SWF seeking Sugar Daddy

To fund upcoming shows. Seriously. Just in the next two months we have:

Ray Lamontagne
Damien Rice
Death Cab
Guster
The Decemberists
Amos Lee
Bob Seger
Imogen Heap
The Raconteurs
Over the Rhine
Sonya Kitchell

Shoot me, will you?

sexy 1900s steel conglomerate tycoon

This is exactly why I'm sick of dressing up for Halloween.

What about a sexy Harriet Tubman?



Now that's a hot piece of ass.

reason #8872 to despise the male species

They merely THINK of losing weight and the pounds start melting away.

yet somehow still happy, but not creatively motivated.

- hate, HATE my job
- my mema died last week
- in the midst of moving for the sixth time in three years

like rain on your wedding day

Overheard during breakfast in Atlanta, GA:

"Oh dear. The peaches. Not so good."

anniversary.

three years in chicago.

holy shit.

first love. part two (of five): romeo + juliet.

(might want to read part one first.)

The year following our initial meeting we kept it relatively low key; emails exchanged regularly, monthly phone calls, numerous instant-messager conversations. We lived our normal high school lives; went to dances, had crushes on people, etc., but knew deep down that we were meant for each other. And we'd be together forever eventually. All the little adolescent crushes and dates were nothing compared to the true love that we shared.

God we were ridiculous.

The following spring, as the time came for our families to plan the return trips to Siesta Key, the gods shone down upon our love and the trips overlapped. Clearly we were meant to be together for forever and ever amen.

I was a nervous WRECK the day we got to see each other. A year had elapsed, who knows how he'd changed. Or, fuck, would he freak out because I now had a mouth full of metal? Had I gained weight? Would he like my longer hair? Or my newly shaped eyebrows? Forty-one ulcers later, we were reunited.

And how sweet it was.

We were inseparable. For the entirety of five days there were no two happier people on this earth. Hanging out at the beach, the pool, the rec room, going on walks and talking talking talking. And falling even more in innocent, unencumbered, naive love. (collective sigh) Our parents met. The parents, people.

The last night of that second summer we found ourselves alone on the beach. We both had curfews and we were down to our last few precious moments (no, not the lame cherub-faced statuettes). Our last hug lasted forever. We were both teary-eyed. The wind was blowing at gale-force levels. It was all very dramatic.

When we finally pulled away he kept his hands on my waist. He gave me a little smile. And then we kissed for the first time. It was awkward, neither of us were terribly experienced with such things, but wonderful nonetheless.

Afterwards, he took the bracelet off of his wrist and gave it to me. To remember him by. (I still have it in my jewelry box). I gave him a ring of mine. It fit on his pinky. As seriously as we took it, we may as well have been exchanging wedding rings. Seriously.

My family was flying out at nine the next morning and he just had to see me again before then. So, he had his ass at the door of our condo at six. In the morning. To see me just one last time by the light of the dawn. I swear to god we were THAT into each other.

And then we went our separate ways.

After that we kept in virtually constant contact. Oh the emailing and the instant messaging! Every day and night. Mind you, this was back in the day when there was no such thing as unlimited access to the internet. For a monthly fee you only had a certain amount of minutes online. And when that time was up, you paid a pretty penny for the overage time. This made it all the more exciting/excruciating/dramatic for us. The pining and the rationing, the rationing and the pining. We pissed our parents off regularly.

I just remembered. We sent letters. Like, actual pen ink on paper mailed in envelopes with a stamp and all. And pictures. The old fashioned kind. That you picked up at the drug store.

Romeo + Juliet came out in November (1996). The one with Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes. Baz Luhrmann directed. And oh if we weren't star-crossed lovers just like Romeo and Juliet. We met at the wrong time in our lives. The world, it was forcing us to be apart. I told you we were ridiculous.

We both saw this movie at least five times in the theater. We bought it as soon as it was on video. The soundtracks? (yes, both of them) They were the only thing either of us listened to. It was the soundtrack of our love. He even sent me these. Every single one.

Then came the devastating news. His family would not be returning to Siesta Key the following summer. I cried. And cried. There had to be something we could do.

After much devising and talking and pleading and convincing and parental conferences, I was set to head to Miami. By myself. For a week. To be with him.

To this day, that week is still considered one of the best times of my life.

it used to be that I never won anything.

Ah, yeah, um, so.

I was just notified that I won an all expenses paid trip for two to fly to Atlanta and see John Mayer in concert. And meet him. And do him. oh, wait.

I've been on a Mayer hiatus since the sell-out-worthy and completely craptastic "Heavier Things." Well, maybe even since "Your Body Is A Wonderland" moistened the panties of every girl between the ages of thirteen and seventeen. (oh yeah baby, I used the M and the P word in the same sentence. alert the proper authorities.)

In this time of hiatus, I've continued to listen to his music, but just the old Mayer ("Inside Wants Out" independent release, "Room For Squares" on Aware) that I love and the new Mayer who is finally getting back to business with his blues (John Mayer Trio and "Continuum").

Cousin Chris, the biggest Mayer fan I know, is the luckiest man alive on this day.

how to get the girl.

Guys, pay attention.

If you're pining over a lost love and desperate to get her back, look no further. I can help.

Pick up Athlete's "Tourist" and wrap it in something aesthetically pleasing. Place it in a box and ship it to her. Or, if you're feeling especially full of gusto, march yourself right up to her door. Instruct her to give it a few listens and voila! She'll be crawling back in no time and you'll live happily ever after. The End.

Wait. I watched ENTIRELY too many cheesy romantic comedy-esque films this weekend. Blech.

But. Athlete. Tourist. The ENTIRE album. It's one I-Want-You-Back-We-Can-Really-Make-It-Work-This-Time song after another. Individually, the songs aren't bad, some are quite good. Great even. Yet, listening to it in it's entirety twice in a row has me devising plans to bust through this window and take a leap.

this is my life.

Picture it: Sicily, 1920...

It's Labor Day weekend 2006. It's almost midnight and you've been drinking since noon. You're in a t-shirt, jeans and flip-flops. You've already been wasted so you look and feel as if you've been hit by a semi. A semi with make-up smeared under it's eyes.

You kinda remember being introduced to some friends of friends. Two guys. Maybe one called you "Amanda The Panda." Maybe. Whatever.

The next day the friend you met these guys through informs you that one of them was (for some reason) attracted to you. Thinks you're cute. Wants to know what your "deal" is. Are you dating anyone? Do you have any baggage? The mutual friend reminds you that you have your weekly bowling gathering on Monday night. He will be there. You should be too.

So, you show up. You're ridiculously nervous. More so than normal. Even though he's already stated his interest, you're more self-conscious. You get drunk quickly and focus on your friends. Can't have this feeling like a set-up. You and he don't talk much, but enough to spark some interest. The night ends. Very drunk and very late.

A couple of weeks go by. You don't hear anything. Not surprising, you didn't give him your number and you've practically forgotten about it yourself. Then a mutual friend says that the guy had wanted to call but was too shy (you're quite certain she left the "P" word via text. sick.). You tell the friend to pass along your number and tell the dude to not be such a douche. Just call. Ugh.

Over the next week or two, you and the guy try to get together in a group setting with the mutual friends but it never works out.

Then. On a lazy Sunday afternoon, he calls. To make sure you'll be at bowling the following night. Because he really wants you to be there. You've been planning on going anyway. This could be fun. You're half excited, half dreading the entire thing.

Bowling night comes around. You meet everyone there. He's there. He's cute. He's giving you the eyes and talking to you. Things are going well. You start the bowling.

It's girls against guys. 4 on 4. The guys are in the lane to your right. About halfway through the night, two girls get in the lane next to the guys. One girl chooses the name "Blow" the other chooses "Job." You can see what you're working with here.

Both look like the kind of girls that would choose "Blow Job" as their name. One of your friends comments, "um, those girls are just looking to get fucked." You agree.

You begin to notice that this guy, the one who has been so smitten with you for weeks, begins talking to one of the "Blow Job" girls. She's thin-ish, with a substantial rack (not as nice as yours, you note), lighter colored jeans with multiple pre-made rips up and down the front of each leg, and blonde hair that is so fake you laugh.

And they keep talking. And talking more. And it becomes glaringly obvious that he is much more interested in this fake, ditzy, "Blow Job" whore than you. And you find yourself thinking that you don't blame him. What guy wouldn't want that?

So. The bowling ends. He's still fawning over the idiot blonde. You would be shocked if this wasn't what you've come to expect. But, he didn't seem like that type of guy.

You change back into your non-germ-infested shoes. You gather your things. Your friends are in utter disbelief of his actions. You shrug it off. Pass it off as just another thing that guys do. Oh well.

You and your friends make it back to your car. They're still commenting on his asinine behavior. You laugh. Boys. You state that you couldn't care less. You drop them at home.

You continue on to your place. Alone.

And then come the tears. The ones that release the feeling that you thought that maybe this one was different. Maybe this time he'd be one who sees you for you. Maybe this time you wouldn't be disappointed.

But he wasn't. And you're disappointed. You were passed over. For a cookie-cutter blonde ditz. The cliche is suffocating.

Worst of all, he wasted your time with false hope.

Wanker.

wetness is the essence of beauty just as black and white is the art of photography.

here he is, the real-life Derek Zoolander.


"Ghanzarya is a unique name and the meaning of Ghanzarya is Ghanzarya himself. The name Ghanzarya defines the character Ghanzarya."

my mind is officially blown.


UPDATE: THANKS TO STEVE FOR THIS GEM. ALL OF MY MATERIAL GENERALLY COMES FROM HIM. HE IS THE GREATEST.

oh, you know, just because.

this makes today worth it. all day.

oh, and he has a limp.

Co-worker Adam has been on a roll lately.

In our latest installment he approached me with an idea to set me up with one of his friends. What a treat.

There are few things I despise more than a set-up. Spiders. Infected, gaping, oozing wounds. Tapered pants. Black licorice. Having a root canal without novacaine.

He begins his support campaign for this friend:

- hilarious
- friendly
- easy to get along with
- overall, a really great person.

I'm giving him the general, "You've Got To Be Fucking Kidding Me" face.

He continues, "well, I do hesitate a bit."

"Oh, and why is that?"

"Well. His face."

"Um, his face? Does he have one?"

"Of course. It's just that the one he has isn't all that attractive. Kinda scrunched-up. And froggish."

And it all went downhill from there. Here is the comprehensive list of characteristics:

- "kinda gay" mannerisms
- not sure that he's employed (maybe does contract/temp work?)
- "REALLY needs a girlfriend"
- claims to do stand-up comedy
- not much taller than me (I'm 5'4")
- described as "creepy" by a girl that met him at a wedding last month
- "has this thing where he can't turn his head without moving the rest of his torso"

save for the fact that I was headed into work.

Driving down Lake Shore Drive, no traffic, gorgeous downtown Chicago skyline laid out in front of me, a still, blue, Lake Michigan to my left. The sun is shining, air is cool, windows down, Peter Frampton's "Do You Feel Like We Do" cranked up loud.

Perfect.

am I that transparent?

Co-worker Adam, who irritates me daily with his genuine "glass half-full" philosophy, just made the following observation regarding how I tend to see things:

"You, you see a glass filled halfway with water and say, 'Hey! I ordered a beer.'"

vegas, baby.

It was like "Girls Gone Wild." But without the airhead co-eds. And without the sex. And with all of our clothes on. Come to think of it, it was nothing like that at all.

I was planning on coming back from Vegas and writing this fun post about the crazy time I had. Drunken escapades, gambling, meeting guys, etc. But as I sat down to brainstorm, all I could think about was how grateful I am to have spent those three days with one of my best friends. Teresa Pallone. (well, technically it's Bowman now, but whatever.)

Every memory I have of her is positive. It is so refreshing to spend days with someone who does nothing but make you laugh so hard you might die, takes you away from anything negative in your life and generally fills you with pure happiness.

When we get together we revert to childhood. She brings out the absolute ridiculous goof in me and it's the greatest stress relief. All worries, tension, heartache, you name it, just melts away. It comes pouring out with every laugh.

She's a walking, talking "Reset" button.

We take pictures whilst gorging ourselves at a buffet. Amen.

And for god's sake, the woman sticks mini pecan pies in her mouth.

And, who else can do a terydactyl impression, after four too many Cosmos, and still be the funniest thing I have EVER seen? Ever.

and venus was her name.

There are many things I learned in my years of Catholic schooling. Stuff about The Bible, burning palms, unleavened bread, and all the words to the yawnfest speech leading up to communion ("peace be with you, and also with you, lift up your hearts, we lift them up to the lord...").

The baby Jesus would be devastated to know that the truths bestowed upon me that I remember most came not from the classroom or confines of the Church, but from the older kids on the school bus. Most notably during the second grade.

That year brought about two great enlightenments.

1. The non-existence of Santa Claus. And subsequently the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy.

2. The lyrics to Bananarama's "Venus" (you know the song, click here for a sample).

My father still flips his shit when telling the story of the night he and my mom stood outside the bathroom door dying as I lay on my back in the tub with the water just above ear level screaming, "I'M YOUR PENIS, I'M YOUR VAGINA, YOUR DESIRE."

can't. do. creative. and. witty. things.

All available brain power is in use solely to maintain survival.

In the past four days I consumed enough food and alcohol to kill a rhino.

And I accidentally found myself inebriated last night and stumbling in after 3 a.m.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming next week upon my return from vegas.

the two rule.

two glances.

You're at a bar, the grocery store, a friend's apartment, etc. and you spot an attractive specimen. If they peak enough interest, you'll give them another glance and vice versa. Thus, we've established mutual attraction. Move forward.

two drinks.

By the time you get through two drinks you have an idea if this other person is a total schmuck or not. You know if you'd give a date a try.

two dates.

The first date is almost always a bit awkward, so you need to give it another shot. If, after two dates, you see a potential in this other person, enter the next phase.

two months.

Date for two months. Obviously if it's not working out, end things at any time during this stage. But! If you make it to two months, it's time to reevaluate. You make the decision then to turn this into a more serious relationship or jump ship.

two years.

Ride the storm out. If you make it to two years, we've reached another reevaluation point. Is this the person you could spend the rest of your life with? If you reply with a hesitation or anything other than a resounding, "hell yes!" it's time to move on to greener pastures. If, at two years, the relationship is healthy and strong...

two month's salary.

Get it in the bank. Done and done.

caveat of singledom #457.46: waking up in the morning to everything looking just as it did the night before

Hair still perfectly in place and the sheets nicely tucked, not at all twisted up in knots.

Meaning you slept alone.

trust your gut.

Damn you, Pete Yorn and your three shows at three of my favorite small venues here in Chicago, all scheduled precisely during the time that I am in Vegas. Oh, the humanity.

Last Friday I boarded a plane bound for the great lake-filled state of Minnesota (they have a thousand, you know). A male flight attendant in his late forties/early fifties greeted me with a cheery, "Good Morning!" Um, sir, it's pre-10 a.m. I'm going to need you to settle down. He then asked what my shirt said. I had to look down to see what I was wearing considering I had dressed myself half-asleep and in the dark. The shirt had some Japanese writing vertically spanning the left side with a large character right on my left breast. Normally I would punch someone in that situation, but he struck me as genuine and non-creepy, quite dad-like, so he was in the clear. I joked back about not knowing, but that I'd come up with something and get back to him. He said, "make sure it's something witty," I forced a pseudo-fake polite laugh and inched forward into the first-class cabin.

Seated in the second row on my left were two cute guys in their late twenties, both sporting Red Sox hats. As I walked by, the one in the aisle seat sputtered, "yeah, come up with something witty." There was something smart-ass and shitty in the way he said it, so without looking at him I spit back, "any suggestions?" Countless times in my life I have been accused of being a bitch, not for what I said, but how I said it. This was one such time.

As I kept moving forward, I could hear the guys talking, "whoa, man, rude. Was I wrong to say that? What the hell?"

At that point I was too far away to say anything else. By the time I got to my seat I was riddled with guilt. Had I misread his comment? Was he really just being jovial? Had I been too defensive? (no, not me) Did I bust out in bitch-mode at an inappropriate time? (me? no, never)

I just couldn't shake it. My gut instinct is something that I try my best to live by. If there's one thing my mother drilled into my brain, besides the whole clean underwear thing, it's to ALWAYS listen to your gut. It will never steer you wrong. My gut had told me to bite back. And I did. So I had to be right. Right? Fuck.

Once we reached our cruising altitude and the captain turned off the "Fasten Seatbelts" sign, I decided to clear up the matter. Just so I could sleep at night. So I marched myself right up to first-class. Both guys were dozing with earphones in. Figuring that a light tap on the arm would get the guy's attention, I did so. Just a couple little pokes on the top of the forearm. Nothing. Hm. A couple more pokes. A few more harder pokes. Still nothing. At this point I could have turned away, but, shit, I'd already pranced my ass up there, the whole plane could see me and I was getting weird-eye from everyone in first-class.

It was then that I crouched down in the aisle and tapped his upper arm. And, while laughing at myself and this horridly hilarious situation, I said, "excuse me, hello? hello?" NOTHING. At this point we had been in the air for about ten minutes. Who in the hell could be in Stage 4 deep slumber at this point? Frustrated, yet determined, I moved on to full blown shaking of the upper arm. Still. Nothing.

My flight attendant friend was a few feet away preparing some drinks. I went over to him and explained the situation. It went a little something like this:

"Hey! So, you know how you asked me earlier about what my shirt said and to come up with something witty? Well, the guy in 2F made some comment as I was walking by and for some reason I took it as rude, I thought he was being a shithead so I said something rude back to him. And as I was walking away I could hear him talking to his friend and I think I may have read him wrong and was a bitch for no reason. So. I tried to talk to him, but he seems to be quite asleep at the moment. When he wakes, could you please tell him that I'm sorry if I came off rude?"

He looked at me with oh-you-poor-insane-little-thing eyes.

"Hon. Listen. This flight originated in Boston this morning and when those guys boarded they smelled like a distillery. They hadn't stopped drinking or slept all night. They were inappropriate on multiple occasions on the way to Chicago, we almost had to remove them from the plane once we landed. And, you say they didn't respond to you? That's probably because they're passed out. Just look at them. I may have to check and see if the one by the window is still breathing. However you took the comment and what you responded with, I'm sure was spot on. I'm just glad someone besides me had the nerve to give them what they deserved. Jerks."

Ah, sweet relief. I was right (of course!).

I thanked the good man and turned to head back to my seat. Rude Boston Dude's foot was sticking out in the aisle a bit. So I kicked it. Hard.

Around Lake Calhoun and Lake of the Isles (just outside of downtown Minneapolis)

no sir, I didn't.

(thanks to kottke for the badge.)

first love. part one (of five): siesta key

It's no wonder I'm never satisfied with my relationships; the greatest love affair of my life occurred before I was eighteen.

Every summer my parents would take us to Siesta Key, Florida, for our family vacation. No theme parks, no large costumed cartoon characters, no parades, no fireworks. Just the purest, softest, whitest sand and nothing to do but play on the beach and get tan as little Indians.*

When we got sick of sand in our private crevices, my sister, cousins and I would head to the pool. There was this great rec room with TVs, couches, pool tables and ping-pong. Shit, those people at The Casa Blanca knew how to do it up right.

One searing hot day during our vacation the summer before I started high school, I was at the pool with my cousin. It was too hot to lay out at the beach and salt water didn't sound like much fun. Being all thirteen and overdramatic, I had my arms folded on the ledge that goes around the pool just under the surface of the water, resting my head in contemplation. Of what exactly, I cannot recall. Probably related to 90210 or wanting to grow out my hair or something equally as deep. And although I was in a state of Zen-like meditation, I was aware of a group of three boys causing quite a ruckus in the shallow end. Ugh. Boys. Splashing in a pool. Laughing. Having fun. How immature.

I think one of them started talking to my cousin and eventually we were all chatting. The tallest one was quiet. And dark. He had this jet black hair that was just long enough so that perfect pieces fell onto his forehead. Boys were still a relatively new thing to me at that point, but something about him did something to me that hadn't happened before. Apparently you don't have to make it all the way through puberty to realize the dizzying effect that darker skin and an accent has on a midwestern white girl. I was in trouble.

Because he was shy and quiet, I spent most of the time talking to the other boys, his cousins, all the while not able to keep my eyes off of him for more than ten seconds. It was, what I truly believe to be, love at first sight. (I've shied away from such nonsensical beliefs during my maturation process, much to the chagrin of this little hopeless romantic in me that, for no reason whatsoever, I picture as a miniature oompa loompa-type creature. But without orange skin. I digress.)

Eventually he and I started talking and that was it. Right then and there we fell head over heels. He thought I was beautiful. And called me "green eyes." And his eyes, people. His eyes. Dark brown, almost black. Longest eyelashes you've ever seen. Perfect teeth. Perfect hair. Perfect skin. Tall. Cuban. Seriously.

One problem. He lived in Florida and I lived in Kentucky. And I was thirteen and he was fifteen. But because we were both insanely passionate about things (and young. and hopeful. and dumb.) we were going to make it work. And we did. Off and on for four years.


*It's PC, shut up.

feeling un-hip.

Ah, so, ok.

Ghostriding the whip? What the living mother of sweet christ? You can see a demonstration here.

More noteably, please check out the "Hyphy Movement" and scroll down to the slang section. Clearly I am sorely uneducated. And white. Personal favorite is "Thizz Face." Not so much for what it means, but the thought of the person sitting there typing out that explanation.

Quite certain that the un-hip quotient increases exponentially when you are looking up current slang on an online encyclopedia.

oh, the mundane.

I firmly believe that an email like the following is what finally drove the dude in Radiohead's Just video to lie on the pavement:


From: System Admin
To: All E-Mail Users

THIS MESSAGE IS BEING SENT TO ALL E-MAIL USERS:

On Tuesday, August 15 at midnight, the ring tone choices for the Cisco VOIP phones will be limited to 4 choices; Chirp1, Chirp2, Jamaica, and Vibe. If your phone is set to a ring tone other than the 4 listed, it will be reset to the default which is Chirp1. You may change it to one of the other choices after Tuesday night.

Your phone will not be down during this change, but will reset when the phone is not on an active call. You will see the phone screen flash during the reboot, which should take less than a minute to complete.

Thank you.

Mug Update: Tuesday Morning

Just returned from the breakroom where the mug was sitting in the sink. Dirty. With lipstick caked around the lip in several places.

There are no words.



p.s. yes, I fucking washed it myself and reclaimed it.

dance, dance

Please tell me that somewhere out there exists Coffee Mug Etiquette in the work place.

Back in college my very best friend, one Katie Ford (who is now married but will forever be Katie Ford), bought me the most beautiful mug I have ever seen. Dark pink, yellow, blue/teal, and green mosaic tiles adorn this ceramic wonder. And it's huge. Twice the size of your standard mug. Glorious.

So, I've used this thing just about everyday for five years. Coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon. I keep it at work because, well, it rules. And it's bright and cheery and badass and makes me smile. And when stuck in a cube, it makes a world of difference.

The only time this thing isn't on my desk is when it is in the little drying rack thing by the sink in the breakroom. And that's maybe for a few hours. Maybe over-night once or twice. So, imagine my surprise when, last Wednesday, I went to get my mug and IT WASN'T THERE. I took a few moments to breathe heavy and panic then took a casual tour around the office.

Disguised as your average office worker merely taking a walk over to another worker's desk, I walked by each office at a creepily slow pace and peered in out of the corner of my right eye. Second office in I spotted it. Sitting on Anna's desk! The nerve! It was just sitting there, half full (half empty, whatever) hanging out on the desk. She was typing away, casual as can be, like that mug was supposed to be there.

I ran into her office, pointed at the mug with an emphatic, fully-extended arm and blurted out, "just WHAT are you doing with MY mug?!" Ok, no, I didn't do that. But, the desire to do so was so very strong that I couldn't move. She looked up from her computer and there I was just standing there staring into her office, certainly a look of stolen-mug-panic on my face. I made some noise, maybe whimper-like, and quickly walked away.

After the initial shock wore off, I figured, what's the big deal? Granted, I've used that mug everyday for the past year that I've worked here, taken it to essentially every meeting, and no one else has ever touched it because, you know, everyone knows it's mine. But! Maybe somehow, someway this fact has escaped her and she just wanted to use a mug. Unlikely, but fine.

That was Wednesday. It's now Monday afternoon. I just went to check on my mug, to see if she snapped out of it and put it back in the breakroom. And it's on her desk again today. WHAT. THE. HOLY. FUCK.

First off, has it been sitting there for days?? With the coffee stains eating away at the delicate white ceramic insides? Or, has she washed it and reused it multiple times? Has bitch taken over my mug?

I don't know how to approach this situation without looking like a complete psychopath. There are a handful of boring, crap mugs in the breakroom that I'm assuming are for general use. I don't use them because they're not mine. And they're boring. And standard-sized. Does she think that my huge, gorgeous mug (that, I repeat, EVERYONE in the office knows is mine) is a general-use mug? Could she?

Does anyone out there know the mug-use rules? Do you use other people's shit at work? Do you?? You don't eat someone else's food out of the fridge, why would you use their goods?

Help.

Oh, and it's amazing what adding a couple of Fall Out Boy songs to an iPod can do.

mission accomplished.

Lately I've been revisiting albums that I didn't pay enough attention to in the past. Currently listening to Ryan Adams' Heartbreaker. I just finished listening to the song "Oh My Sweet Carolina" for the eighth time and wouldn't you know, my heart is just that; broken. His voice is enough to do you in, but when you pair that with the delicate blue-sy country acoustic and Emmylou Harris' harmonizing vocals, it's a recipe for gut-wrenching perfection.

Man, if he added the following lyrics I would just up and die:

"up here in the city feels like things are closing in
the sunsets just my light bulb burning out
I miss Kentucky and I miss my family
all the sweetest winds they blow across the south"

oh, wait. damn it.

(the whole album is gorgeous, somber, heavy-heart listening. yum.)

events that occurred in my dream last night.

found out I was pregnant.

attended the wedding of a friend that I haven't talked to since eighth grade.

traveling in a foreign land with the family, they decided they wanted to go around and tour the place without me.

found out that my sister had lesions on her liver that looked suspisciously like cancer.

kept taking the wrong train and subsequently getting more lost on some foreign mass transit system

gave birth while walking down the street to a little black kitty that looked exactly like my roommate's cat.

Recovery.

Yesterday I slept 18 hours.

Sister arrived last Thursday. Flight was delayed. Drove like crazy to make it to dinner at Tango Sur. Stretched dinner out for three hours. Not a hard thing to do when there are six bottles of wine to consume.

Proceeded to Cullen's (excellent Irish pub nearby). Convinced sister to run back to my car for something. Upon her return, the DJ stopped the music and announced the 21st birthday girl. She pretty much killed me. Night filled with Jim Beam and lemonade (her drink of choice) and SoCo/lime shots. Too many of them. Details are fuzzy, but I think we passed out around four a.m.

Woke up (painfully and very slowly) at 9 a.m. Friday to hit up the first day of Lollapalooza. Somehow made it there for the first show at 12:30. A minor miracle. Spent the next 10 hours in a music coma (not without a couple of naps in the grass under some sweet shady trees). Fell head over heels for The Raconteurs' live show. Wanted to kill myself during Death Cab for Cutie due to teens/tweens stumbling around/making out. Made it home around midnight feeling as if we had been beaten to within an inch of our lives, not quite sure that we'd be able to make it the rest of the weekend. My sister's face was so burnt she could no longer make any facial expressions.

Luckily, Saturday was an easy Lollapalooza day, not many shows to see. Jared Leto blew complete ass as front-man of 30 Seconds to Mars. Clearly the only word in his vocabulary is "FUCKERS." Let's not try so hard. Bring back Jordan Catalano for the love of god. Had a worse than average Port-a-Pot experience. Still puking. Took it easy and got out of there early. Grabbed dinner and drinks with a friend, home and in bed by 1 a.m.

Braced ourselves for Day 3. Another looooong one. Began the day with Nickel Creek, who filled our ears and our souls. Bless them. Ran back and forth across the great expanse of Grant Park four times. Stuffed our faces and settled in for the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Had an amazing spot for the show, and not one person shoved themselves into our little space. Hooray. Almost peed my pants during the show (literally. I could feel my bladder ripping). Went against everything I believe in and ventured into a Port-a-Pot at the end of a festival. And in the dark. Jesus christ I'm hyperventilating right now just thinking about it. Dripped-dry and hauled ass home. In bed by 1 a.m.

Awoke at 6 on Monday morning to get the sister to el aeropuerto. Fully intending to go to work. Back by 8:30, throw in the towel on the whole work idea and collapsed in bed. Save for a random couple of hours, slept until Tuesday morning.

Whew. What a great fucking weekend. And I have a tan for the first time this summer. Praise jesus.

My sister rules. Happy 21st, dude.

The same girl I used to torment by insisting that her real mother, Sylvia Dynasty, dropped her off via helicopter on our front lawn.

Imagine you're turning twenty-one.

Imagine you're turning twenty-one and celebrating in Chicago.

Imagine you're turning twenty-one and celebrating in Chicago with your sweet ass older sister and her friends.

Imagine you're turning twenty-one, celebrating in Chicago with your sweet ass older sister and her friends and spending the weekend at Lollapalooza.

Well, then you'd be my little sister. Let the games begin.

no one should sweat this much outside of the bedroom.

I'm not going to talk about the oppressive, suffocating, ridiculous outdoor hotness that causes my shirt and pants to cling to me and covers my face in drippy sweat, all in the fourteen seconds it takes for me to walk across the street and into another building.

I'm not talking about it because then the heat wins. And I'm not going down like that.

too many chefs in the kitchen

Can someone please explain to me the necessity of having a chairman, a commentator and a floor reporter on Iron Chef America?

I'm mildly obsessed with the show (who isn't?), but every episode I can't stop thinking about how ridiculous it is to have all of these people included. Especially when the trusty floor reporter never has more than three lines.

And here I thought the Japanese were all about simplicity.

hey amanda, how was the guster show?

Well, after consuming (in this particular order) a beer, two Mai Tai's, a jager bomb, two Long Island's, two more jager bombs, and three beers in the few hours leading up to the show, I DON'T FUCKING KNOW.

If someone held a gun to my head and told me to list three songs that they played or else I'd die, I'd be dead.

oh, and I woke up the next morning with no debit card and a busted phone. Busted because it fell in the toilet? I guess you'll never know, will you?

I'm getting too old for this kind of behavior. Plus! I wasted fifty bucks and missed what (I presume) was a great show.

Damn it all straight to hell.

my fifteen minutes of fame. wasted.

If you're sitting around tonight and bored, go ahead and turn on PBS. The KT Tunstall concert I attended a while back is airing at 9:30pm.

Trisha and I were seated in the very front row and stood at the stage for a nice portion of the show. The people made us. This guy got on the stage pre-show and explained that it was being taped for a television concert series, blah blah. He then informed us that, because cameras would be ALL OVER THE PLACE, we had to smile alot and dance around and look excited and happy and in love with every second of it. It was terribly uncomfortable. So forced and awkward. I wish I'd known beforehand about the whole front row thing with cameras all up in my shit, I would have had a few (or 12) beers to loosen up.

Right now, sitting at your computer, turn on music if necessary and pretend that someone is filming you for television and start smiling and dancing. Try to look nonchalant and casually cool. Go ahead, try it.

So, if you have time to kill and want a good laugh, catch the video footage of me awkwardly dancing/shifting and singing along with a huge, fake, shit-eating grin on my face. Oh! Added bonus, there were moments when a large camera was so close to the side of my face that if I turned one centimeter to my left, I could have licked the lens clean.

(You should actually check out the concert anyway, she put on a really great show. Just point and laugh when I'm on camera.)

weird, like Keanu Reeves weird.

Every spare moment of the past two months has found me here. Postcards From the Edge is a blog chronicling the around-the-world trek of a certain Jen and Jonno. I have no idea who these people are, but I have become completely engrossed in their adventure.

The blog features posts about their travels, gorgeous pictures and information about the couple and how they were able to put the whole thing together. It's so inspiring to see two young people, just like you and me, see an idea of this magnitude to fruition. Basically, they're my idols.

Between the posts and the pictures, my eyes get all teary and my gut gets tight. What I wouldn't give for the same experience. Check out the blog, I also have it linked to the right, you won't regret it. Inspiration is one click away.

This is the quote referenced as their reason for the trip:

"One of the gladdest moments of human life, methinks, is the departure upon a distant journey into unknown lands. Shaking off with one mighty effort the fetters of habit, the leaden weight of routine, the cloak of many cares and the slavery of home, man feels once more happy."

-Sir Richard Burton

I mean, come on. How great.

So! Imagine my surprise when I received a comment from a "Jen" the other day and when I clicked on the homepage, it was the Jen from Postcards! In a completely non-raving lunatic kind of way, she's like a celebrity-type to me; out there doing this amazing thing while I'm idling through life in my cube. I was shocked that she somehow found her way to my blog. Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

Thanks, Jen, for the comment and sharing your adventure. How about I say it's inspiring one more time? Ok, there.

more like laziness and sarcasm

I found myself with a sample of Mary Kay Private Spa Collection Embrace Happiness Moisture Lotion.

The directions on the tube of lube are as follows:

"Smooth on Embrace Happiness Moisture Lotion and feel energy and enthusiasm return."

Really? It's lotion. Spare me.

Frankly, I'm happy (and energetic! and enthused!) when lotion sticks to the task of softening the hands and smelling nice.

untitled.

My mom was in her first year of college when she met Becky in a psychology class. One afternoon Becky's car wouldn't start so she asked my mom for a lift home. Backing out of the driveway, my mom drove her old-ass station wagon into a ditch. Out came Becky's brother to the rescue. That hero was my dad.

And the rest, they say, is history. Their first date was the next week, Valentine's Day. They were engaged the following year and married in November of 1979.

Both my mom and dad grew up in families with little money. There were no extravagances, just enough to get by. They promised to themselves that they would give to their children everything they had gone without.

Saying that I've lived a privileged life would be a gross understatement. Growing up, I never wanted for anything. I had new, nice clothes every spring and fall, went to the best catholic schools, lived in a beautiful home, got a new car when I was sixteen, and was surrounded by a close, loving, albeit partially insane, family.

The summer of 2001, my parents surprised my sister and I with a two week family vacation in Hawaii. For them, it was the realization of their dreams; they had made the life for themselves and their children that they always wanted. Things were good. Really good.

Then it all started to unravel. The full story is far too complex and personal and depressing to share with the world at large, so here's the super-abbreviated version.

Fall of 2001, my parents, along with millions of others, lost a huge chunk of their investments in the midst of the 9/11 aftermath and WorldCom bankruptcy. The WorldCom thing not only messed with their investments, it also had a trickle-down effect that caused the bankruptcy of the telecommunications company that my mom worked for. So then she lost her job. Finding a new job in the industry proved impossible, as the whole thing was a giant clusterfuck, leaving the people who had devoted their lives to careers in this field out in the cold.

We then entered the Legal Woes phase in the latter part of 2002 and most of 2003. I'm not touching that one with a ten foot pole, mostly because I detest anything to do with legal matters, but the bottom line of that whole shit show was that my family prevailed, save for the financial devastation such proceedings cause.

Oh! Then my dad, after putting in twenty-five years, had to leave his job for his own health and sanity. The company was going through a merger, and after a year of ulcer-inducing 14-16 hour days, with no end or assistance in sight, he had to get out. He looked terrible. He had taken up smoking for the first time in his life, his hair line had receded an extra two inches and the gray took over. The company gave him six months full severance pay. He spent the first month sleeping, golfing, living, laughing, restoring himself. Then he set on the job hunt. Then came the call.

The company he left was declaring bankruptcy and not only were they stopping his severance pay effective immediately, they were sorry to report that all of his investments in the company were gone. And his retirement? Gone. All of it.

My parents have spent the past two years patching up the gaping holes ripped into the dream life they built, as well as cleaning up from the deluge that flooded a happy, secure home. How they're still alive and together is a mystery. I almost buckled under the weight of their pain and I was on the outside looking in.

These days, they're both happy in new jobs and moving forward, but all of this has come at an even bigger price; they can't afford to stay in our house anymore, well at least, it's not smart of them to do so.

I've known it was coming, but in no way have I accepted it. We're losing our house. My house. My home. The house I grew up in, that we all grew up in. And it's breaking my heart. I know it's just a house and people move all the time, but it's more than that. It's the fact that it's not their choice to leave. They're not choosing to downsize because the kids are gone and they want to lounge in a townhouse surrounded by palm trees. On top of all the financial losses, they have to give up the house that they worked for, along with the memories. And all because of a nauseating cascade of outside forces beyond their control.

So, I've been sitting here, typing this and sobbing, heart aching, all because my dad wrote me a stupid three sentence email:

"Looks like we'll be looking for another place real soon. We're trying to make it a positive situation as best we can; figure that's the best approach. The past is the past, get on with it.

Love you, Dad"

for my fellow flyers

mir11: went back to UD this weekend...ended up at Tim's
Amanda107: ah, the gold standard
mir11: and I bought champagne
Amanda107: CHAMPAGNE AT TIMS?!?!?!
mir11: yeah, I know, ha.
mir11: p.s. did you know there's now a stripper pole there?
Amanda107: exactly.

still waiting for winter

No Chicagoan in their right mind would ever wish for winter during the glory days of summer.

But, every single time I encounter a bike-rider on the street, I wish upon wish and longingly dream of that sacred time of year when the snow cover renders each bike useless and I can drive in peace.

Someday.

Sigh.

I found this, which I voraciously read through and through. And I loved every nerd nano-second of it.

Someday, someone will love me for my grammar obsession and freakish craving for science knowledge.

boogie monster

Why is it, when it feels like you have a huge booger in your nose, there's never anything there, but when you least expect it, and everything feels in the all-clear, you randomly do a booger-check on your way out of the bathroom and there one is?

It's just hangin' out and being all booger-like. Mocking you with maniacal laughter, reveling in the fact that it's been there for hours and you haven't felt a thing and you just got flirty with dude in the finance department.

Death To Chipotle (you shut your mouth when you're talking to me)

Coworker Adam, just returning from his two week Hawaiian honeymoon, was craving some Chipotle for lunch today. I've been trying to eat better lately, so I agreed to go and get a salad.

Upon return, feeling all smug and health-like, I checked the nutrition information on ChipotleLovers.com.

A fucking SALAD at Chipotle consisting of romaine lettuce, peppers/onions, black beans, mild and medium-hot salsa and some cheese (eating healthy or not, I'm going to eat cheese, that's the rules) is almost 400 calories and 19 grams of fat. And that's BEFORE the chipotle-honey vinaigrette, which adds another 300 calories and 15 grams of fat.

I used half of the serving of dressing, so that's a salad with 550 calories and 26.5 fat grams.

Baffled and admittedly pissed.

peaches and cottage cheese

Where in the hell has this been all of my life?! How did I make it almost twenty-five years without eating this deliciousness? My mother is getting a strongly-worded letter from me tomorrow. She let me drink Diet Coke until I puked and Kraft Shells and Cheese straight out of the pot and never offered up this curdled and fruity combo? wtf, Gina? W.T.F.?

Amanda107: when i got home from work i had some cottage cheese and peaches.
Amanda107: um, yum.
kelleymd09: peaches and cream
Amanda107: or cottage cheese and peaches
kelleymd09: peaches and cream
Amanda107: i thought that was literally cream
Amanda107: not cottage cheese
Amanda107: which is not cream
kelleymd09: it's creamy
Amanda107: dude.
kelleymd09: yes?
Amanda107: peaches and cream is with ice cream and/or whipped cream
Amanda107: both with the word cream in it
Amanda107: unlike cottage cheese
kelleymd09: or it can be a girl's ass with cream, as in the song
kelleymd09: which is, of course, what i was referring to originally

Google "peaches and cream" and that damn 112 song is all that comes up. No recipes, nothing about fruit, just that ultra-classy rap song. This is why I may never bring children into the world.

Don't listen to the following song if you just went through a tough break-up, have ever gone through a tough break-up, don't want your gut ripped out, are in a generally down kind of mood, or don't want to be put in a down kind of mood. Ok, so that leaves just about no one.

Get Out, Get Out, Get Out from Jason Molina's solo album, Let Me Go, Let Me Go, Let Me Go.

It's not a great recording, don't know what's up with that, but it's one of the most punch-me-in-the-face depressing things I've heard in a while. Enjoy!

For those still with me, the song currently rocking my socks off (well, technically, making my toes tap) is Tom Petty's new one, Saving Grace.

This is for you, Mir.

First off, I want to congratulate my dear friend, Maria, on her sweet ass new job!! I can't tell you how happy I am for her.

A little while back I came across a blog post I wrote last year but never posted up on the site. I wrote it while I was helping Maria through a rough patch in her life. It's so funny to read it now, almost a year later, and see just how much things have changed for the better.

To celebrate her HUGE, fantastic, unbelieveable new job and make sure she appreciates how far she has come and how utterly amazing she is, I'm posting this in her honor.

Congrats, Mir! I'm so proud of you in so many ways. You rock, lady.


A Long Time Coming...
August 2005

It's quite ironic to discover something positive that is possible only because you went through a pretty rough couple of years.

A good friend of mine is going through a horrible break-up. She moved to a new city about four months ago, mostly because her guy was there (but also because she got a kick ass job). They dated for a few months before her move and were blissfully happy. Obviously, the specifics aren't necessary here, but bottomline, it didn't work out and they broke up a few days ago. We've spent hours talking (actually, typing) because this girl needs to get this shit out and I'm more than happy to listen.

I used to be that girl. It's like I am having a conversation with the person I was six months ago. I could very well be typing her words; I can feel her pain just like it was yesterday. Ironically, the sympathy pain I feel now is almost cathartic for me--I'm reminded that my pain is in my past, her's is in the present. I can say to her, I was there, I felt that, I did the same things. Without thinking, I use the past tense. I find myself coaching her and offering support. It's so bizarre to me. The fact that I can tell someone that I've been there and that I made it through. It's a total smack in the face. Wake up, you made it, time to move on.

More importantly, it's a vindication of everything that I went through. I was in a place where I hurt so bad I didn't think I'd ever make it through. It sounds so melodramatic now, but when you're in the thick of it, things seem pretty hopeless and you can't imagine that the gnawing in your gut will ever go way. But now, however many months later, I'm the one giving advice and consoling and saying that everything will, in fact, be ok.

All of this hit home when I received the following email from her:

"Talking to you has meant more to me than you can ever imagine. I have people telling me to forget about it and get over it, but you tell me it's ok to feel devastated and ok to cry and ok to feel hopeless. You understand. Hearing you say that you were here and made it through really shows me that it will be ok eventually."

I've never felt so good.

because I haven't talked about bathroom happenings in quite some time

First off, no one really gives the fearless "let's get things moving" duo of fiber cereal and coffee the praise it truly deserves. What a winning combination.

Speaking of bathroom combinations, the gorgeous tan and black marble floor of my work bathroom paired with the big flourescent lights in the ceiling make it possible to see everything that's going on in the stall next to you. Not that I'm looking, but as I'm sitting there, I'm going to idly glance at the stall door or the floor. And when looking at the floor, the lights reflecting on the shiny marble have a crystal clear mirror-effect.

I've mentioned before the problem I have with people going into the stall right next to mine if there are other stalls available. In this particular bathroom it's an even more serious issue. Not only would they be releasing excrement less than three feet from my person (when it could be a much more comfortable eight feet), but they would also be able to see me in very compromising states. And with my pants down.

Oh! And speaking of crap, I was just thinking to myself the other day that Jennifer Lopez couldn't make a more horrid film than Maid in Manhattan. Well, I was mistaken.

Last night my roommate suggested we watch Monster-in-Law. I can't possibly do justice to just how laughably TERRIBLE this film is. I just can't. It's that bad. Worst movie of all time, followed closely by...shit, it was so bad I can't even think of another vomitrocious film.

Jennifer Lopez, Jane Fonda and Michael Vartan wasted two precious hours of my night, and because I will be able to recall this movie for all time, they have now ruined my entire life.

the bearable lightness of being

My promotion, my relatively huge promotion, months in the making, just went through. Committees met, papers were signed, deals were made. Totally 100% finalized and done. Done. Done!

I was giddy when I got off the phone with the Human Resources chick telling me that everything was approved. Then I suppressed screams of joy by crying my eyes out at my desk when I got the email with my new salary (don't worry, it's nothing crazy, you won't be seeing me in Prada...wait, even if I had the money, you wouldn't see me in that shit anyway).

Chicago is an expensive town to live in, especially as a single girl working for an academic institution. This ain't the corporate world, honey, they're not throwing money around down here, believe me. It doesn't help that I showed up here two and a half years ago with three hundred dollars to my name, no job and a suitcase. I'm the fucking American Dream!

(cut to me on top of a building in the middle of downtown Chicago, the wind blowing, the camera circling around me with my hands in the air in triumph)

Now, I know there are people out there who are homeless/very poor/starving. Yes, I know, they shove their paper cups in my face and scream at me daily. But, I've faced my own financial struggles, damn it! I've scraped by and stressed myself to the max for years and now I can finally breathe. Breathe! See, breathe! Isn't that great?! And start healing those ulcers. And finish paying off bills. And start saving. And take a fucking vacation.

But, it's more than that. It's more than the money, and being more comfortable (which, don't get me wrong, is fantastic). It's the feeling that finally, after proving myself and fighting for myself and basically kicking ass for the past two years, I'm starting to get the validation I deserve. It's nice to pat yourself on the back and say, "self, good job, you're succeeding at something."

Too bad it's not what I really want to do with my life. But, hey, it pays the bills. Finally.

Other Onion Favorites

Area Homosexual Saves Four From Fire

"...he collapsed on the lawn, exhausted and gay."


I Can't Stand My Filthy Hippie Owner

"The absolute worst thing that ever happened to me, though, was when that son-of-a-bitch Zach got out that goddamn collar and took me down to the park to watch him take off his sandals and juggle sticks."


Taco Bell Launches New "Morning After" Burrito

"Possible side effects of the new birth-control snack item include weight gain, stomach upset and gas, the same as with all other Taco Bell products."

New Starbucks Opens In Rest Room Of Existing Starbucks

June 27, 1998 Issue 33*20

CAMBRIDGE, MA-Starbucks, the nation's largest coffee-shop chain, continued its rapid expansion Tuesday, opening its newest location in the men's room of an existing Starbucks.

"Coffee lovers just can't stand being far from their favorite Starbucks gourmet blends," said Chris Tuttle, Starbucks vice-president of franchising. "Now, people can enjoy a delicious Frappuccino or espresso just about any time they please, even while defecating."

The new men's-room-based Starbucks, the coffee giant's 1,531st U.S. location, will be open to both men and women when not "in use." In addition to offering specialty coffees from around the world, it will serve freshly baked pastries, Italian pannini sandwiches and soups, as well as the rest room's usual selection of toilet paper and soap.

"This is a great addition," said Jonathan Connolly, a Boston-area banker who tried out the new Starbucks Tuesday. "I was enjoying my usual triple mocha latte in the main Starbucks, and I had to go to the bathroom, where three people were in line to use the stalls. The wait might have been a problem, but, to my great pleasure, there was another Starbucks right there, ready to serve me more delicious coffee. And the baristas were helpful and courteous."Connolly added that after he finished drinking his coffee and using the bathroom, he stayed for a poetry reading near the urinals.

"I was a little bit worried about the new restaurant cutting into our business," said Dave Grobelkowski, manager of the original Starbucks. "But the only people going there are ones who have already purchased items from us anyway. And if we run out of stirrers or cream, we can just go to the bathroom and borrow some."

According to Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz, the new location represents the beginning of a long-term expansion plan.

"Eventually, Starbucks rest rooms everywhere will sell coffee," Schultz said.

"But that ambitious scheme is at least five years down the road. In the meantime, we plan to open an additional location in this Starbucks' ladies' room within months, and are already drafting plans for a fourth restaurant along the corridor leading from the main seating area to the rest rooms. At some point a 'Star-bucks Express' window will eventually open in the walk-in closet of the men's room Starbucks."

"Drink our coffee," Schultz said. "Drink it."


(source)

Muse is the new crack.

You can listen to the new Muse album Black Holes and Revelations here. Go. Now.

This album is an aurally complex work of other-worldly art. Jesus, I don't even know if that makes sense and I'm drooling on myself. There's so much musical deliciousness going on at all times. I can hardly take it.

Make sure you listen to the ENTIRE thing, start to finish. You'll get lost in it, or your money back.

I just listened to it for the third time today. Fantastic.


Update: The whole album is no longer available, but check out the songs that are up anyway.

runaway train

I love opening my mailbox and randomly finding two tickets to see Soul Asylum and Alice Peacock tomorrow. Wha?

Soul Asylum? They're still around?

This is gonna take me all the way back to sixth grade.

girl, stuck.

I want to move to Birmingham, AL, and work for this guy (thanks again to Andy for the tip). I'm frighteningly open to quitting my job, selling everything and transplanting myself to Alabama. Start over, start new, do something that I really love and am embarrassingly passionate about. Hell, the cost of living is practically zero there compared to Chicago. That's reason enough right there.

I want a job that revolves around music and/or writing. But it's one of those things that seems completely ridiculous to pursue. All of my education, experience and professional interests up to this point have been in the field of Biology and healthcare and research. Sure, I'm curing cancer everyday, but it's not lighting my fire.

But, how practical is it to run after a pipe dream when you are nicely established within a field that is comfortable? Baby steps, I tell myself. Find somewhere where you can freelance write about anything, just to get yourself started. But even that seems daunting. "You're not a writer," my practical half tells myself, "stick with what you know."

These fucking existential crises are enough to drive a seemingly normal girl insane. I can't stand the daily grind. I just can't. I know it pays the bills, and this is what life is about, just living and whatnot, but I'm bored. Uninspired. Dulled.

So dulled, in fact, that watching the trailer for Zach Braff's new movie, The Last Kiss, just made my gut sink and eyes well-up.

The Boys From Battle

When heading to the Keane show this afternoon at Schubas, I was cautiously optimistic. I enjoy the band. Their album "Hopes and Fears" has been in heavy rotation over the past year or so and the new stuff doesn't sound half bad. Granted, upon the first couple of listens to "Under the Iron Sea" I was quite underwhelmed. Keane is known for being mellow and this new album stays true to that. I stick with this band for the vocals and the lyrics. It never disappoints there.

Schubas is one of my favorite venues to see a show in Chicago. Mostly because it's tiny and dark and intimate. You won't get any closer to a band than that. And to me, that's the epitome of a live show; the band stripped down to their core and seeing what they're made of.

Keane is my favorite kind of band; the kind that is better live. At today's show, it was just Tom at the mic, Tim on keys and Richard with a tamborine, and they sounded fantastic. Tom Chaplin's voice surprises you. It's not something you can pick up on an album. His baby-face paired with a modest and genuinely grateful demeanor (not to mention the British accent) doesn't seem to match the absolutely HUGE voice that comes out. It hits you straight in the face.

The band writes very emotional, dark songs (more so on the newest album). Seeing them performed with such intensity and passion adds a dimension you could never get from an album. The way that Chaplin talked about the band's obsession for their music made me want to kiss him on the mouth. I know that there are plenty of bands that feel that way, it's the way it should be, but I just loved to hear him say that for the years they were struggling and trying to get started, their friendship and their music was all they had to hold on to. For me, it's a nice reminder of why I love music like I do. I'm passionate because they're passionate, what a great relationship.

Even more endearing is the fact that they were just boys who loved music; friends who swapped albums then realized they had the talent to actually put a band together. They taught themselves everything they know, busted their asses and succeeded. Last year they went on tour with U2.

Now that I have burst into my accolades, I will state for the record that I know that Keane is a standard, Brit-pop type of thing. For all of the compliments given, I'm well aware that they retain a more mainstream, emo sound that would easily appeal to the masses. Nothing mind-blowing here, just good cry-your-eyes-out-after-a-break-up-or-during-a-life-crisis music.

Oh, and they're really great live, a total bonus.

When Good Karaoke Happens to Good People

Ann Marie Flaharty now has her Master's Degree. Mad props, lady.

To celebrate we threw together a last-minute pub crawl in Roscoe Village. Stops included Riverview Tavern, The Four Treys, Village Tap and Mulligan's.

While we thoroughly enjoyed playing darts at Mulligan's (at a point in the evening where none of us could actually see the dart boards), The Four Treys was where our hearts belonged.

This place is a total dive. Carpet, low drop-ceilings, full of the shadiest molester-types, karaoke and dogs. I dare you to find something better.

Here we are with Max. His owners were out of town for the weekend so they sent him to the city to stay with their son. Who decided to take ol' Max out for a night on the town in the big city.

And, oh, the karaoke. I've never been a big fan, but something happened to me that night. I became one with that screen with words.

Here's a nice shot of us beginning Cheap Trick's "I Want You To Want Me." Please note the carpet and ceiling reminiscient of a creepy-ass basement.

We're calm, cool and collected. Just starting to get into it.

The audience was going crazy, so we started to loosen up a bit more. They were lovin' it.

When the drum solo kicked in, Annie handed me the mic and started the over-head slow-clap and I went to town.

We were basically the highlight of the night. Not hard to do with a clientele of rednecks and the honest to christ, grossest of the gross Chester Molesters.

Congrats, Annie!

Gloating? Why, yes I am.

Hi.

I just scored tickets to see Keane at Schubas on Tuesday afternoon.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bowl and stuff my face full of macaroni and cheese balls.

reality bites.

He was two years ahead of me in college. He was the kind of guy that everyone had a crush on. Not because of his stunning good looks or suave ways. He was funny, genuine, real. Unattainable, yet somehow felt within reach. My crush began sophomore year.

We clicked right away. As friends. We knew something more was there, but neither one of us knew what to do with it. The time was never quite right; like when he asked me a day too late to a formal. I'd already agreed to go with a friend. I've never wanted to cancel so badly.

We were both involved in the same organization. Business-type phone calls that should have taken two minutes generally lasted two hours. We laughed non-stop. We talked about our shared dream of sailing from Maine to Key West. Did I mention we laughed? A lot?

It was his senior year. He was graduating and going on to medical school so nothing happened with us. His first year of med school and my junior year of undergrad we emailed a ton. The longest emails ever. The best emails ever. So good that I printed and saved most of them. Hinting at more than friends every once in a while, but knowing that it wasn't the right time or place. At graduation time, he was coming back to Dayton. He called me a few days before and asked me out to dinner. On a real date. One of the best dates ever. This man just made my soul so happy. His smile was perfect. To me.

Later that weekend, we ran into each other at a graduation party. As the party raged inside, he and I sat outside alone. On grey, old, crumbling concrete steps he told me he'd been crazy about me for the past couple of years, but didn't want to push things, didn't know how I felt, didn't want to mess up our friendship and knew he was leaving for med school. And then he kissed me. There is little that can compare to a kiss two years in the making. In my head I was literally screaming, "OH MY GOD, DO YOU REALIZE WHAT IS HAPPENING?! THIS CAN'T REALLY BE HAPPENING." But it happened. Sigh.

Later that summer he invited me to come visit him and go to an Eddie Money/Poison concert. I freaked out at the last minute and didn't go. I was seeing someone at the time and for whatever reason chose to stay. Big mistake. Huge.

We continued emailing throughout the next year, and come spring break of my senior year, he was stopping in the Dayton area. We planned on grabbing a quick lunch, as we were both heading out of town. This quick lunch lasted three hours.

It's been three years since that lunch, but he has remained this figment of perfection in the back of my mind. That one big "what if?"...

We exchanged a couple of emails last year. Same humor, same wit, same feeling in my gut. But, too much time had passed. Lives moved on.

Recently I found out that he's in a serious relationship. Possibly engaged. My reaction to this news caught me off-guard. A punch to the gut. A feeling of loss. Even after all of this time.

There is nothing in me that seriously believed that one day we would really be together. Well, maybe somewhere deep down, just a little bit, if the planets aligned and we were meant to be. And all of that crap.

There is something to be said for the idea of someone. The idea of something. The fantasy of a relationship with someone so seemingly perfect for you. Somewhat star-crossed lovers who just can't seem to find the right time and place.

But the truth of it all is that, most likely, the fantasy is so much sweeter than the reality. My feeling of loss is not the loss of something real, an actual person or relationship, but the loss of an idea of something so right and so wonderful. The potential of perfection.

The wondering of "what if?" has been replaced with "what is." A sobering thought, wholly lacking in romanticism, but a necessary step in finding what is truly real.

I lose my breath despite the air.

Current new music obsession is The Weepies (thanks to Chris and Andy).

One song that I can't get enough of is "Take It From Me" (you can hear it here).

Her voice in the opening lines just does something to me. It's so rich, tangible; I want to hold it in my hands and rub it all over my face then bottle it up and keep it forever. Good work, Deb Talan.

Oh, and "World Spins Madly On" gives a nice tug to the ol' heartstrings.

In other news, my two favorite men are currently working together. Zach Braff is directing Joshua Radin's first video, "Closer" (see the making of the video here in the video posts section of Braff's site).

This is the guy equivalent of Angelina Jolie and Salma Hayek covered in oil, writhing around together. Naked. With plenty of open-mouthed kissing. Amen.

In the market for a new laptop...

PC or Mac? Why?

Ready, go.

This girl totally lives in a trailer.

A 14-year-old girl is suing MySpace.com, claiming that the company does not do enough to protect it's under-age users. She says a 19-year-old guy lied to her and said he was a senior on a high school football team to "gain her trust." She gave him her phone number and he then allegedly sexually assaulted her.

She's suing MySpace (NOT the dude who assaulted her, mind you) for 30 MILLION DOLLARS. Maybe because, and I'm just assuming here, the guy isn't walking around with $30 million in his wallet.

W.T.F?!?!?!?!?

I do think that an online forum like MySpace makes it easier for terrible things to happen, especially to the younger, naive folks. But seriously.

30 MILLION DOLLARS?!?!

That amount of money is laughable. Terrible. Horrible. A travesty. I'm dying.

Let's blame MySpace for her being a total fucking idiot. Let's blame MySpace for a guy being a disgusting piece of shit. Let's blame MySpace for her parents not having the common sense to warn her about these situations.

Stranger danger, folks, STRANGER DANGER.


(read more here)

lay off me, I'm busy

work is hell. i have three ulcers and a constant feeling of mounting anxiety and impending doom. i have so much on my plate and so much to do and so little time and so little help that it feels as though i am drowning.

my laptop at home died. completely died. even though i replaced the hard drive last year. and it has all of my music on it and it's my connection to the outside world when away from my desk. can you imagine living without the internet at home? for me, it's torture.

both of these terrible things keep me from all that is blog.

the real bitch of it all is that writing keeps me sane. i never realized how much i enjoyed writing until i started this mother up. right now i have six blog post ideas saved as drafts. this is making me even more stressed out. i have all of this stuff to say and it's just sitting there, backed up and waiting to come out.

for me, writing is like a drug addiction. all day, i watch and listen and read and think about things to write about. ideas consume me until i can sit down and write. i get my fix. the adrenaline rush of the writing and then the euphoric release of the publication. glorious.

so, if you want to buy me a new laptop or pay me to write for a living, please leave your contact information in the comments section below.

i'm craving cottage cheese like it's my job.

Goodbye, Britney, We Hardly Knew Ye.

I don't like to meddle in celebrity gossip on here (nevermind the hours spent everyday reading about and discussing such things), but this is just so beyond any rational comprehension that I have to put it front and center.

Bitch is gone forever. Crack-whore Whitney Houston has a better chance of staging a come-back.

Have a great weekend.

How about a Reuben with a side of rage?

Corned beef? Check.
Sauerkraut? Check.
Cole slaw dressing? Check.
Swiss cheese? Check.
Rye bread? Check.
Male chauvinist pig? Double-fucking-check.

My friend Scott had me over for his famous Reubens last night. The shit the man can do with corned beef is unprecedented. I've had the Chicago standards, like Manny's, and Scott's are by far and away the best. And the fact that he voluntarily put together an entire meal without killing someone (or himself) made it all the more delicious.

In the midst of dinner preparations, his roommate, Brad, returned home from work. I've hung out with him a few times, nice enough guy. At one point the conversation turns to bike-riding and Brad is telling Scott and I of a nice trek that he and his girlfriend took last weekend. And ends the story with:

"Yeah, it was nice. A good time. And a damn good way to keep the woman in shape."

Wha? Huh? I was certain there was NO way I'd heard him right. He had to be kidding.

But I had. And he wasn't.

I was all, "you've got to be fucking kidding me," and he was all, "no, I'm serious, I don't want my girlfriend getting fat," and I was all, "that's terrible," and he was all, "well, that's the way it is," and I was all, "well, fuck you."

The man was dead serious. No being an ass for affect here. He continued to state his case and I swear to christ the following lines came out of his mouth:

"I keep in shape, my girlfriend needs to stay in shape. I don't want her gaining any weight."

"I know that someday I'll gain weight, maybe 20 pounds, probably get a beer belly. I sure as hell hope she doesn't gain 20 pounds."

"There's no reason for her, or me really, to gain any weight. Even after kids. Women lose all of that weight all the time."

"I'm always trying to come up with stuff for us to do to keep her in shape."

"I just wouldn't be attracted to her if she gained weight. There's no reason for it."

I argued steadfastly with him, clearly getting very heated. And he didn't abate one bit. He held firm to his beliefs. At one point, realizing that I was looking into the eyes of a pathetic lost-cause, I calmly (calmly as in, trying not to rip his balls off) explained to him that we had better quit with this conversation because I was getting very seriously angry. Very seriously fucking angry.

I'm all about people staying healthy and in shape, etc. There's no reason (except because it's easier and more fun) to sit around and eat unhealthy food and drink. I'm not advocating purposeful obesity here, I'm just supporting basic tolerance.

How sad is it that this guy bases so much of his relationship on how his girlfriend looks? I know guys get all googly over hot, naked chicks, but come on. I've met his girlfriend, she's tall and has a nice, normal, healthy body. Not too thin, not anywhere near partially overweight. She's a nice girl. Sweet, fun, cooks, cleans, decorates. I couldn't help but wonder if she has any idea how he feels about this particular subject. Talk about driving someone into an eating disorder.

I have never given a moment's pause to the weight of someone I'm dating. If I notice their face filling out, or more of a belly, whatever, I just find it more endearing. It's just the person that I'm in love with, flabby abs and all. Even more so, my sexual attraction towards someone never changes if their body changes. For me, all of that attraction is based so much their personality, sense of humor and how they make me feel. Sure, I need to find them physically attractive, but some shifts in weight won't change that for me.

And I think I'm lucky that I'm this way. And I wish more people were. It makes for much healthier and happier relationships.

It blows my mind that some dumbass seriously thinks that through the years his partner will maintain her weight and won't change. It makes me angry and terribly sad. Sad for the woman that will be held to this expectation. And sad for him that he doesn't realize what loving someone unconditionally really means.

Oh well, one less douchebag to weed out.

Good Night, Sweet Girl

Beautiful Girls is one of those movies that I continually forget that I love. It disappears into the back of my subconscious until I see it, and then I'm enamored all over again.

Willie C. leaves his life in NYC to travel home to a small town in Massachusetts for his high school reunion and, most importantly, to sort his life out. He's at a crossroads with his serious girlfriend and his career. He and his old buddies get together, drink a lot, and go through a whole host of situations that force them to reevaluate what's important in their lives.

The screenplay is fantastic. With so many great lines and conversations, it's a veritable feast for the brain. The big life issues, the burning relationship questions, the witty banter...I'm emotionally drained by the end.

Willie: [from a window] Hey.
Marty: Romeo and Juliet, the dyslexic version.

Most impressive is the relationship between Marty and Willie. It blows my mind that, between Scott Rosenberg's writing and Natalie Portman's acting, a 29-year-old man with an infatuation with a 13-year-old girl doesn't gross me out and is entirely believable. It's not sexual or raunchy, it's endearing and heartbreaking. He's not looking at her as a sex object; he's intrigued by her wit and intellect. And what (normal and healthy) girl wouldn't want that? Natalie Portman owns that role and is the highlight of the entire film.

Willie: You know how it is, the beginnings? When you first fall in love and you can't eat, you can't sleep and getting a call from her, it makes your day. It's like seeing a shooting star.
Andera: It's the best.
Willie: Yeah, but, inevitably it goes away. It quiets down. So, this is my thing see, why get married now? Why not have two, three more of those beginning things before I, you know, settle into the big fade?
Andera: The big fade, that's an awful way to put it.

The "shooting star" part takes it a little too far. Excuse that. But the rest of it is so true to life it hurts. We all treasure the beginning of a relationship. When it's all rainbows and unicorns and shit. And once that goes away, the majority of people assume that means that they are settling or that the relationship is not working. They don't take a step back and ask the real question, "are we truly in love and happy?"

And, I'm sorry to generalize, but I think this is truer with the guys. The lure of a new woman to have the beginning ease and giddiness with, as opposed to staying with the same chick who is comfortable and established (and probably thinking about settling down) is just too great. Thus, why you see so many men freak and run to dodge commitment.

Paul: You told her things, didn't you?
Willie: What things?
Paul: You let her behind the curtain, didn't you?...You let her behind the curtain, I know you did. You never let them behind the curtain, Will. You never let them see the little old man behind the curtain working the levers of the great and powerful OZ. They are all sisters, Willie... they aren't allowed back there... they mustn't see.

First of all, that makes me pee. It's hilarious. And sad. Sad because it's true. I can't tell you how many times in my own life I've dated people that did the whole "not allowed behind the curtain" thing. Or how many times I've listened to friends cry/bitch about the same thing. I know that women can put their guard up just as much, but I find that this wall crumbles much easier with the female population.

Tommy: Can I ask you a question?
Andera: Go ahead.
Tommy: How long have you been going out with your boyfriend?
Andera: Eight months.
Tommy: And it's good?
Andera: It's very good.
Tommy: He makes you happy?
Andera: Yeah. I look for that in a man, you know. The ones that make me miserable don't seem to last.
Tommy: Right.
Andera: You know, there are four words I need to hear before I go to sleep. Four little words. "Good night, sweet girl." That's all it takes. I'm easy, I know, but a guy who can muster up those four words is a guy I want to stay with.

I know this part is cheesy as all hell, and normally I hate this kind of fluff, but there's something about the last part that rips my heart and soul out of my body and throws it on the ground. I just love it. Lines in movies that make you feel like you just got punched in the gut are the reason we all continue to watch films. That, and to see hot people having sex and shit getting blown up.

fountains and fireworks

Some pics I took at Navy Pier last week...

Cirque du Shut The Fuck Up

Cirque Shanghai (performing at Navy Pier through the summer) is no Cirque du Soleil, but they do have these people. On unicycles. On unicycles rolling around on these huge balls. On unicycles rolling around on these huge balls jumping rope.

I just want to say it one more time. Huge balls.

Lemon Poppyseed Muffins

Some things are always worth the calories.

Tuesday, June 6: Training Day #2

Sorry for the delay. I've been doing a little traveling and having a pretty constant work-related anxiety attack.

Days until Event: 117

Out of the House: 7:20pm
Workout Breakdown: walked 10 minutes, ran 5 minutes, walked 1 minutes, ran 5 minutes, walked 1 minute, ran 5 minutes, walked 1 minute, ran 5 minutes, walked 2 minutes, ran 5 minutes, walked 5 minutes.
Back to the House: 8:05pm
Total Workout Time: 45 minutes

Personal thought for this workout: I still suck and hate running.

Friday, June 2nd: Training Day #1

More for my amusement than yours, I'm going to be chronicling my training process for the Chicago Half-Marathon. I'm hoping that by putting this out for the whole world to see that I'll be forced to stick with it. And kick it's ass (gasp! Look how confident she is!).

Here goes nothing.

Days until Event: 121

Out of the House: 6:15am
Workout Breakdown: walked 10 minutes, ran 5 minutes, walked 2 minutes, ran 5 minutes, walked 1 minute, ran 5 minutes, walked 1 minute, ran 2 minutes, walked 4 minutes
Back to the House: 6:50am
Total Workout Time: 35 minutes

Personal thought for this workout: I suck.

It's Not Me, It's You...Or is it?

My life is currently resembling an Austin Powers film. Not the accent or the bad teeth or lame jokes.

I think I've lost my mojo.

Since when did going on dates become a source of anxiety for me? Since when did the thought of going to a guy's apartment after dinner to "watch a movie" make me break out in hives?

An actual conversation that occurred last night, standing outside of a Lakeview Thai noodle establishment, at the end of the third date:

Dude: "Hey, so do you want to go back to my place and watch 'Ice Harvest'? I know you wanted to see it."
Me: blink. blinkblink. blink.
Dude: "You said you wanted to see it, right?"
Me: (worried that the internal alarms, sirens and shrieks can actually be heard outside of my body) "Uhhh. I. Uh. I, uh. Um. Well. You see. Well, I'd really like to, but it's my friend's birthday and I have to meet her for drinks at Sopo."
Dude: "Ok, well, maybe some time over the weekend then."

He then pulls me to him via the front of my jacket and plants one right on the kisser. Open-mouthed. (Which, would have been very fantastic and movie-esque, had it been warranted or even hinted at.)

My inner dialogue went a little something like this:

"Ok, don't freak out.
You like this guy, right?
It's the third date, give it a chance.
Don't freak out, I said.
I know you haven't been in the dating world for over a year, but just relax.
Give it a few seconds...
hmmm, he's not a bad kisser.
But oh my god, we're kissing in a parking lot right next to a busy street!
People might see us kissing!
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
What if someone sees us kissing?
IN PUBLIC?
On a Wednesday?
Sober?
Why am I caring so much if people see us?
Why don't I feel the urge to lift my rigid arms from my sides and touch him?
Why am I not feeling anything?
WHAT IF SOMEONE SEES US KISSING?
I do not want to continue kissing this person.
But he won't get his tongue out of my mouth.
I hope they have the Sangria special tonight at Sopo.
Stop with the kissing already, for the love of christ."

We've been on three dates, all of which were a great time, tons to talk about, plenty of laughs. He's intelligent, interesting, loves music and movies, writes screenplays, is mature, witty, and cute. I was attracted to him enough to continue with the dates. So what if I didn't want to rip his clothes off by the end of the first date (a standard pre-requisite for me)? I was taking it slow, seeing where it was going. Keeping it casual.

But then came the first kiss. Out of nowhere. The make or break. And it broke.

So immediately the analysis is that he just doesn't do it for me. That we're missing that "something;" that spark. But is that all it is? Is it that simple?

Or is it me?

I've thoroughly enjoyed my year-long hiatus from dating; it's the best thing I have ever done. But have I inadvertently enjoyed it so much that I've made it more difficult to date anyone? I've become so used to not making eye contact or striking up conversations or flirting with guys that I hardly know how to comfortably do so these days. I've become so content being by myself or with good friends, that I don't even notice any available males in the room. It's amazing how you can train yourself to do such things.

Can you become too content with being single?

Sung to the tune of "I'm In Love With A Stripper"

"I'm in love with my banker."

His name is Steve. He makes me nervous.

I Never Win Anything.

But, today I did!

I won tickets to see KT Tunstall! Even better, it's at the intimate, acoustically fantastic WTTW11 studio. She's filming a show for the PBS series Soundstage.

I also found a dollar on the ground and had a perfect stranger offer me their metered parking spot because they had time left on it.

I'm picking up a lottery ticket today.

I've just completely jinxed myself.