village doesn't make it either.

Ben: The whole jungle changed right around him. Now he's worrying about getting old and how the world is changing and how little Stacy and Teddy have to grow up in a place like this.

Me: with no bar.

Ben: and he just can't take it anymore. so, there you go, he's fucking some shit up.

Me: it's pretty straightforward, if you ask me.

Ben: yeah, I suppose it's not so strange. Still, that doesn't do much for Derrick and Debra.

Me: right. Debbie is having a baby in a tree with a prick for a husband. It's all so sad, really.

Ben: Hey, Derrick is doing what he can, get off his back. I mean, he built the nest fully-loaded, with a placenta drain and everything.

Ben: ok, I have to go get some Wendy's.

Me: ok. bye.

an irishman, a cuban and a drunkard, oh my!

Last night the roommate and I decided to head to our favorite local establishment in which to imbibe alcoholic beverages. We had that craving (that we so often have) to sit belly-up in the dark, warm, cozy bar and consume Stella Artois and buffalo wings.

We weren't out on some Anti-Valentine's Day Rampage, just beer and wings on a Wednesday evening at our home away from home. Two things became apparent very quickly.

1. Girls at the bar without men on Valentine's Day are the freshest meat out there. Andrea and I didn't even have our coats off before a slurring gentleman with an Irish brogue was all up in our shit. We were not able to have more than a five minute conversation with one another due to the onslaught of awkward pick-up attempts and forced surface conversation (i.e. "so, where's your boyfriend tonight?"). And I'm not saying this to be cocky or boastful, most bar experiences don't go this way. It was just so blatant and suffocating. We were just two chicks out to have a couple of beers and wings, chat, then go home and watch LOST on the Tivo. Instead we were fresh antelope carcass right there out in the middle of the Serengeti. Drunk men trying to prey on, what they assume, are sad, lonely, desperate single girls out looking for any man to take them home. Vultures.

2. The place was PACKED with men. Beyond the whole preying on desperate girls thing, plenty (if not most) of them were drunk (slurring drunk), bitter men hell-bent on finding themselves a lady friend. It was so sad. One would expect a group or seven of heartbroken, bitter ladies out to say a big fuck you! to the "holiday." But not men. It was all so richly bizarre. And I'm glad it's over.

And I'm never going to a bar on Valentine's Day ever again. The End.

feel the love.

I'm pretty indifferent toward this day, single or taken, but I just couldn't resist...

(from nataliedee)

get it off!

I just switched over to the new version of Blogger. I've been putting it off because I was worried that I would lose the formatting of my template. Luckily, this did not happen. But! Now I can't get the damn Blogger navigation bar off of the top of my blog. I looked through my template html code and found the navbar code and deleted it. BUT THE NAVBAR IS STILL THERE. Anyone else have this problem? Can it be fixed? I want it gone. Now.

Thanks.

wild angels

There's only one musical artist in this world that renders me completely awestruck. In my eyes, Martin Sexton can do no wrong; I respect and appreciate everything he does, even if it's not necessarily my favorite song of all time. He's so incredibly talented, soulful and passionate about his music. And that is why I love him so.

For any Sexton fans, here's a video of Martin (and extended band) performing a song from his new album, Seeds (due out in April). The song is called "Wild Angels" and, yes, causes goosebumps and a little eye mist for the partially obsessed (read: me). Enjoy.


Martin Sexton - Wild Angels (video)

the ski bug.

On the way home from work last night I caught the tail end of a small snowstorm, resulting in a bunch of snow/salt/dirt all up on my windshield. About halfway home, the windshield wiper fluid crapped out. And why is there no warning for that? There's an indicator for every other thing on my car, why not this?! One second, the glorious wiper fluid is bursting out full stream and the next, nothing. Little droplets spitting out. I could break things. Moving on. I planned to stop at a gas station this morning on the way to work to pick up some wiper fluid. The mile before I reached the station was quite treacherous as I couldn't see out of my windshield. I finally arrived all in one piece and ran inside.

Now, I don't ask a lot out of a gas station. Gas, maybe a snack, bottle of water, and basic car necessities (like windshield wiper fluid). I would like to inform everyone in the greater Chicago area that the BP at the corner of Irving Park and Broadway is OUT OF WIPER FLUID. Completely out. Shelves empty. There were plenty of bags of CornNuts, of course, but no fluid that is used to clean one's windshield as to avoid a terrible accident and/or death.

That being neither here nor there, I went skiing last weekend. I would first like to profess my love and gratitude to the town of Winter Park, CO. So wonderful. Just a small, sleepy little town with some big ass mountains. Despite the 30 mph winds, the skiing was great. The runs were fast and steep. And I kicked their ass.

Once you get comfortable with skiing it is one of the most exhilarating sports. Hours go by and it feels like seconds. There is such a sense of accomplishment when you get down a particularly challenging run without wiping out.

I'm not an avid sports person, never have been, so why I took to skiing and why I can actually do it is a complete mystery to me. Before last weekend, I hadn't been on skis for five years. After a small readjustment period, it all came right back and I was flying down those slopes like a pro. Well, not a pro, but I didn't fall or look like a complete douche, so that's a start.

This post is lame. Sorry. But all I can concentrate on is getting back to Colorado. I'm already planning another ski weekend. Next month. It's like crack. Good day.

one last thing before I go...

I have a mad girl-crush on Schuyler Fisk. Mad. Saw her last night at Schubas and she was absolutely fantastic. Her voice sounds like the most perfect thing that has ever entered my ears.

Also? She's the daughter of Sissy Spacek. Hello, Carrie?! Somehow this fact makes her cooler. Or famous-er. Or something. (Or not...she also starred as Kristy Thomas in The Baby-Sitters Club movie--make of that what you will.) Here I was thinking that she was just a singer-songwriter with the smokey voice of an angel. And then! Sissy Spacek! It's all too much.

Additionally, I have to thank Sissy. Not only for birthing a stellar musician, but also for the movie Carrie. Her portrayal of a mind-controlling pyrotechnician inspired a game-winning guess in Balderdash a couple of weekends ago. I know, so hardcore.