www.adamisthebomb.com/org

This post is up here just so Adam will quit bitching that he hasn't made the blog. Maybe if he had been in town for my bday and not galavanting off in small town Indiana (I just threw up in my mouth a little) he would have been in some pics and made the blog wayyyyyyyyy back then.

So, here it is, his big blog debut......................

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ADAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Friday night we kicked off Adam's birthday weekend extravaganza at Parthenon in Greektown. Um, one word, de-lish. The food was out of this world, complete with some flaming dishes (i'm going to leave any and all gay comments to myself at this particular point). We went through multiple bottles of house red and white wine. The white tasted like pine trees. It was vomititious. Other than that, everything was fantastic. We had a blast.

Couple of the Century, Adam and Andrea. God, they're cute. They could really produce precious babies...save for the fact that they both love men:

After many bottles of the vino, causing some droopy-eye issues, Adam and I. Hi, I love this man:

Here's the stunning Rachel posing for no particular reason except that she's had 12 glasses of wine:

Adam carrying the "Posing With Food" torch. Don't think that's a nice, supportive smile coming from me. I'm totally scheming a plan to get that cake out of his hands:

Hi. We've been drinking heavily. And there are 8 of us in a Honda Accord:

(that's Annie hiding behind the animal around Rachel's neck)

A huge shoutout to Eric for driving the clown car full of loud, obnoxious drunkards. You're a good man, charlie brown.

In honor of Eric's goodness, dashboard Marla makes the blog:

We rounded out the evening at Emmitt's and Duffy's. I would like to state for the record that I will not be returning to the Duffy's establishment on a Friday/Saturday night for the rest of my life. I haven't seen that many people using fake IDs in years. And I felt old. Ew.

Adam and I burnt up the dance floor, trying to capture the attention of a certain guy that he had his eye on. Note to self: Do not wear sweater when there exists the chance of grinding for over an hour. sick.

So, here you go, Adam, your first official blog post. And this one even features you as the main subject. God, I must really love your ass.

Happy B-day, big boy, here's to next year :)

Boycott Koss Products

When I was in the fifth grade, Paula Abdul and Color Me Badd came to Louisville to perform in concert. Second only to the New Kids On The Block (NKOTB for the real fans), it was THE music event of the year. The tickets went on sale around my 10th birthday and I HAD to go (accompanied by my mother, of course). It would be the perfect follow-up birthday gift after the M.C. Hammer concert videos and magenta and purple Hammer Pants I received the previous year.

A week before the tickets went on sale, my mom and I were shopping and I found it. The most gorgeous purse that god himself had ever made. It was black leather with a flap that closed at the front with a gold twisty fastener thing, a handle on top AND a removable shoulder strap. It was a grown-up purse. And I wanted to be grown-up. And it was over a hundred dollars. I begged and pleaded and stomped for this purse. My mom said I could have it, but it would replace the Paula Abdul/Color Me Badd show. Dilemma of the grandest proportions. I mulled and paced and thought and paced some more. But when it came down to it, it had to be the purse. My rationale was that I would have the purse for years, but the concert was only one night. Yes, I was a raging dork even then.

I walked into school the next day sporting the glorious purchase. No one noticed. When, in frustration, I finally asked someone what they thought, I received cold to lukewarm responses. It was not a hit. I believe one girl even said that it looked like an "old lady" purse. Grown-up, indeed. When the news leaked that I chose the purse over the concert, I was the laughing stock of my 5th grade classroom. Still recovering.

A couple of years ago I ran across "the purse" while cleaning out some old stuff. It's really really ugly. And old lady-ish. sigh.

That particular decision has always been heralded as my worst purchase ever. Until yesterday. I stopped by CompUSA on my way home to pick up some earphones as my iPod guys died. The only ear buds to choose from were the standard crappy iPod ones for $40 and these for $10. I settled on the cheaper ones because I'm saving up for a really nice pair. WORST. DECISION. EVER. I can't begin to describe how much these things suck except to say that they really fucking suck. They're too big for my ear canal, extremely uncomfortable, they are consistently a tangled mess and the sound is pitiful at best. I would return them and get a different set, but the selection there was a joke and buying them was a painful experience.

I guess I'll just settle with this crap until I spring for these. I never thought I could get so excited over earphones, but it has happened. Can't wait for them to be all up in my ear canal.


*this is the first official dispatch from the new office. with a huge desk. and a window. and no more cubby of hell. thank you jesus*

The Wisdom of Henley

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.

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:

Seriously, this picture does not do him justice. The man is Selleck's clone.

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:

Coming soon to a mailbox near you.

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.

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.)

recent toothpaste for dinner favs:

http://toothpastefordinner.com/111305/missed-connections.gif
http://toothpastefordinner.com/110905/got-the-crowd-started.gif

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

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.

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.

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.

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...

on a much lighter note...

those mcsweeney's people just don't quit.

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.

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 University of Louisville. Just because I am from there, in no way should you assume that I support the local college football team. I am a University of Kentucky fan. Your chances of getting in my pants just went from -7 to -1375.

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.

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.

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.

hahahahahahahaha

Do yourself a quick favor and click on this.

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.

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.

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.

The Year of the Costume

Warning: Photo-heavy post.

I don't know what it is about Chicago or 2005 or what, but I swear to you this year brought out the best in costumes. Most times, you'll have one or two really good ones, but never do you have so many you can't even keep track. Until now. And holy lord it made for the best Halloween weekend to date.

It was a two-night extravaganza. Friday was house parties, Saturday we hit the bar. Whew.

Night #1, I donned some Bears gear (including the sweetest hat EVER):

The Doctor, the Official Girl Scout, and the Bears Fan:

Best costumes of Friday Night: Hamburgler and Ballpark Beer Man (complete with towel shoulder pad).

Saturday, 5pm: I was not going out. I had tentative plans with some friends to have a chill night, hanging out and drinking some wine.

Saturday, 8pm: Dressed as a pregnant Sydney Bristow (Jennifer Garner in Alias for those living under a rock) and roomie as a Flapper/1920's Woman of the Night, on our way to the bar. oops.

Obligatory self-pic:

Our friends were having a party at O'Malleys, $30 all you can drink 8pm till close. BEST. DEAL. EVER. Jack was flowing like wine. Or water. Or whatever. I don't remember.

I spent the bulk of my evening chasing after people to have my picture taken with them. Halloween (and O'Malley's for that matter) can be so hit or miss. It either blows chunks or blows every other holiday out of the water. This year, every fun, crazy and overall cool person got the memo to make it to O'Malleys. And I would like to thank them all.

Onto the costumes...

There's Waldo:

This guy ran out at the last minute and picked up a flight suit. He didn't take the time to try it on and when he put it on 5 minutes before he had to meet up with friends, this is what he had. Thank god he had a sweet ass to fill it out. Kudos, Iceman:

Oh, if only I'd run into this guy Friday night:

Devo was there in full effect. Awesome:

Now, the top 3 costumes of the night. Drumroll, please......

3. I would like you to meet my idol, Ms. Chipotle Burrito:

(of note, I was the first person who knew what she was. She jumped up and down with glee and kissed me.)

2. Three-Hole Punch Joe. Hello, real life Jim Halpert. I saw this guy from across the bar and literally ran, as fast as my pregnant belly would allow, and tackled him. I've never been more excited in all my twenty-four years.

1. Normally, my real life Jim would be #1 by a landslide, but when this guy walked in, I couldn't contain myself. For originality and causing me to spray Jack Daniels out of my nose, the coveted top spot goes to....Vikings football player:

The blow-up doll really sealed the deal. Hilarious. I'm still laughing about it.

I don't know if any other females out there have ever sported a fake pregnant belly before, but it really freaked me out. I worked long and hard to get that belly to look and feel real. It made me stand different, walk different and sit different. More often than not, I found myself (or someone else pointed out) that my hand was resting on my new bump or I was rubbing it in an eerily authentic manner. When I was pushing my way through a crowd of people, I instinctively put my arms across the belly to "protect" it. It brought out very strong maternal instincts. And it scared me. The maternal thing does happen every once in a while, but the lord never fails in my time of need, and will place a screaming child within 3 feet of me to snap me out of it. Unfortunately, no screaming kids in the bar, so I'm still recovering.

Even creepier than the prego belly itself was this one guy who walked up to me and started chatting. He commented on the costume and put his hand on the "baby." He then proceeded to continue rubbing and telling me how sexy he thought it was. I think I cried a bit inside and ran away as fast as I could. And took an extra hot shower when I got home. Ew.

Happy (real) Halloween everyone. And don't give out raisins to the kids, it's embarrassing.

as we revert back to childhood...

real quick, go sox.

Ok, onto the topic at hand. In honor of Halloween, we went pumpkin-patching. And oh the fun we had!! Strike that, within 2 nanoseconds of pulling into the parking lot, we were already yelling at the people trying to park in front of us and then stole a minivan's spot. Like, sped up and cut in. Quite certain it was chock-full of little pumpkin-crazed kids. Quite certain I've never been more proud of the Escape's cornering abilities.

So, we're already bitching about the people trying to park, having to park approximately a mile from the entrance, and the fact that it's going to be crowded and full of screaming kids. Needless to say, we were ready for some big time fun.

Surprisingly, we headed straight for the food. Someone I know waited in line for 30 minutes just to get a pretzel. The saltiest pretzel that has ever been salted. There were brats, corn, funnel cakes, apple cider, standard pumpkin patch fare. And it was cheap and delish. Go figure.

Then begins the frolicking amongst the pumpkins. Sheer joy, I tell you. Or completely uneventful, whichever. We did, however, pose for some pictures to pump up the volume.

The obligatory self-pic:

Couples photo among the orange guys:

Searching for the most perfect pumpkin ever (why would I bend over like that with an ass this size?? why? Amanda, crouch. Crouch, god damnit. For your sake and the sake of those around you. honestly):

Discovery of the greatest pumpkins of all time or being really lame? It's a toss up:

We love pumpkins:

We settled on some sweet pumpkins and oogled over the little baby ones. What is it with miniature things that turns girls to mush (certain male anatomical parts excluded)?? After all was said and done, I left as the proud owner of 2 medium sized pumpkins and 2 baby ones. And they are arranged in an oh so halloweenish fashion on the kitchen counter with a spider candle holder from The Barn. I'm basically Martha Stewart. Well, except for the part where I completely dropped the ball and skipped right over the carving part. It's just so tedious. And stringy. And seedy. And really hard on the other pumpkins watching.

In other Halloween-related news, I still have no costume and it's Thursday. And I have 2 costume-mandatory parties TOMORROW NIGHT. How much do I hate Halloween? About as much as I hate New Years. All this hype, all this frustration and disappointment. I could be something trite and overdone, that would be easy. But something in me won't let that happen. I was Marilyn Monroe last year for christ's sake, it doesn't get more overdone than that. I feel I need to redeem myself this year. Of course, my ideas are not panning out. I've had a few good ones, but eventually decided they are only funny to my small circle of cohorts and others would not appreciate it quite as much. Sorry, Mrs. Roper, maybe next year when we have a full ensemble cast. Anyone dying to be Jack Tripper??

damn straight.

click me.

way too much free time, or too much acid, whatever.

It doesn't get much more disturbing than this.

Friday Fun Music Discussion and Random Pic of the Day

A man truly after my own heart...

music geeks, get in on the debate!

Random Pic of the Day:

I took this pretending like I know anything about photography, which I don't. I mean, I deeply enjoy looking at pictures (I'm borderline obsessed) and can appreciate good work, but as far as taking the photos, I leave it to the professionals. But, I kinda like how this one turned out. My thanks to the mass transit system of Chicago for making this photo possible.

Why am I still talking about my birthday 2 weeks later?

Because I remembered I had these pictures, that's why.

Posts like the following are good to get in every once in a while, you know, just to keep me humble.

For my birthday dinner we went to my favorite tapas place in Chicago, Cafe Iberico. Amidst the bread and olive oil and goat cheese and marinara and ham croquettes and patatas bravas and sangria, someone (roommate extraordinaire) snapped this picture:

Why, Jen, why?? Why would you take an action shot of me stuffing my face?? It was my bday for christ's sake! But, as I am the humbliest of the humble, I embrace the beauty and hilarity of the truth displayed in this photo. This girl loves to eat. Face it. (This pic guarantees at least another couple months of singledom. Maybe years.)

I also have this thing where I love to pose with food. Especially food that I want to bathe in. One such food would be flan. Oh, the egg-custardy jiggly caramely goodness of the flan. And with candles!

I have to say, this next photo is quite possibly the best picture ever taken that perfectly depicts the feeling of a moment.

So, I get my flan with blazing birthday candles, take part in a photo-op with flan, set it down on the table and proceed to close my eyes and make a wish and blow out the candles, all with great fanfare. You know, because that's what you do on your birthday when you have candles in front of your face. Going along with birthday etiquette, after the special person extinguishes the candles, the next logical action would be applause. Right? Jesus, remember when you were a kid and the crowd around the table erupted in uproarious applause celebrating your amazing feat of expelling some air and spraying saliva all over the frosting?? It was exhilarating.

Well, after I blew out the candles on my flan you want to know what I heard? Besides the clinking of silverware and plates throughout the restaurant, I heard crickets. The sound of silence. Of all 9 people sitting around my table, NOT ONE CLAPPED. Nothing. Dead air. It was at that moment, without comment, I started the slow-clap for myself and this picture was captured:

Please note my look of utter exasperation and Scott doing the opposite of clapping in the background. Everyone eventually caught on and joined in and we all had a good laugh about it (sure, I was laughing on the outside, but on the inside my 8-year-old self was crushed).

Apparently I will hold onto the celebratory birthday habits of childhood forever. And I'm proud of it. CLAP FOR ME, DAMN IT! Who doesn't applaud post-candle blow out?!?! Who are these supposed "friends"? It's like I don't even know them anymore.

birthday 2005

Basically I have the greatest friends that anyone could dream up. I adore every molecule of their beings. With that said, I would like to shine the spotlight on three particular people who really went the extra mile to make my b-day rule.


Friend Who Rocks My World #1: My Sister, Heather

Ok, so she's friends and family. I'm a lucky, lucky girl. She drove her ass up here from Kentucky, along with 2 friends, to partake in the festivities. And for that I am eternally grateful. It was great to have her here...there's such comfort in having family visit me in the Chi. I often overlook the fact that I've developed this world for myself here that my family knows very little about. Even though we are close and talk regularly, they only know a few of my friends and have no idea what I do on a daily basis. They haven't seen my new apartment, or walked the streets of my neighborhood, or eaten at my favorite restaurants or had a beer with me at the local watering hole. When they get to share that with me it brings it all full circle. sigh.

I love my family bigger than words and I love my life and friends here more than I ever thought I could. Put those two together and you can just forget about it. Internal fireworks, people.

Heath, thanks for coming. It means the world to me. And thanks for finding Squeaky. I swear I don't live in a shithole.

Friend Who Rocks My World #2: Eric (The Dude)

I purposefully left this picture full-size to demonstrate the sheer tallness of this person. Something that is completely new information for him, I'm sure. In this pic I'm standing up (all 5 feet 4 inches) and in 3+ inch heels. He's just so...so...tall. And lord god the thing I have for super tall guys. Scrumptious.

Alas, he already belongs to someone very near and dear to my heart (shout out to her in a bit). Taken or not, he's my most favorite new-ish friend. Not only did this man leave secret comments on the blog as "the dude" (complete with Lebowski references, be still my heart), HE MADE ME A BIRTHDAY MIX. Entitled "The Dude." And brought it to the bar. And drank a White Russian to reveal himself. Seriously, Annie, hold on to this one. Because I said so.

Dude, thank you. You're good people. And I know good people.


Friend Who Rocks My World #3: Patty Party Planner

I can't really get into how much this person does for me--not only in perfectly planning my birthday activities, but also on a daily basis--without getting verklempt. I won't subject you guys to a bunch of sappy lameness so I'll just say thanks and leave it at that. I owe this chick my first born. (Jack or Isabella. We are losers.)

I'm going to throw in an honorable mention here: Ann "Great-Smelling Breasts" Marie

I have no idea what's happening here, but thanks Annie for allowing me to do that. And for apparently enjoying it as much as I did.


Roomie: I should be totally pissed that you couldn't be there, but, Brandon Flowers is the only valid excuse for missing my birthday. Good work. We'll always have Buffett at Wrigley, you are awesome.

All in all, it was spectacular. A huge kiss on the mouth to everyone who celebrated with me (in person AND in spirit).

Can't wait till next year, kids...

Frustrations v4.0 and random pic of the day

1. Having to get up and go to work EVERY SINGLE DAY. I'm so done with the whole thing.

2. My landlord comes by this morning with the "carpenters" to measure for our new back door. Long story. I use the term "carpenters" loosely because they were less like carpenters and more like 2 acne-filled teens who were clearly doing this as part of a special Juvenile Detention Center diversion program. Sweet, glad they have access to my house all day. Comforting.

3. The landlord pulled up in this:

A shiny, brand new 2006 Lexus GS 430 in black onyx. Gorgeous. O-inducing. Not the point. It's the fact that he pulled up in his fancy schmancy car while I'm living in a moldy, mouse-infested apartment THAT HE OWNS and drive a shitbox Corolla. I think I might have keyed it just a little. oopsies.

4. Despite my attempts to thwart the virus attacking my upper respiratory system, it keeps getting worse everyday. Worse. Not better. I'm in hell. Thanks, M.

random fun pic of the day:

Birthday and David Gray pics and posts coming soon to a blog near you. That was so lame, but I just can't erase it.

Marketing Gone Wrong

I have to bitch for one second. Maybe 3.

For quite some time now I've had an aversion to the Lamisil commercial featuring Digger the Dermatophyte:

You can view the ad here.

People, he LIFTS UP THE TOENAIL AND SCURRIES UNDERNEATH IT. God, I could puke just thinking about it. Then, while he's down there, him and his buddies use their warty claws to scrape away at the tender flesh under the toenail. F-ing sick.

I can't wrap my head around who in their right mind would not only dream this up, animate it, then consider it satisfactory for mass viewing. The CEO of Novartis Pharmaceuticals (maker of Lamisil) thought they could really get to the giant toenail fungus-infected population and reel them in by showing the gore and heinousness that is scraping away under their toenails?? No. You save that kind of gut-wrenching footage for Red Cross ad campaigns raising money for mass disaster victims and starving children.

What really pushed me to write this post is that last night, the Digger commercial was immediately followed by the new "my NHL" commercial. Here are some pics:

This particular commercial doesn't make me want to puke so much as it rips out my soul. A chick, in some Pirates of the Caribbean get-up, seductively helps Mr. Hockey Warrior into his gear. Come. On. The drama. The grandeur. The absolute lameness. It makes no sense and in no way could it possibly convince people to tune into hockey. Show burly men slamming into one another, bring back the hilarious commercials featuring what each player did during his turn with the Stanley Cup. Anything except this crap.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand, I'm done.

Yesterday was my 2 year anniversary of moving to Chicago. Ah, the Cotton Anniversary. What? Who comes up with THAT crap?

Oh, how time flies my friends.

It contains real panther bits, so you know it's good.

I would like to take this opportunity to let everyone know about a love affair I've been having with a particular item that can be found in liquid or aerosol form. Stella Rose Absolute by Stella McCartney. Good work, Paul. Not only did you bless the world with rock 'n roll, but your offspring is an olfactory genius.

It all began a couple months ago when a friend got in the car and this smell hit me. The smell of what I would assume is heaven, mixed with roses, sprinkled with orgasm. I had this overwhelming urge to lick her.

I know what you're thinking, rosey perfumes are for grandmas. I'll admit I've lived by that same mentality. But this. This. Ugh.

I received a bottle as a birthday gift and used it for the first time this morning. I sprayed the glorious elixir into the air and let the sweet blanket of aromatic perfection fall upon me. I involuntarily moaned. It's that good. I keep getting whiffs of it and it's distracting me from my work. Is it unprofessional to tell the boss-man that a project isn't finished because I sat around and smelled myself all day?

just. quit.

Katie Holmes is knocked-up. Which means that Tom Cruise must have jizzed in a cup and the results were used for artificial insemination. Because, if memory serves me right, gay men don't like doing women.

All I have to say is that this is going to be the shortest, droopiest-eyed, scientological filled-with-dead-aliens-or-something-equally-as-mindblowing spaz to grace this earth.

Can't wait to see what the freak shows name it.

Mazel Tov!

O Brother, Where Art Thou?

The original idea for this post was to rub it in Kelley's face that the cheesey besties pic Noah and I took approximately 2 minutes after meeting one another was better than any picture they took together that night. This is not something I noticed, but Kelley hasn't stopped bitching about it since she sent the photos.

It's important to note that Kelley and I share a brain. We've scared the shit out of each other on over a million occasions by saying the same thing at the same time, finishing each other's sentences, going off on ad-libbed tangential stories that make absolutely no sense to anyone else but us, and having essentially an identical sense of humor. Now, when Noah came into her life, she informed me that she had found another one of us. (gasp!) Clearly, I had my doubts. Until I experienced it for myself this past weekend. And let me tell you. The 3 of us together is akin to a nuclear reactor of wit and humor on the brink of explosion.

So, there we are, all sharing a brain. Then things start to get weird. First, Noah and I find ourselves involved in what is, arguably, the best picture ever taken. Then we find out we were born one day apart. And, brace yourself, WE'RE MISSING THE SAME TEETH. I know, I know, gather yourself. Both of us were born without the teeth next to our two front teeth (we both have fake ones in place of the freaks who decided not to show up). Kinda sick, but totally cool.

Perplexed and understandably shocked by all of this news, we could come up with only one explanation: Noah and I are long-lost twins (I popped out late-night on October 7th and he followed shortly after midnight on the 8th). But not your standard-issue twins. No ma'am. Siamese twins joined at the teeth.

This explains why Kelley loves us both so much, we're literally the same person! She found her dream...me with a penis.

My Super Sweet 24

It's that time of year again, folks. That's right, it's about the time to celebrate my birth. Put on your party pants, break out the fireworks, a little plane-writing in the sky, a huge party, and tons of gifts. I kid, I kid (about the plane thing).

It's no secret that I love birthdays. Always have, always will. This is directly related to my mom making sure that October 7th was my super, shining Special Day. There was a "Happy Birthday!!" as soon as I woke up, a big breakfast, a card waiting on the kitchen table, dinner of my choosing and a made-from-scratch cake. Gina basically rocked the birthday casbah. The fact that I'm dramatic, emo, and love attention may play a small part in the birthday excitement as well.

It seems that my birthday can't come and go without some contemplation and evaluation of my life. To me, each birthday is the closing of one chapter and the beginning of the next. It's just more dramatic that way. Last year, I made this big deal about how hard 22 had been, so I declared that 23 was going to be suddenly spectacular. Surprisingly enough, the Life-Changing Birthday Fairy didn't quite come through, and twenty-three had it's trials and tribulations, as does each year of one's life. God, I loved doing that--pretending like I had total control over my destiny. ha.

This girl has always been a worrier and control freak. Always. I'm quite certain I had an ulcer before I was 10. As I got older, each year bringing about bigger decisions and added responsibility, the worrying increased exponentially. Until this past year, when I successfully worried myself into a frenzy and basically hit an emotional rock bottom of sorts. I didn't know who I was anymore. Most of 23 wasn't fun, but sweet jesus, I gained the wisdom of the likes of Buddha (and, oddly enough, a similar gut region).

Something I have to keep reminding myself is that there is no such thing as having control over your life. Try as you may, all it will get you is disappointed and frustrated. I've often asked myself why certain things happen or why things are so hard, etc. Time and time again I find the answer is that there is no answer. It's just life. Shit happens. You cry, bitch, lean on your friends, deal with it, and most importantly, learn from it. Learn. Learn. Learn. And let it go, man, let it go. I whole-heartedly believe that everything happens in it's own time, when it's supposed to, when it's right. If I didn't look at it that way, I'd just sit around and bitch and complain and worry. And frankly, I've done that for long enough and I'm exhausted.

Not that this change in mentality happens over night. Or that I'm miraculously this zenned-out, "life is a flowing river and we are all reeds in the tides" new person. I've only been working on this relinquishing of control thing for the past few months, and I'm quite certain I'll have to keep working on it forever. Whatever the case, I breathe easier, worry less and laugh more.

As far as birthdays are concerned, I can't foresee myself ever having some crisis regarding getting older. Maybe this is a premature assumption considering I'm only turning 24, so we'll see. I found my first gray hairs (3 of them) a couple weeks ago, my hands and elbows require more lotioning than they used to, hangovers hit me harder and pounds pack on quicker. But those are the rules of the game, people. You can't sit around and worry about that crap, all it does is bring on more gray hairs.

Point of all of this? Nothing. Happy early birthday to me. This weekend I'm eating my face off and getting drunk with my family and friends and that's exactly what I want to do and where I want to be. Bring on 24. Amen.

Longest Weekend of My Life

Alright kids, just completed the second to last wedding of the 2005 season. Thankfully I'm not in the last one, which means more money in the ol' bank account for groceries. Finally.

Quick summary of Liz and Brett's wedding:

Simple.
Gorgeous.
Polish.
Driving all over northwestern Chicago.
Best photographer ever.
Worst DJ ever.
Kelley and I together again for the first time since May.
Up until 7am after the reception laughing my ass off to the point of pulling a muscle in my neck.

I feel that this past weekend can be summed up in the following 3 pics:

Me Pumping Gas in Bridesmaid's Dress (between pictures and reception):

Kelley and I, Sweaty and Glassy-Eyed Intoxicated (this one's for you, Steve):

Noah in a Babe Sandwich (#1 dance partners of all time):

Despite driving over 200 miles in 2 days, all within the same city, good times were had by all. Kelley and I spent the bulk of the night requesting the worst wedding reception songs ever. Not that the DJ needed any help with that. We had 7 of 7 requests filled, all horrific, all filled the dance floor. We knew what kind of crowd we were dealing with. It was glorious.

Songs the DJ played (in all seriousness):

- Loudest, worst elevator music during dinner
- The Chicken Dance
- Electric Slide
- It's Raining Men
- Ba Wit Da Ba (Kid Rock)
- Cotton Eye Joe
- Man, I Feel Like a Woman (Shania Twain)

Our requests (that Mr. DJ LOVED):

- The Macarena
- Mambo #5
- Pour Some Sugar on Me
- Red, Red Wine (UB40)
- UB40's cover of "Fools Rush In"
- Can't Touch This
- Hot in Herre

You bet your ass we were on that dance floor from start to finish. I would also like to give a shout out to Kell's main man, Noah, for working his version of Ashlee Simpson's Hoe-Down dance into every song. A rare talent, indeed.

I seriously miss you, Kell. Drop out of med school and come back, ok? ok.

GOOOOOOO Dayton Flyers

This makes me miss UD.

It brings a tear. And a sinking feeling in my gut as I am reminded that I graduated college 2 1/2 years ago. And I'm going to be 30. Someday. What am I doing with my life?? oh my god, panic attack ensuing.


Totally unrelated: the boner part of The Office last night could possibly be the funniest line ever uttered on primetime television.

Virtual Reality Check

Amanda107: a guy basically has to blow me away and think i am the funniest, smartest, prettiest, wittiest, most fun girl he has ever met
Amanda107: and he has to give me a run for my money, I need a worthy adversary
Amanda107: but can then be a kickass boyfriend too
Amanda107: that's all
DMBETERNAL: Maybe you should get some cats.

things I want...

1. iPod Nano (after they fix the shitty screen glitch).

2. to win the lottery.

3. jim halpert.

Icebreaker.

I'm in the office kitchen/breakroom and this woman walks in that I've never seen before. We're standing next to each other, me stirring my steaming oatmeal, she's waiting for something in the microwave and peeling a hardboiled egg. The silence is deafening.

Lady I've Never Seen Before: "Your oatmeal makes my eggs not smell as bad."

Me: (puzzled, yet cordial) "Hmm, it sure does."

Lady I've Never Seen Before: "Yeah, I can't peel these things in my office. Makes the whole thing smell like a big fart."

If a crap falls in the woods and no one hears it...

Apparently I am the person that everyone feels the need to tell every disgusting, painfully private and sometimes disturbing thing to. And I freakin' LOVE it.

Here we go.

My dear, dear friend (who shall remain nameless) went on her daily run in the park this morning. She prefers to run on the trails in the park, not only for the aesthetically pleasing and serene surroundings, but also because running on pavement hurts her knees. Why she runs alone, in the wee hours of the morning back in thick forests with no car or person anywhere within earshot, just to protect her patella is beyond me. Not important. I digress.

So, she's running in the rape forest this morning and halfway into it she realizes that she has to go to the bathroom. B.A.D. And not a tinkle. A big, old-fashioned crapperoo. The kind that strikes without notice and cannot be held under any circumstances. She's 15 minutes from her car with no toilets anywhere. What is a girl to do?? I'll tell you what she's gonna do, she's gonna duck behind a tree, pray to the colon gods that no one else comes by, drop trou, and lay one out. And that, my friends, is exactly what this classy, gorgeous, hilarious and respectable citizen of these United States did. A tear of pride came streaming down my face.

What comes next is where the true genius lies. Faced with the clean-up issue, she goes for the first obvious solution, a leaf. To her dismay, all of the leaves within reach are gross and crunchy. Clearly one cannot wipe with a crunchy leaf. Think about it. Then, in a moment of clarity, all those years of Eagle Scout training finally paid off. She valiantly strips off her shorts and underwear. AND USES HER UNDERWEAR TO WIPE HER ASS. God bless America. The Master then casually tosses the soiled undies further back unto the brush, puts those shorts back on and gets back to running, because goddamnit, that's what she came out here to do in the first place!

Perhaps the most disturbing point of this story is that after all of this, my main concern was not the poor park ranger who will eventually stumble upon the horror of crap-stained skivvies. No sir. I was having a coronary over the tossed underwear itself. My god! Were they a good pair??? I was absolutely horrified by the fact that some sweet undies were sacrificed.

When asked about the unmentionables in question, she responded,

"Hell no! Just a plain pair of Victoria's Secret white bikini briefs. Thank god. If they had been a good pair I totally would have kept them."

If I ever wonder why I'm single...

I spent hours last night (while watching My Name is Earl, The Office, Rock Star: INXS, the local news, Letterman and Conan) working on the new title graphic. And I must say that I had no idea that I knew how to do such things.

See, the things you can do if you just try! And choose to spend hours making a stupid title graphic for your blog while watching TV show after TV show in your pajamas eating chicken pad thai that you had delivered.

Whoa, step back from the door and get in a straight line boys, I can only screen you one at a time.

"livin' just enough, just enough for the citayyyyy"

Pulled myself out of the giant pile of work I'm drowning in to give a quick shout-out to Stevie Wonder and Eddie Money. Two musical greats, without whom (and starbucks) I would not make it through the day. amen.

music recommendation of the day/week/whatever

An FYI if you're on the search for new/sweet tunes.

This is one for the emo and lyrics-obsessed. Bright Eyes is now slowly taking over my life. It's no secret I really dig music and lyrics and get all goopy when I find the good stuff. This guy does it for me.

Lyrics can be found in the albums section of the site. There are approximately 147 albums, singles and compilations there. I'm into "I'm Wide Awake It's Morning" at this point in time. Loving "First Day of My Life."

If you hate it, you have no soul. kidding. kind of.


(annie, give my thanks to eric. sweet mix that man makes.)

News Flash: Wearing Magnolias Saves World

Ok, I'm not going to go into the standard morning-after rants concerning how much the Emmys completely sucked ass. Mostly because I don't want to admit that I sat my lazy self in front of the television and watched, not only the pre-show red carpet debauchery, but also the entire Emmys (alllllllllllllllllllllll 3 hours) start to finish. I'm not going to comment on anyone's dress or how pointless it was to have Ellen Degeneres there as host. What I am going to talk about is the magnolias.

Ellen gave a very simple and heartfelt speech about Hurricane Katrina victims and New Orleans being her hometown, blah blah. She then points out that everyone at the Emmys is adorned in a glorious magnolia flower pinned to their lapel, all in support of this horrible disaster. How sweet. Even better, every commercial break included at least one commercial urging the viewers to donate to the Red Cross. Go CBS. This got me thinking.

I came up with a few ideas of how CBS and the celebrities attending the Emmys could have better served the Katrina survivors, above and beyond the pathetic philanthropic effort of wearing a flower:

1. Take the money from the thousands of magnolias and donate it.

2. Instead of spending $10,000 on a dress, each celebrity could have settled for a $2,000 dress and donated the rest (actually, most get them for free from designers who want to promote their name, so maybe the designers could have spent $1000 less per yard of exotic Italian silk, aaaaand donated the rest).

3. To CBS: a couple things. Instead of 47 fancy backdrop pillar thingies, how about we take it down to 30? We'll all still be just as bored. And instead of the 2000 ft x 1000 ft JumboTron, how about you save some cash on that, make it a titch smaller, and donate what you save. No one will notice. No one.

4. It's hard for me to write this next one because my blood is already boiling and my head is about to explode just thinking about it. The Gift Bags. Every presenter and nominee received a gift bag containing over $25,000 in loot. They already have millions people! How about no gift bags at all? Why do they need any of it??? I am so angry, I calculated. At a conservative estimate, let's say there are 20 categories. That's 2 presenters and 5 nominees per category to receive bags. That's 3.5 million dollars in pointless gifts to people that already have so much money it makes me cry. I can't write anymore on this topic because not only does it seem so obvious and assinine, I must cool down or I will throw my monitor at the innocent new girl next to me.

Oh, more importantly than the whole Katrina thing, Zach Braff was hysterical last night. He did this British accent spoof with the guy from House. I mention this only because when Braff and I had our little exchange a few months ago, I've secretly kept to myself that he ALSO whispered to me that when he breaks out into a British accent, that's code for me to fly to our top secret location so that we may begin our life together. See ya.

On a completely unrelated note, I was a bit MIA last week due to some extreme pain and a small trip to the emergency room. Long story, I'll spare you the details, bottom line, I'm much better now. The best part is, I had an amazingly smooth and efficient ER visit, 3 scorching hot MDs at my side, and sweet sweet pain killers that erased any and all memory I might have of last Thursday and Friday. Awesome. Good times.

Behold, the New Template. I want to lick it.

A few things...

Hope you like the new look. I owe every dollar I earn for the rest of my life, my first born and my soul to super blog/IM buddy, Jenn "HTML Badass" Hall-Scott, for pretty much building the entire thing for me. And she loved every second of those 8 hours, I know she did.

There's still a small issue with the comments. Rest assured, they are fully functional, but instead of the cute little comment window popping up, it opens a full new window. I'm working on it. Feel free to speak your mind. html is fun. Or the most frustrating thing ever. You choose.

I spent last night building this beaut:

wow. Just look at her in all of her silver and oak-finish ikea glory. This bitch is going in my bedroom and has basically changed my life.

On the way to bed last night I ran into this guy. Say hello to my little friend, the House Centipede. I'm ok with bugs. I smash them with my shoe, hard, about 36 times, but then I'm totally ok with them. This particular thing was not ok. I gasped when I saw it on the wall next to the microwave and started backing away like it was going to leap from the wall and eat my face off. I went so far as to wake my roommate who, having gone to bed hours before, was dead to the world. This thing was HUGE. Four inches long, at least, with a leg span (all 2,389,785 of them) of a good three inches. Ugh. I shudder just thinking about it. And then puke. Gross.

Also, I'm mildly concerned with the level of my obsession with Aqualung's "Brighter Than Sunshine." I can't stop listening to it, my gut tight the whole time. Find it. Download it. Buy the CD, whatever, just get it. Your eternal salvation depends on it.

under construction

please excuse if my blog is a mess, I'm in the midst of a template overhaul. I don't have the time to sit down and take care of it all at once, so I'm doing it in pieces, meaning that it'll look quite jacked for a bit.

bear with. thanks.

(oh, and the comments aren't working yet either. this is a pain in my ass.)

LiLo vs. HDuff

a pebble-breasted and anorexic hduff

whew. ha. ok. This could be the funniest thing of the week, had to pass it along...

(for an added bonus, make sure to scroll down to the snippet about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes)

I would like to take a quick moment to pay homage to the champion crapper who I was just blessed to have in the stall next to me.

She walked in directly behind me. I held the door for her. We made eye contact. We smiled. She said, "thanks." We were essentially best friends at that point. I chose my favorite stall (we all have one) and she went into the one right next to me. There were 3 others empty. What's with that? Isn't it general public bathroom etiquette to, when possible, NOT go into the stall immediately next to an occupied one?? Maybe I have issues, but that's neither here nor there.

She then proceeds to release more gas than I believe was contained in the Hindenburg. And not quietly. With no shame. No coughs or flushes in attempt to mask the booming, echoing flatulence. There were a few moments of sweet silence, save for some urine flow, but then, the gas returned. But this time with some fecal friends. And still, nary a flush.

I peed as fast as my urethra would allow to get the hell out of there and give this woman some privacy, for the love of god.

I was astounded (and admittedly, somewhat in reverence) at her sheer disregard for the fact that she had someone less than 2 feet away while shitting her brains out. Without a courtesy flush. I'd be more sympathetic if she was having a gastrointestinal emergency. I know what those sound like, and this wasn't it. Emergent or not, choose a stall that's NOT right next to an innocent bystander (bysitter?). Or flush. Maybe? Just once. Anything. Thanks.


*This PSA brought to you by my head, which is pounding right now because I didn't get Starbucks today for the first time in months.*

I feel that the apocolypse is upon us

(thanks to pink is the new blog for the pic)