The End Zone

You know you live in one of the best cities in the world when an entire weekend is devoted to paying homage (via consuming large amounts of booze) to good ol' St. Pat and the Irish. The most notable celebrations are the parades. And there are two. Because apparently one would just not be enough. On the Saturday of St. Pat's weekend we have the parade that takes place downtown and on Sunday we head down to the south side. The general understanding is that, while the parade through downtown is nice, the south side parade is where it's at. It runs through the hardcore Irish neighborhood and these people know how to party. Absolutely no fucking around down there.

St. Patrick's Day weekend 2005, Jen, Scott and I decided to make a trip down to the south side parade after we had celebrated all day Saturday. Fifteen Guinness and an innumerable amount of Irish Car Bombs does not lend to a fresh, happy feeling the morning after. So hungover we couldn't drink, our asses were at the bus by 9am. And it was 25 degrees. And the bar we went to on the south side had a $20 cover just to get in and $5 cans of Miller Lite. By noon we were miserable. Walking along the parade route with two pints of Captain Morgan's in Scott's coat that none of us would drink because we all hate Captain and couldn't drink liquor without barfing, freezing our asses off, no where to pee and surrounded by hordes of wasted high schoolers. By the time we loaded back on the buses to head home at 5pm, all three of us vowed that we had just survived the worst day ever and that we would never return to the south side parade so long as we live.

So, when the word started to spread that a friend was organizing a bus down to the south side parade this year, you bet your ass we signed up. And thank the sweet lord that we did. This year, the south side completely redeemed itself. And then some.

I woke up bright and early Sunday morning and donned the same St. Patty's day outfit for the 3rd consecutive year. Melissa, the stellar planner that she is, had a taxi scheduled to arrive at 8:45am. We were at Catherine's place (aka Parade Central) by nine.

Catherine is essentially the embodiment of Becky Home-Ecky. When we arrived, we were greeted with authentic Irish music, scrambled eggs with canadian bacon, bagels, irish coffee, other alcoholic beverages, extra green and gold beads and crazy hats.

Here's Mel and I with Catherine, The Perfect Party Planner:

Our Ride in the Sky (this thing smelled better than my apartment after I've spent all day cleaning. I wanted to lick the floor) :

Roomie and Bus Partner wearing the best $2 she's ever spent:

At 10:30am we arrived at The End Zone. Jen sounded the trumpet:

How can I not love a bar that was born the same year I was??

The walls were COVERED in various pictures, articles and tchotchkes. I loved it:

Behold, the world's sweetest bar patio fully equipped with a Port-A-Pot and our very own Pro Sausage-Griller Man:

We established our ground and settled in belly-up at the bar:

Today's Specials:

The only negative thing I can say about the day is that they discovered the Guinness tap was broken 5 minutes before they opened. Devastation. I quickly got over it and ordered myself a pitcher of Harp's.

This corned beef sandwich was just the beginning in a long line of free shit that Val the bartender gave us:

Halfway through the day she just started giving us all of our pitchers for free because we had been there all day. It brings a tear just thinking about it.

Somewhere along the way I met and apparently fell in love with this guy because I talked to him for THREE HOURS:

What in the hell did we talk about for so long? Why was he in a suit? Why was he there by himself? Why do I look all sweaty when it was cold in the bar? Why is there a picture of us? Why were the only words I used to describe him upon my return from talking with him, "he does music?" What does that even mean? Why don't I remember saying that? It makes even less sense because I'm pretty sure dude is a chef. Moving on...

Melissa and I and some sweet specs:

And then we spotted them. Sitting directly across the bar from us.

Melissa and I in 40 years:

That's Loretta and Annie. They love denim shirts. These ladies were there all day drinking brandy on the rocks celebrating their 20th South Side Parade. They left their boring husbands at home and became our new best friends:

The resemblance is uncanny.

Personally, I think parades are lame and pointless. It's people walking down the street and waving. Sure, sometimes you get a cool float or a decent marching band, but those aren't anything great anyway. At the end of the day, we realized that we hadn't seen one second of the parade so I blessed Melissa with a homemade parade of her own:

Yeah, that's right, it's signed by Paul McCartney.

Video Killed the Radio Star

Worst music video. Ever.

Oh, and I'll throw this gem in for good measure (thanks, Steve).

Detox: Yep, I Quit.

I'm officially a failure. Around 4pm yesterday (Day 2) I broke down and had some chicken noodle soup and hot tea.

I knew it was time to give in when my poop was like water (fire water), I had to sit down in an elevator in front of 4 complete strangers to keep from passing out, followed by dry heaving water/grapefruit juice/olive oil/bile in my work bathroom stall. No way was I going to make it two more days.

That is all. Sorry if I let anyone down...I'm sure the craps that would have come out of the extreme colon cleanse of Days 3 and 4 would have been spectacular.

Detox: Day 2 (cont.)

FUCKING KILL ME.

KILL ME.

KILL ME DEAD.

Not doing so hot folks. It's 2:00pm and I'm slumped over in my chair feeling like I'm going to ralph the 2 liters of water I have drank so far today and my head is in a vice. Oh, and I feel as if I am about to pass out when walking from my desk to the bathroom. Which I have to do pretty much every 20 minutes.

I called Katie (who did this last year) just now for moral support. She continues to tell me that she knows it's horrid but that it's so worth it in the end; that you feel amazing. The only thing that would make up for the hell that I am in right now would be a sudden onset of spontaneous orgasm disorder.

Help.

Detox: Day 2

I almost gave up last night. Why I was still awake and STARVING at midnight I have no idea...tonight I will be in bed no later than nine.

The worst part of the day was the hour or two after I got home from work. I napped through it, but psychosomatically felt weak and headache-y and close to death. Quite certain I thought of throwing in the towel about 13 times.

It's amazing how your mind plays tricks on you. One minute you're feeling ok (usually after chugging a bottle of water) and you know you can perservere, the next minute you are dreaming of a heaping spoonful of extra-crunchy peanut butter and coming to the conclusion that you won't make it another second. It's a battle of wills people and I will win. Who I'm fighting against, I'm not sure. Maybe the hippie California freaks who came up with this whole cleansing debacle.

Just to make this super interesting...yesterday's first major colon cleanse could be best described as "greasy." Gonna blame the olive oil for that one.

Despite feeling like I was starving to death when falling asleep last night, I woke up this morning anew and not hungry. Took care of my 2 morning Salt Flushes. Honestly, as simple as these are, they are completely vomit-inducing. Epsom salt is not like sea salt. Sea salt I could handle just fine. This epsom shit is so bitter. And gross. Blech.

So, it's 10:30am on Day 2 and I'm plugging right along. Due up for the Oil & Citrus Flush in about 30 minutes then water for the rest of the day. The key to this is keeping myself distracted, so I'm going to try and get away from my desk as much as possible.

The belly is a-rumblin' and I just want some Starbucks. And a cheeseburger.


(see the post below if you don't know what in the hell I'm talking about.)

Detox: Day 1

While I was out visiting my best friend from college in not-so-sunny San Jose, she told me about a "diet" that she had followed leading up to her wedding. I use the word "diet" lightly because it's more of a healthy-eating lifestyle change than a fad Meat-Only or 10 bowls of cereal a day type of thing.

My mind drifted back to her wedding day and the thing I remember with the utmost clarity was that she looked the best that I had ever seen her. She's stunning in her own right, but on her wedding day she was off the charts--she'd lost some weight, her hair, her skin, everything. So when she divulged her secret to me, you bet your ass I was all over that shit.

Because the first four days of this thing is a liquid cleansing/detoxifying regimen that does not allow any actual food (except for a little fruit), I thought it would be interesting to chronicle this event because it's bound to get ugly. This girl likes to eat.

It is VERY IMPORTANT for me to explain, that these first four days are NOT a STARVATION DIET. My roomie has already done her research and lovingly emailed me regarding the dangers of such things. Even though you are not eating food, you are still getting near 1500 calories per day, which is completely healthy. I'd continue on with a detailed biological and health-related explanation of such things, but I don't feel like it right now. Suffice it to say that it's fine and I'm not starving myself.

Day 1 and Day 2 are the same:

Upon Rising: one serving Salt Flush
1 Hour Later: one serving Salt Flush
2 Hours Later: one serving Oil & Citrus Flush

You can (and HAVE TO) drink as much water as possible. Gallons, people. When you feel hungry, drink the water.

I started out by breaking the rules right off the bat. Standard, really. I got back from Cali too late to go to the store last night, so my Salt Flush that was to occur "Upon Rising" this morning did not occur until after my trip to Whole Foods on the way to work. The cleansing gods are crying.

The Salt Flush is epsom salt and water. Pretty nasty. You should see the size of the epsom salt container I had to buy because it was all that Whole Foods had to offer. I'm going to be taking salt baths daily for the next six months. And still have some of this shit to spare.

The Oil & Citrus Flush is fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, lemon juice and olive oil. Nasty too. More than nasty, it's just weird as hell. In procuring these items it became glaringly obvious that I will never be able to purchase produce anywhere else other than Whole Foods for the rest of my life. ALL of the lemons propped up in the display were bright yellow, not one blemish on them, perfectly shaped and the size of my head. I was dizzy trying to make sense of the perfection. From here on out, all available funds will go to the mecca that is Whole Foods. Less drinking. Less eating at restaurants. More and more Whole Foods.

It's 2:00pm on Day 1 and I've had all of my required Flushes for the day. I've also downed about 5 liters of water. And I'm hungry, but it's not as bad as I thought it would be. It's more a mental game than anything else. On any other day, it's not rare for me to only have one meal because I'm too busy to bother with the others. But, tell me that I can't eat whatever I want whenever I want and I instantaneously become a starving Ethiopian refugee.

Small warning here: Because all of this is basically a 4-Day Laxative Convention, it goes without saying that you'll be getting rumbly in the nether-regions of the intestines. It's not pretty. But, fuck, that's detox for you.

I'll be updating periodically on my progress and fill you in on what goes down (ha! a pun) on Days 3 and 4. It's some crazy shit, I tell you what.

Stay tuned. And stay away from my bathroom stall.

Lonely and Dreaming of the West Coast

Got back from California yesterday.

My favorite part of the trip was watching the entire first season of 21 Jump Street on DVD and listening to Air Supply's 1983 Greatest Hits album on vinyl (please note the exquisite use of colored pencil on the album cover. Breathtaking).

Oh, yeah, I saw the Golden Gate Bridge and visited some very nice Northern California wineries as well.


(pics to follow shortly.)

That "What If God Was One of Us" Song by Joan Osbourne

A song that, if I never heard again, would actually help me to lead a more rich and fulfilling life.

Month 2 Off of Birth Control: Progress Report

- I can't fit into any of my clothes.

- If I had a firearm I would kill people.

- Get me within six feet of something with testosterone and my loins explode.

- On the elevator today I nearly beat up a woman for wearing these with painfully short pants that made it all too clear that they were, in fact, mutant quarter-boots.

give me advice, o glorious internet

Without going into any details, I have received the most unbelieveably generous gift from one of my closest friends. A gift so huge I can't believe it's happening.

At the risk of sounding horribly cheesy and overdramatic: How do you thank someone for essentially saving your life?

At which point you turn around and head directly back to bed.

This morning I emerged from the underground train station to a different downtown Chicago. Dense, low-lying clouds cut the tall buildings in half. It's dark, ominous, grey; misting freezing rain. Jeff Buckley's "Lover, You Should Have Come Over" pours into my ears.

Grey's Blew and The Flying Tomato Scares Me

Last night's episode of Grey's Anatomy blew serious ass. I know the show is over-dramatic and ridiculous and completely unrealistic, all reasons I've been addicted since Day 1, but it crossed the line into horrible last night.

George almost making out with Bailey, hand on chin, then straddling her and putting his boner on her back?

The OR with the bomb being directly over the main oxygen supply?

McDreamy pounding on Bailey's husband's chest in frustration and it brings him back to life?

Head dude having an anxiety attack in the middle of it all?

The bomb blowing cute bomb-squadder into pink dust just by him holding it after it sustained an ambulance ride, being rolled all over the place before anyone knew there was a bomb there, a hand-shift, being moved to another OR and surgically removed?? UGH!

And DON'T get me started on that dream sequence Meredith had starring McDreamy. God, I'm swallowing puke.

Moving on...

Yesterday this 19-year-old kid won the gold medal for the snowboarding half pipe event. His name is Shaun White. His nickname is "The Flying Tomato" because of his red hair. Clever. Whatever.

While I am beside myself with happiness over his big win, I couldn't help but notice something when he removed his helmet and goggles...he looks like an ugly woman:

the slow decline

The past few weekends have been an absolute whirlwind of visitors, events and drinking our faces off. I'm fighting a mad case of congestive liver failure as I type.

As I was uploading and organizing the photographic evidence of debauchery, it became clear that, when drinking is involved (which is 99% of the time), we follow a pretty distinct pattern of events:

Phase 1: Cute, sober pictures of friends enjoying a beverage.
Phase 2: Not so cute drunk pictures of friends.
Phase 3: Pictures of people acting like douchebags.
Phase 4: Cigarettes.
and, if all goes well,
Phase 5: Kissing.

The kissing aspect is perhaps the most fascinating because, nine times out of ten, the people involved in the lip-lock are either not dating, dating other people or of the same sex but not homosexual. It's a glorious thing.

Click on the albums below to see The Phases in action:

Savin' Fun
Beers, Burgers and Bears
The Bowl of Super-Ness

Words of the Wise

On Relationships:

"The actual feeling of being in love only lasts for a few months, after that you are either in a good, solid relationship with someone who is supportive and reliable, or you are in a hateful, resentful one with someone who is a real shit. The only thing you can do is just take the fucking leap."

On Blow-jobs:

"Don't bite it and pretend to like it."



(from natalie dee)

The top 3 things seen on the highway while road tripping last weekend:

1.

2.

3. On the back window of a large pick-up truck:

Got-'R-Done
Jimmy and Joanna
July 23, 2005

drip drip drop, there goes an eargasm

First off, there is no better line in all of music than the above. Sheer brilliance.

Onto the topic at hand: Joshua Radin. Did you hear me?!?! JOSHUA RADIN. Oh dear sweet lord. The man croons some delicious tunes.

Click here to check out a few of his songs. All four tracks are spectacular. I've listened to the demo for a new song approximately 37 times in the past hour.

My thanks to Bo for shining the light on the magnificence that is Mr. Radin.


Oh, and I thought this was funny.

Dear Personalized License Plates,

I hate you.


Sincerely,
Amanda

Just Press "Reset"

I had a phone interview at 7:30 this morning (unfortunately, not for the Chastity Coordinator job I was desperately pining for). I was pumped. I got up early, showered, made coffee and oatmeal in preparation for the event. At 7:25, I'm clean, coffeed and oatmealed, pen and paper in hand, cell phone nicely charged. The call comes and within 3 minutes I realize that the position they are discussing with me is NOTHING like the way it was described online and via email. The level of pissed I became is not measurable by any human parameters. Thank you for wasting thirty minutes of my valuable morning/sleep time. If you knew how much of a morning person I am NOT, you would understand why this is such a catastrophe.

I'm quite aware of the fact that I've put on some weight, ok? But is it really necessary for me to try on every single pair of work pants I own (and a handful belonging to my roommate, thanks, Jen), only to find that none of them are appropriate for public display except for the lone pair of black pants I've worn everyday for the past 2 weeks? I mean, did I balloon out that significantly overnight? Lipo appointment set today, cantaloupe for every meal and chaining myself to the elliptical machine from here on out.

On the way to work, I see a bum digging through a garbage can on Michigan Avenue. Not out of the ordinary, but you might as well punch me right in the gut. It is out of my realm of thought to be at a point where one would be rooting through trash for food. It drags me into a full-blown depressive episode over the injustices in the world that leave me feeling small and hopeless and in a fit of rage and vomit. Ugh. But, on this particular day I got an extra treat. Not only did I get to see him digging, but then watched as he picked out a discarded cup of coffee, popped off the lid and starting drinking the remnants.

Seconds later, waiting for a light to change and trying not to hurl all over the chick next to me, a bike messenger passes by. And I'll be damned if it wasn't Boyd Tinsley's twin; all dreads, sunglasses, giant smile and all. Postively beaming. He's probably a great person, but frankly he freaked me the fuck out.

I stop in Au Bou Pain bakery for some fruit (I'm a hippo, remember?). Of all of the thousands of times I've been to this place, I've never heard music playing overhead. But today, there is music, and of all the songs in the universal jukebox, Pearl Jam's "Wishlist" is pouring from the speakers. What? First off, I've never heard that particular song in public, ever, let alone in an over-priced French cafe in a hospital. Secondly, where's the cheesy easy-listening or elevator music? Mind. Boggled.

I feel like I'm in some warped parallel universe or in the midst of a mild stroke. I demand a do-over for today. Or just some sex, whatever.

Totally Unqualified

I ran across the following job listing on my alma mater's alumni career website:

Chastity Outreach Coordinator

Job Description:

* Coordinate the Chastity outreach program in local high schools and grade schools.
* Contacting schools and arranging visits.
* Preparing presentations and maintaining statistics on these services.
* Recruit volunteer witnesses for the Chastity outreach presentations.
* Assist with the Recruitment and Training of new volunteers for the Center.
* Help with Pregnancy Testing and Material assistance clients when needed.
* Perform additional duties as deemed necessary by the Executive Director. (sex?)

Qualifications:

* Pro-life
* Flexible (in bed?)
* Organized
* Creative
* Self-motivated
* Dedicated to a commitment of abstinence until marriage (ummm...)
* Knowledge of the Catholic faith (riiiiiiiiight)



I sent in my resume. Fingers crossed on this one.

salt-n-pepa

I would like to introduce you to the latest addition to the work breakroom:

So little and so very very cute. What is it with miniatures? Seriously.

(Please take note of the masterful skillwork used to rig up the paperclip. Eat it, MacGyver.)

Like Watching Your Child Take His First Steps

As part of his Christmas present, I gave my dad Martin Sexton's live double CD, "Live Wide Open." An album that is essentially my Bible.

Recent email exchange:

From: Me
To: Dad

Hey Dad! Had a chance to give Martin Sexton a listen??

love you!
amanda


From: Dad
To: Me

Yes, several times. Ever since I put that bad boy in the CD player, I haven't been able to stop. I really like it!

love,
Dad




My work here is done.

When Body Parts Talk

From My Entire Set of Upper Arm Musculature:

"See, bitch, this is what you get for neglecting yoga, or any type of real exercise for that matter, for almost a full year. Feel the burn. And trembling. And overall debilitating fatigue. Dumbass.

P.S. You're fat."

definitely.

kelleymd09: which do you think is worse: warm scum or congealed scum?
Amanda107: congealed
Amanda107: definitely
kelleymd09: right
kelleymd09: definitely

Beer.

Fat Tire is coming to Chicago!! Sweet christ on the cross. This particular beer, one of my absolute favorites, has not seen bars or stores east of the Mississippi River. Ever. Until now!

I first tasted this sweet nectar o' hops whilst skiing in Steamboat Springs, CO, back in the winter of 2001. Since then, if friends come to town from out west, I nicely force them to bring me a couple sixers. Sigh. It's so delicious. And with the cute pic of the bike on the label? Really, what's not to love?

It makes it's debut here next month. Yee haw.

In other beer news, I have something very sad to report. Grab your hanky.

The following picture shows the amount of beer I abandoned Saturday because the bar we were in was so horrifically horrible that we couldn't stay there one.more.second.

So painful. Even as I look at it now, it truly brings a tear and a sinking feeling in my gut of longing and remorse.

We were at Gunther Murphy's for, what will now be known as, my very last time. I've tried to love this place, I really have. It's a laid back Irish pub located frighteningly close to my apartment. Perfect, right? No.

The service blows, the clientele ranges from yuppie to artsy to grungy to shady to homeless peddlers trying to sell you a homemade rap CD and grope your ass. This last time, we were crammed into a table made for midgets (or just very tiny Irish folk) in the front room of the bar listening to sweet sounds from the jukebox featuring music we love. To add insult to injury, coming from the back room (the door to which is about 6 feet from our Hobbit table) was ear-piercing/amp bursting noise from the band that just started up, heavy on the heavy metal. We couldn't even carry on a conversation via screaming. One ear picking up pieces of Lynyrd Skynyrd while the other is molested with screaming and rage and super bass. Grey matter meltdown.

Just when we thought we couldn't take anymore, right behind us, some drunk douchebag starts an argument with the bouncer (who is easily twice his size). They proceed to scream and fight and argue and scream. Enough.

I think we could have held out at the bar a bit longer had we not just come from bowling two games in bright cafeteria lighting, with no music, flanked on one side by a group featuring a couple who hugged and kissed after each bowled and on the other by a horde of asian tourists who, on multiple occasions, jumped in front of our lane, while one of us was mid-approach, to take a picture of the other holding a ball.

Thought of the Morning

I've received three emails today from my employer outlining the events taking place on Monday, January 16th, to honor The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Such events include speeches, presentations, and a luncheon.

Here's an idea: just give us the fucking day off. I'll honor the man by sleeping till noon.

On Online Dating

My dad and I are sitting around watching TV, enveloped in the traditional holiday food coma. A commercial comes on for eHarmony. The current cheesy marketing ploy focuses on finding someone that you have "chemistry" and a "connection" with and this is 100% possible via the internet and eHarmony. Well, shit, sign me up.

My dad and I look at each other, smirking. We know immediately what the other is thinking. He beats me to it:

"Someone who would do eHarmony in the first place would automatically be someone I would NOT have a connection with."

That man, I tell ya.

That one Coldplay video that goes, "You're gonna die, yeah yeah, from ass cancer..."

Just laughed my face off reading this.

Tears, people, tears.

It's rather long on words and long on talk about ass blood. But, for those who can hang, it's well worth the read.

Enjoy.

Hello, I Love You

Current work-snack obsession.

For All of the Non-Blind People Who Didn't Know

Those Google guys. Seriously. I can't get enough of today's name graphic:

It's in Braille, for Louis Braille's birthday. Witty.

Although, I thought the purpose of Braille in it's entirety is the tangible properties. You know, for people who can't see and must use the sense of touch to read.

Oh, the irony.

The Chicken Fetus

Warning: DO NOT VIEW if you are about to eat, have just eaten or possess the gift of sight.

I found the following piece of chicken hiding in my Pad Thai:

I'm still projectile vomiting 2 days later.

The One Where I Do Automotive Work

Holy Holidays.

I would like to give a few shout-outs:

1. To my parents, for getting me the sweetest digital camera. I sleep with this thing, people. I might love the case a bit more than the camera. The fact that it matches a pair of shoes I recently bought makes me a little proud, but mostly nauseous.

2. To my sister, for giving me a Starbucks giftcard as part of my Christmas present. This is essentially the most perfect gift anyone could give me. Hallelujah.

3. To myself, for not touching a credit card in 3 months. Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta watch the balance decreasing for the first time in 2 years. Merry Christmas to me.

My parents got my sister an iPod for Christmas so it was the topic of many a conversation. Most involving my sister and I trying to explain to my dad what the "big deal" is surrounding this item. I felt the best way to explain was to show. As he was sitting at the computer playing online poker (besides email, this is as far as he goes with technology, god bless him), I set him up on my pod. I pointed out the basics of selecting an artist and playing songs and sent him on his way. Twenty minutes later, as I approach the kitchen, I hear him belting, and I mean belting, Cat Stevens' "Moonshadow." Heart. Melted. Apparently the volume was up, because when he saw me he shouted into the silence, "THIS THING IS GREAT! I WANT ONE! HAVE ANY DON HENLEY ON HERE?"

To spice things up a bit, my car decided to partially fall apart while I was home for vacation. On Christmas Eve, while running some last minute errands, I noticed that my muffler was more visible than normal. I convinced myself that I was making it up, so I forged ahead. Five minutes later as I'm trucking along at 45mph, the end of my muffler dropped to the ground, creating the most horrific scraping noise. I immediately pulled over and did the natural thing, called my dad. I explained that it was just the metal strap that holds the end of the muffler under the bumper so he stopped at Auto Zone on his way to pick up a new one. Easy breezy. I turned the car off, put on the emergency flashers and listened to some tunes while I waited. People are flying by when a car pulls over in front of me. A silver Nissan Z. Out of it climbs a tall, dark-haired, very attractive (but not too pretty) guy in his mid-to-late twenties. Um, hello there.

He mouths to me, "are you ok?"

I roll down my window and he says, "I just wanted to make sure you're alright. Do you need any help? Do you have someone on the way?"

As I'm losing myself in the kindest eyes I've ever seen and seeing my life fast-forward with him as the father of my children, I puke out, "yeah, I'm fine, my dad's on his way. Thanks."

"Good. I just wanted to make sure. You have a Merry Christmas."

Idiot. I'm a complete idiot. As he drove away, my heart dropped in my chest. One person pulled over to check on me. One. And it was a kind, attractive, unmarried guy in his twenties. Really, this is the shit that movies are made of. And I just let him drive away.

I mean, I guess he could have been a serial killer, which would be entirely representative of my luck. But I prefer to think of it as more of a "Serendipity" type film, not because I believe in fate and happily ever after, but because I'm deeply in love with John Cusack.

My dad pulls up a few minutes later as I'm trying to figure out how many miles away my Road Warrior would be at this point and just how far I could drive with my muffler dragging before making a giant hole and my car exploding.

So lost in thought, I didn't realize that my radio was flickering in and out and my emergency flasher indicator in the dash was going crazy.

Turns out, while waiting the ten whole minutes, my battery died. Rolla was down for the count. As the dad worked on the muffler issue, I fetched a battery. And put it in myself. My hands were greasy with open wounds and it was beautiful.

No worries, Rolla is fine. Just like new. Thank god all of that happened a mile from my parents' house instead of the middle of nowhere Indiana, late at night, in the freezing cold while making the trek from Chicago to Louisville or vice versa. That's movie material as well, but clearly one that ends with me in pieces under some farmhouse floorboards.

P.S. I can't stop eating these Dove Milk Chocolate Covered Almonds. By the fistful. I've got to get a grip and break away from the holiday feeding frenzy. Seriously. The Goodyear Blimp is on the phone, he wants his t-shirt back.

Arctic Adventure

What started out as a harmless Bears game ended in my own personal hell.

Sunday night. 7 degrees. -10 wind chill. Mike and I are sitting 10 rows up from the south end zone. Amazing seats. The foam atop our beers forming icebergs within seconds. Everyone heartily embracing the comraderie of fools who donned their warmest gear to brave the icy chill.

The game itself wasn't near as cold as I was expecting. The construction of the new stadium seems to cut down on wind gusts. Pair that with a couple beers and some jumping around and screaming with hardcore fans (the guys 2 rows behind us kept their shirts off the entire game), and it was practically a day at the beach. After the game was when the real fun began.

As soon as you walk out of the stadium, the wind hits you like a ton of bricks. Brutal. The line for the shuttle back to the parking garage was 200 drunk-Bears-fans deep. No thanks. We decided to rough it and walk back. Worst. Idea. Ever.

The first 15 blocks weren't so bad. That's right, 15 blocks in negative degree weather, wind howling in our faces. I had plenty of gear on (thanks to my roomie; yay, Boundary Waters!) and wrapped myself in a fleece blanket. Mike offered a cab, but I wanted to be Billy Badass, so I said it was fine. Plus, every cab was full of walkers who gave up the noble fight. Pansy asses.

The last 3 or 4 blocks is when I started to lose it. My eyeballs felt funny, I couldn't feel the fronts of my thighs and the tips of my fingers were tingling in pain. I was getting moody. That's never a good thing, trust me. We finally reach a parking garage and descend. Section 2M; that's where the car containing sweet heat was located. We walk to 2M. No car. No fucking car.

Our frost-bitten brains nearing delusional, we rationalize that maybe it wasn't 2M. Let's try Levels 1 and 3. An HOUR LATER, we have traversed all 3 levels, in a deserted underground parking garage that is NOT HEATED, taking elevator after elevator, stairwell after stairwell, walking through grey doors leading to orange doors, passing people in camo laying on the ground asking if we're lost, giving it a real "Deliverance" feel; it was like Alice in Wonderland on crack in an icy hell. Still no car.

On the verge of cannibalism, we're waiting for an elevator for the 80th time. I look at the diagram of the parking garage, which I have already done a million times and take notice that it says "Millineum Park Garage". A dread fills me, as my brain defrosted just enough to recall that there are multiple parking garages right next to each other. We look at the parking ticket and it says "Monroe Park Garage". I think I threw up at that point, I don't really remember.

We emerge back on street level, take literally 40 steps and walk into the entrance of the correct garage. Walk to 2M and there is the car. Just sitting there. Not one other car around. At this point it's after 1 am, the game ended before 11. We both started laughing hysterically; falling on the ground, can't stop, tears pouring down the face laughing. The best/worst part of the whole ordeal is that we were completely sober. Painfully sober.

I still can't get over the fact that two intelligent human beings went through that. Seriously. It's embarrassing. Which is why I'm placing 100% of the blame on Frozen Brain Delusional Psychosis. It's real, look it up.


Addendum: Just received the following text from my partner in stupidity:

"I went into my garage today and couldn't find my car. I looked for an hour and finally realized I was in my neighbor's garage. Idiot."

The real reason I love this time of year...

Two words: Work. Parties.

- Cardiac Surgery Holiday Party at Lucky Strike's Wine Room. Four hours of free drinks and chicken trio in a dark, gorgeous room with 47 fireplaces.

- Investment Mortgage Group's Christmas party at Grand Central. Three hours of free drinks with single, wealthy young men (not that I scored any, but the potential was thrilling). Spent the evening taking jager bombs and shooting the shit with Jenny's dad who was wearing a "Merry Fucking Christmas" button on his santa hat.

- Thoracic Surgery Holiday Dinner and Cocktails at the Signature Room at the John Hancock Building. Free drinks and dinner at the top of the Hancock. Seriously, come on. Pretty much too good to be true.

- Clinical Trials Unit Holiday Extravaganza Lunch at Grand Luxe Cafe. Free food AND we get the entire afternoon off, people.

Happy Holidays to me.

raging dork

I found this super interesting.

The Douche Fairy

When you walk into a job and realize you are sitting in a piece of shit cubby hole with desk space the size of a post-it, little can cheer you up. Unless of course, there is a particular person sitting down the row. She's just sitting there, pretending like she's not your other half.

Then a few months later she leaves you and runs off to Ann Arbor, MI, to start medical school or something like that. I didn't really hear the rest of the sentence after, "I'm moving to Ann Arbor..." This loss in our lives is only assuaged by frequent visits, so I found myself in The Arbor last weekend.

Kelley + Me + In the Same Town = Mayhem.

First off, this girl has THE coolest cat in the world. Tiko. I think he's actually a dog trapped in a feline's body. He comes when you call him, jumps on your lap and purrs. Just as he is cute and cuddly, he's also fiesty and spunky. And did I mention how cute this guy is? HE'S JUST SO DAMN CUTE THAT YOU WANT TO SQUEEZE HIM UNTIL HIS GUTS COME OUT OF HIS NOSE. seriously.

First order of business was the Sexton signing. Um, downtown Ann Arbor? Only the best little downtown I've ever taken in. Coffee shops, boutiques, theaters, etc. So precious. The whole thing looks like a movie.


Well, folks, as you can see I successfully got within 2 inches of Sexton without imploding. Please note that he looks like he'd rather be skinning his shin than posing in this picture with me. We got to the signing pretty late, so I'm sure he was quite sick of taking photos and smiling and surface-talking with fans. As one woman was talking with him, her cell phone rang. She saw that it was her daughter calling, who was apparently a huge fan, and had Martin talk to her. He was awesome about it, but enough stuff like that would surely be annoying. Then I approach. I was fine until I got right up next to him; then my heart started pounding and my knees got shaky. Hi, I'm super lame. Kelley told me afterwards that she's never seen me so flustered and nervous and all-out mentally retarded over someone. At one point he said that I look like his sister and I said, "oh, maybe I am." Wha? Huh? I mean, really, what the fuck does that even mean? Idiot.

After my debacle, Kelley and I were enjoying chai tea and coffee (respectively) in one of the above mentioned movie-esque coffee shops. She stopped mid-sip and looked at me inquisitively:

"Are you alright? You look all flushed. You've got that afterglow, like you just had sex."

"Oh, maybe I did."

We returned to her humble abode to get ready for the show and stuff our faces. This, only after I purposely did approximately 64 fishtails and doughnuts in an unplowed snowy parking lot; an activity that I find off-the-charts exhilirating. Kelley wasn't amused.

Nearing showtime, we call for a cab and they tell us it will arrive in 18 minutes. Thanks for the specifics. Two more phone calls and 45 minutes later, the cab finally shows up. We were then treated to a dissertation regarding the cab driver's penchant for souping-up his '95 Chevy Beretta with a sweet engine from a Grand Prix. Titillating, really.

Neither of us had cash so we had Monster Garage drop us at an ATM. As I was approaching the machine, I noticed that the guy standing there was this kid, Jacob Sotsky, that I went to middle school with in Louisville, KY. We're talking 10 years ago, people. And he's at the same damn ATM as me in Ann-freaking-Arbor. We recognized each other instantaneously. Fucking crazy. After big hugs and a quick chat, Kell and I head back to pay the cabbie who has no change for a $20. Jesus. He made Kelley run into the Mongolian Barbeque place on the corner and break her $20. Good start.

Then we found ourselves standing out in the freezing cold and snow waiting to get into the Sexton show. The only way that situation could get any worse would be if there were four 18-year-old douchebags behind us in line. Oh wait, there were four 18-year-old douchebags behind us in line. They had just seen Sexton's early show and the dialogue went a little something like this:

Douchebag 1: "Awww, man, dude, that show was so fucking sweet"
Douchebag 2: (pressing Play on a small audio recording device revealing Sexton mid-Hallelujah) "Yeah, man, I can't believe I was 4 for 4. I totally called the opening line-up."
DB 1: "Yeah, man. Awesome. I can't believe he played 'Real Man'. He hasn't played that in 7 shows! Remember the setlist from October 18th? That was the last time."
DB 2: "Oh yeah. Sweet."

The remainder of the conversation was a rundown of every single fucking song he played, in order, and a stunning critique of each containing mostly "awesome" and "sweet". Thanks, guys, for completely ruining the upcoming show for me. Now I know every song he's NOT GOING TO SING.

One good thing did come from this: the realization that I am not, in fact, the lamest Sexton fan on the planet.

Sitting in the venue, one is reminded of a middle school auditorium; Kelley asked if we were there for a talent show. Our seats were about 20 feet from the stage, perfect view. No complaints here.

Pre-show people-watching, I spot this girl with the most gorgeous, long, curly/perfectly wavy strawberry blonde hair. I point out the magnificence to Kell who responds, "Yeah, if you're in a Massengill douche commercial. She's like the Douche Fairy." Throughout the rest of the evening, particularly as we engorged ourselves with 2-for-1 jager bombs, puffed on a lame mango hookah and finished up later on with the real stuff, "The Douche Fairy" was often the topic of conversation. It was the funniest thing we had ever come up with.

Back to the show. As the lights were dimming, Kell turns on her camera and it dies. Right then.

"Oh, yeah, I knew I needed to do something today. Charge the camera. Oops."

"I'm going to fucking kill you."

The show was great, per usual. Not the best Sexton show I've ever seen, but still amazing. Highlights include:

- belting the CRAP out of "Let There Be Peace on Earth" a capella
- playing "My Maria" after I screamed it and ending it with "Stairway to Heaven"
- the dorkiest, off-beat couple in the front row creaming their pants every 5 seconds and acting as if they were at a Southern Baptist tent revival complete with girations, pointing at Sexton, hands in the air in reverence and bowing to the stage. Amazing.

The rest of the night was filled with dancing, libations and whatnot until 5 am (I think). Steve was blessed with, what could arguably be, the most incoherent drunk voicemails of all time. Two of them. Kelley and I were out of our minds, laughing hysterically and telling him about the Douche Fairy, Kelley being a cheap drunk, trying to take a picture of his name on the Hall of Foam plaque at the Full Moon, and other sundry items that we cannot recollect. You bet your ass those will be saved for all of eternity.

The weekend was perfectly wrapped up as we spent all of Sunday (after we moved from the bed to the couch around noon) watching old reruns of The Love Connection, Match Game and Family Feud on the Game Show Network and eating pizza. Straight out of the box. Classy.

Back in 2 and 2.

Tough Decision

The guy that sits in the cube across from me is getting married in the spring and is sickeningly in love with his fiance. He calls her "sweetie" whenever he picks up the phone and then talks to her all cute. He has a framed picture of her on his desk that says, "My Little Sweetie". Recently he has been talking to me and another lady about all of their wedding plans, songs for the ceremony, etc. I don't know whether to throw up on his face or shoot myself in mine.


Ironically, as I was drafting this post, my roommate sent me this article. Guess that explains everything.

How To Ensure That I Will Not Date You (Final Cut)

After calling me earlier in the night to see if I am going to be at a mutual friend's Christmas party (which I was not attending), hook-up with one of my friends after the party.

quick reminder

This man:

Tomorrow afternoon. AND tomorrow night.

I know I won't shut up about this, but I'm honestly too excited to concentrate on anything else. I'm just excited to be right next to his person and chat with him again (starting to sound stalkerish here, awesome).

To make myself sound even more lame, maybe even the mostest lame, in trying to describe to Jen just how great this is, I actually said last night that it's like I'm going to be in the presence of a god. And that I'm in reverent awe of this man. Clearly a titch overdramatic, but still so close to being serious that I sometimes frighten myself.

I hope to sweet christ he or anyone close to him never reads this because I will then be officially banned from all shows and have a restraining order placed against me.

Bring it on.


oh yeah, and I get to see what's-her-name along with her cat.

fall in love with this band. now. thank you.

I've been reading The Sneeze for months (thanks, Bo) and substantially laughing my ass off. Now, a while back he mentioned the band Cloud Cult. I kept meaning to check it out but for one reason or another never did. And oh my christ what a travesty. How have I been walking around without them in my life? It's like I have awoken from a music slumber. whoa, baby.

They are incredible--unique, haunting, mesmerizing, toe-tappin', indie genius. I downloaded a sample of one song and an hour later I was still vorasciously downloading every song I could from their site and purchasing CDs with rush delivery.

I mean, one song is this sweet ass beat layed out over lines from the movie "Princess Bride." If that's not reason enough to love them, you have no soul.

Their two most recent albums, "Aurora Borealis" (preview full album here) and "Advice From the Happy Hippopotamus" are both absolutely necessary purchases. Mandatory, even. You won't be sorry, I swear on my life. And that's saying a ton considering I totally rule.

The Crocodile Fly Huntah

I'm not going to divulge just how much of my evening I spent closed up in the bathroom trying to kill one of the gigantic horseflies that recently inhabited our apartment. Suffice it to say that I had plenty of time to become one with the fly, notice distinct buzzing pattern changes, contemplate the intricacies of Darwin's theory regarding survival of the fittest and other random thoughts, like:

Why is a fly called a fly? Of course one would think it's simply because it flies. But then, why do all other things that fly have their own names? Bird, bee, wasp, plane? How did the fly become the definitive flying thing insofar that it is named for that particular mode of transport?

How many times can a fly run head-first into something, i.e. a mirror, wall, light fixture, etc. before knocking itself out? From personal observation, at least 5000.

How is it that a fly, when being pursued by it's killer, knows to land in the most non-killable places, i.e. the corner crevice of the door jam, the shower curtain, the cord to my hair straightener, the side of a shampoo bottle, my roommate's glasses?

What is the most effective way to kill a fly sans fly-swatter? Not smashing it with a bottle of lotion. I chased the bastard around the bathroom and unsuccessfully went in for the kill at least 25 times. Until it occurred to me that there are fly-killing devices called swatters for a reason. I grabbed a towel and swatted that thing and it dropped dead on the first fucking swipe.

work is draining all of my creative blog juices...

I have made the most ridiculous decision of my life. I'm going to stand out in the arctic tundra tonight in an attempt to score a ticket to the sold out Ray Lamontagne show at Park West. And I seriously may be doing this all alone as I am not having much luck convincing others to stand out in the -10 howling wind.

Speaking of fucking freezing, I'm assuming that when my apartment was built they forgot a little thing called INSULATION. Kids, Jen and I are trudging through everyday like we live in a Louisa May Alcott novel. It's not that it's just cold, it's that every morning when I get in the shower, my shampoo is a frozen glob of goo and my razor is frozen to the tile. I have to literally pry the razor off of the ceramic. The walls and floor of the bathroom are equivalent to the outside temp which is hovering around zero degrees Fahrenheit. How cold is that in bathroom terms? It's so cold that by the time the steaming hot water drops from my face to my toes, it is like ice. Is this legal? If my landlord's house, car, place of business or face is egged and then shot, you know who did it. ME.

Blog Jenn's arrival in the Chi (with a bad sweater party thrown in for good measure) and my trip to Ann Arbor to spend some long overdue quality time with Kelley and Martin Sexton are all happening this weekend. Could this week go by ANY slower? No. Sexton is doing a CD signing Saturday afternoon. Stay tuned for pics of me licking his face and crying as I confess my undying love for his talent and soul.

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.