MFBT 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jen and were so ready we were flexing:

Ann Marie, The Hostess with the Mostest:

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

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

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

Here's a sweet action shot:

Good work, Rachel.

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

And he was the small one of the group.

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

It went down to the wire...

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

Those guys were gross and fat and assholes anyway.


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

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

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

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

That almost never happens. Wait. No.


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

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

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

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

Rachel and the Sombrero:

Jen and the Sombrero:

Jen and the Sombrero and Me:

Gary the Raffle Guy and the Sombrero:

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

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

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

it's like the man is in my brain

(from toothpaste for dinner)

Google Calendar

get it.

awww, our little girl is all grown up

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

Waiter Rant on Dating:

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

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

Love is like hope.

And we keep hoping in spite of ourselves."

happy birthday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helpful Tips For Fighting and Winning the War on Easter

Tip #4:

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



(you can find the rest of the tips here)

Jesus Is My Coach

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

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

With favorites like:


Jesus Playing Football

Nothing says brotherly love like tackling the big JC.

Jesus and Martial Arts

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

Jesus Playing Hockey

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

Jesus Playing Golf

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

Jesus on Skis

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

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

You can see the rest of these fine statues here.

Go Jesus.

down with uptown

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

things i found today that don't suck.

This and this.

sick to my stomach

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

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

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

I couldn't finish my lunch.

Ugh.

new commute

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

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

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

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

clearly the apple lands directly next to the tree

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

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

damn it.

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

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

God, I need a tan.

f bombs

thanks to toothpaste for dinner

oh hell no

How could you possibly put a price on this?


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


thanks, steve.

God help him.

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

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

stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Make it summer. Now.

"Who all see the leprechaun, say YEAH!!"

Top-notch journalism right here.

Quote of the Weekend

"While waiting for the bathroom on Saturday night, I puked in my mouth and had to swallow it. If that's not motivation to stop drinking so much, I don't know what is."

Because it's St Patrick's Day and I can't concentrate on work knowing that there is so much fun going on in this city right now

Click here to see what song was #1 on the Billboard charts the day you were born.

Gina was birthing my huge ass to "Endless Love" by Diana Ross and Lionel Richie.

let's take a moment to freak out

OH MY GOD, WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?!?!?!!?

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.