chuck norris, mini people and crying at my desk

crying at my desk.

Holy sweet hell. Writing for Chicagoist has been a fantastic experience thus far, save for the seemingly incessant band of negative, shitty commenters that troll the site to just be, well, shitty. But, today, that is not the case.

In today's post, I talked about this guy, Tom Simon, who is donating his kidney to a perfect stranger. Not for money, not for accolades, just because he can. So, anywho, the first comment on there is from none other than Tom himself. Just scroll on down under the entry and read it. Go on, do it. It's so damn nice and it made me tear up a bit and fill to the brim with warm fuzzy goodness. Sometimes life is so fantastic I think I may just burst.

mini people.

From the always smashing Mighty Girl, I came across photos from one diastema, aaaand I'm pretty much in lust. Particularly semi-edible and work it, oh and this one too. Damn it, just go look at all of them, they are fantastic and make me smile like crazy.

chuck norris.

My friend, Kelley, is about to go postal from studying for her something or another board something step 1 thing for medical school. Passing it confirms what I already know, which is that she is brilliant and will make the best and hottest damn doctor this side of the universe. So! Understandably, her brain is a little fuzzy from 37 straight days of studying during all awake hours, which makes for wild and erratic conversations. I sent her this link and here we go...

kelley: I like the fact that the pages that don't feature chuck are mail order forms for nunchucks

Amanda: the greatest magazine ever published

kelley: totally. I like the chuck norris pjs (aka - karate suit)

Amanda: ha. one of the commenters said that the "get me out of here" look on his face in that one is the most expressive norris face ever

kelley: I also like what the lady in the back is doing, really helps me to understand the feel of the outfit

kelley: it's hilarious that all these pants are worn just at the bellybutton

Amanda: there are no trends in ka-ra-te

kelley: hahaha

kelley: it kinda looks like his [male private part] is down to his knee in the pajama pants on the left leg

Amanda: of course it is.

kelley: where does he keep it in those action jeans? cause those suckers are T.I.G.H.T.

kelley: I also like the snakeskin belt.

kelley: did you notice also that they come with a lifetime guarantee? you get a new pair at half the price

Amanda: so, if they rip when you are performing a sweet roundhouse to the face, you get a new pair?

kelley: yes. WHAT A DEAL.

kelley: it says if they EVER wear out, rip, fray or tear...return them and you get a new pair for half the retail price at the time of the return

Amanda: wait. isn't that what things do as you wear them -- wear?

kelley: these are chuck norris action jeans

kelley: they dont WEAR...they kick your ass - you wear out before they do

Amanda: holy shit. brilliant.

kelley: kinda makes me not want to wear them though, if they dont ever deteriorate - like what the fuck are they made of?

Amanda: they have to be radioactive or something

Amanda: what's the stuff that armored cars are made of? kevlar?

kelley: no. armored cars are made out of chuck norris action jean.

Amanda: kell. that's two new chuck norris jokes in less than 5 minutes. my mind can't take anymore.



Kell, I salute you. Good luck with the rest of your studying...only 8 more days!

Alright, that's all from me. You go and have yourself the best damn weekend, ok?

still with the goosebumps.

Last post about Martin Sexton for a while, I promise.

His show at Park West on Friday night was hands down the best Sexton show I've ever seen. Here's video of "Freedom of the Road" into "In The Journey."

The video has two parts; part one and part two.

I'm still on a high...what a treat that night was.

for the diehard sexton fan

This is a performance from Martin Sexton's show last weekend in Boston. Along with the Boston-based a cappella group Firedrill!, he sings the holy hell out of "Can't Stop Thinking 'Bout You."

It's Boyz II Men meets Sexton. Let that simmer in your mind a little bit. Awww yeahhhhh.

alright, who's with me?

Oh man, it's ON.

(shakes indignant fist at gray, snowy april sky)

Seriously, wtf mother nature? Gosh.

Hey there, hi there, ho there. Until I get more acclimated to the life of a Chicagoist "writer," that "job" will be sucking up 97.4% of the spare time that I used to spend rambling on here. I am officially on staff, and MAN, the tandem bike? Just cracks my shit right up every time. And! Most importantly, I'll stop mentioning the Chicagoist thing so much once it becomes more second nature; like preparing coffee in the morning before I'm actually awake, breathing and my pee smelling after I eat asparagus.

I'm currently listening to Guster's live cover of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and it's definitely not nearly as fun and great as I was hoping it would be. It pretty much plays off that scene in My Best Friend's Wedding when Cameron Diaz sings horrible karaoke. And hey, maybe that's exactly what they're going for, but, um, I'm having a hard time thinking it's funny because my right ear just shriveled up and died.

This weekend is my first weekend with NOTHING to do since the start of March. Which is so very much in the nice realm of things.

There are some seemingly fantastic rumblings just under the surface, so the next couple of months could potentially rock my face off. We'll see.

And that is all! I'm spending this evening at the dark, glorious, delicious, perfect Mrs. Murphy's Irish Bistro (name has no bearing on the sexual orientation of anyone who enters) for a martini appetizer and half-price wine paired with a butternut squash pizza.

fin.

that's what I'm talking about

[Parents, you'll want to stop reading now, sexually-suggestive material ahead. You have been warned.]

The roommate and I were driving home from the grocery store last night and were reminiscing about the absolute deliciousness of Soft Batch cookies. I swear I could eat those things by the package-full; sometimes microwaving them for a few seconds to get that melty chocolatey goodness. You know what I'm saying.

Naturally, the conversation turned to how sugar-filled and overly-processed those cookies are:

Me: "Really, there's nothing worse you can eat, sugar-wise. They are terrible for you."

Andrea: "Ugh. Agreed."

Me: "I really think they're pretty much the most processed sugar-y food item you can buy...well, except for Peeps. Barf. Oh! And those coconut ball things..."

Andrea: "...ew, yeah, Snowballs. Those are sick."

Me: "THE WORST. Just covered in coconut."

Andrea: "That's one set of balls you won't ever see in my mouth."

let your geek flag fly

I am unnaturally excited about the Discovery Channel's Planet Earth series. Like, Early 90s Fifth-Grade Girl Attending a NKOTB Concert excited.


This story on making paper from panda poop is marginally interesting, but I couldn't get past the part where they talk about how much pandas poop: "the center's 40 bamboo-fed pandas produce about 2 tons of droppings a day." That just can't be right. 40 pandas. 2 TONS OF POOP. In ONE day? No way. I call total bullshit. Or pandashit, whatever.


I've been really busy, blah blah, work, blah blah, writing for Chicagoist, blah blah.

diabetes, africa and pot.

I have no intro for this. It is what it is.




On the way home from work yesterday I was flipping through the radio stations and stopped when a DJ announced that the next song was a new one from Incubus called "Dig." Now, I've never been a huge fan of Incubus, but I remember a couple of their songs, popular during my college years, that weren't horrible. So, I thought, let's see what those boys are putting out these days.

Holy bleeding ears, Batman. If that song isn't the biggest steaming pile of crap then I just don't know what is.


My first two posts are up over at Chicagoist. Wee!

none of these blurbs are related.

Last night, driving home alone from a lovely, catered, dimly lit evening in the main Stanley Field Hall of the Field Museum, I started to feel all sad and heavy-hearted and nostalgic and on the verge of tears. Over nothing. I wasn't thinking about anything in particular and it just hit me.

And then, by god, if I didn't start thinking of things, sad things, and I felt more and more down and then I was like, wait. Hold the phone. What day is it? Thursday? The Thursday before I get my womanly monthly visitor? Damn it. Damn PMS. Like clockwork every. single. month. So, I switched the CD to a song that makes me dance around and sing in my car and forgot all about it.

Seriously ladies, you have to beat PMS or PMS will beat you.

~

I've been listening to a metric shit ton of Air lately. Once you start, it's virtually impossible to stop. I haven't ventured beyond their three most recent albums (Pocket Symphony, Talkie Walkie, and Air Baricco) but these have satisfied me nicely.

I feel like I'm living in a movie the entire time I'm listening; a really good movie that's dark and artsy and brilliant and I'm the star and I look like Laura Prepon.

~

Now that I drive to work, my leisurely reading time happens at night before bed. I get all nestled in my covers, position and re-position the pillows, then settle in. This is all very relaxing and gets me in the mood for sleep.

I'm currently reading Dave Eggers' You Shall Know Our Velocity! and the following passage from last night's reading resulted in a punctuated burst of laughter:

"We were fools and now we were driving to our deaths in a rental car. Janet Jackson was tinkling from the speakers, asking what we had done for her as of late."

~

Monday marks the beginning of my regular, pretty much daily, contributions to Chicagoist. Come check it out and ooh and ahh when you see my stuff...or just read the posts that you find interesting, whatever.

I'm still in shock that someone is asking me to write things that will be published on their site. I'm secretly (well not so secretly now) waiting to get the email in which the editor at Chicagoist tells me that it was all a cruel joke and I'm the worst writer in the history of words.

a little peek into my soul

Scary, I know.

But, seriously, I found the combination of humor and science in this to be entirely perfect.

husband and wife

For the second time in my unmarried life, I am being referred to as someone's wife. This time by my dear (very dear) friend, Gary. Who prefers sleeping with men, so (Mom) don't get any ideas.

The first time was back in college. I became really close friends with this guy named Tom. Tom and I decided, second semester of Junior year, that we were going to go to the library every night and study. We both had a heavy class load and we had to keep our grades up. Neither one of us was the overly-studious type (we enjoyed partying a little too much) but we made a pact. And we held to that well into March.

The husband and wife thing with Tom happened the first night that we met. It was at a formal in Cincinnati Sophomore year. A group of us headed outside to play in the large fountain in the middle of downtown. I have pictures, really classy ones, of myself and a friend of mine in the fountain, water just above our knees, formal gowns held at mid-thigh. The smiles on our faces though, the kind where you're in the midst of real, true laughter; I don't smile like that nearly enough anymore.

After the dip in the fountain, I went over and sat next to Tom. We knew of each other, friends of friends, but had never had a conversation. We started talking and just didn't stop. Everyone else went back inside and there we sat. At some ungodly hour of the night/morning. At one point, a sort of unsavory, shady fellow approached and took a seat next to Tom. He was clearly out of his mind (natural or chemical causes, one will never know) and repeatedly referred to me as Tom's wife. And it stuck.

I don't know why some friendships stay just that and why some develop into relationships. Tom and I, for whatever reason, stayed in that friend zone. And we were so happy. We spent so much time together that Junior spring semester; library every night, visiting each other at our respective campus jobs, even having sleep-overs. Where, I swear on my grandmother's grave, that's exactly what we did. Sleep. No one understood it, not even us.

My favorite memories of Tom are those nights in the library, leaving notes for each other in books and stifling our laughter. Also, Valentine's Day. Neither one of us was dating anyone, so we decided to get together and make dinner. Well, Tom was in charge of dinner and my responsibility was liquor and dessert. The latter of which was, of course, purchased from the Oakwood DLM (Dorothy Lane Market), only the greatest place in the greater Dayton, OH, metropolitan area.

While at DLM, I ventured over to the card aisle. I stood there debating over whether or not to get Tom a super cheesy Valentine's Day card for a husband. In the end, I did. The card I chose was a deep purple with gold scripted writing; just over-the-top nauseating. Perfect.

Tom and I ate dinner, drank some beers and had dessert. While he was washing the dishes, I went and got the card out of my purse. I was a little nervous to give it to him; even though it was a joke, I didn't want him to think I was lame. I walked over to him at the sink with it behind my back and told him that I had something for him. His face lit up and he ran out of the kitchen announcing, "I have something for you too!"

We both gave each other ridiculously lame, barf-inducing husband and wife Valentine's Day cards.

A couple of weeks later we kissed for the first time.

Our dating relationship only lasted for a couple of months and ended one warm night at the end of April outside of his apartment building. I'm the queen of bailing before I get hurt (no matter if my assumption of impending hurt-dom is well-founded or not...once again, please date me), so I left him standing there not really understanding what in the hell just happened. We didn't talk again until we were well out of college (well, he talked plenty to our mutual close friends about how I was a bitch, but other than that, we didn't speak to one another).

Tom and I rekindled our friendship years later; me in Chicago and he in Boulder. Randomly sending an email or chatting online. Last October I had a work conference in Denver so Tom drove up and met me for dinner.

It was a bit awkward to see each other again after three years. So much had changed, we had changed. The conversation was great though, talking about our new lives and jobs and loves and hobbies.

Towards the end of dinner he got this serious look on his face, "listen, remember that night when we, well, you, ended things? You were trying to explain things to me and I wasn't listening. And, I was high, so it may not have been the best time to have a serious conversation, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, I should have said something, either then or later. But I went into this defensive mode and it was easier to hate you than to deal with what was really going on. And I'm sorry; I was immature and didn't know any better."

Salsa was dripping from the chip in my hand and I just sat there, mouth agape and blinking. I had always thought that I had been the bad guy in that situation. Granted, I was ending things because I wasn't getting what I wanted from the relationship, but I ultimately blind-sided him and ended it. I guess neither of us was mature enough to see any of that at the time.

Tom and I finished up dinner laughing about how much we had both changed as we'd grown up and into ourselves. We looked into each other's eyes and couldn't see the people we'd been years ago. And, although that could be a sad thing for some, for us, we couldn't have been happier. We found in each other the new people that we'd become; it helped us to define and accept the changes made, the struggles fought. We saw that we were new, better versions of our old selves. And after all, isn't that what friends are for?

vlog

Apparently I am now operating a video blog...just one more, ok?

I dare you to watch the first six minutes of this and not get goosebumps.






and, um, funny.

a little something for your monday...

(a big thanks to the little sister for this one)


In unrelated news, I'm now officially on staff at Chicagoist.

can you get one of those at ikea?

My mom stopped by my dad's office this afternoon. She used his computer to send me the following instant message:

"dad just left me a farty chair."

god, I love those people.

over it.

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

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

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



We'll see how things go next week.

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

Sushi tonight. I love this place.

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

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

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

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

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

eyes wide shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and just like that, it ended.

(via instant messenger)

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

Me: what are you watching?

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

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

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

Me: no.

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

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

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

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

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

Me: a nest. that's comforting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: with no bar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: ok. bye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

feel the love.

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

(from nataliedee)

get it off!

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

Thanks.

wild angels

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

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


Martin Sexton - Wild Angels (video)

the ski bug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

one last thing before I go...

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

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

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

And that's all I have to say about that.

(A nice amount of negative energy around me right now sucking up my time, energy and good vibes. I shall return, after my enjoyable weekend away, with so much creativity and overall awesomeness it will BLOW YOUR MIND. Maybe even a spruced-up template. Brace yourself.)

includes a face-melter or two

20 Greatest Guitar Solos Ever, With Videos.


I have Gordon Lightfoot's "If You Could Read My Mind" in my head. On repeat. The song is so damn depressing and his voice makes it more so. But, you know, it really got me thinking...any song that mentions paperback novels sold in drugstores is a brilliant piece of art.


A friend mentioned something to me yesterday about Google opening up an office here in Chicago. So, I decided to see what they had to offer in the way of jobs. I double-clicked on the little internet explorer icon and up popped my homepage: Google. And I just sat there for a second. I needed to google "Google jobs" or "Google Chicago" but I hesitated. My fingers wouldn't type. Googling Google? Is that like discovering the center of eternity? Or a fold in the space-time continuum? It was then that I realized, holy crap, I need to get laid.

That's because I'm busy thinking loudly about hating you.

Found this today via dooce. And whoa nelly, I want me one of those.

Really, that's all a guy would have to do; just be that funny. He could sit around the apartment all day (the one I pay for by working two jobs) playing video games and not showering. And then bark orders at me (funnily) about making him food and cleaning up the place while wearing a small french maid apron and nothing else. Except stilettos. He might even have some drug dealer friends who are always crashing at our place. The cops show up sometimes too. But, damn if he isn't making me chuckle all the while.

show me how you do that trick

A little something that makes me feel joy, envy, longing, sadness and excitement. All at the same time.


I saw Ryan Adams last night (if one more person over forty says, "oh, Bryan Adams! I know him!" I will forfeit life). More on the show next week, still processing.


I've had this bizarre hankering for The Cure lately. I just can't get enough.

a spattering of misc.

I'm going to see Ryan Adams tomorrow night at the House of Blues. One never knows what to expect walking into one of his shows, so we'll see. As long as he plays the following setlist then I won't have to kill him (from his December 6th show at Town Hall in NY):

Come Pick Me Up
When The Stars Go Blue
Oh My Sweet Carolina
Love Is Hell
This Is It
Afraid Not Scared
La Cienega Just Smiled
Hallelujah
Wish You Were Here
Judy Garland
Blue Sky Blues
Games
My Winding Wheel
Willow Jane
29
The Rescue Blues

........

In other music news, my favorite new artist of the moment is Ingrid Michaelson. Go on, check her out, have I ever let you down before? (don't answer that, just go have a listen)

........

Yesterday I took a few minutes and did some cleaning house. Of my instant messenger buddy list. Flushing out people that I haven't talked to in years and/or those who haven't signed on in years. It's amazing how something so simple can be so cathartic.

........

This (thanks Antoinette!) is my most recent inspiration to just DO something already. My biggest fear (besides large knives and dying alone surrounded by cats) is to simply idle through life. I can't get to the end of the line, look back and think, shit, I really should have seen more of the world/done more with my life/been more involved.

An excerpt:

"But beyond travel, vagabonding is an outlook on life. Vagabonding is about using the prosperity and possibility of the information age to increase your personal options instead of your personal possessions. Vagabonding is about looking for adventure in normal life, and normal life within adventure. Vagabonding is an attitude - a friendly interest in people, places, and things that makes a person an explorer in the truest, most vivid sense of the word.

Vagabonding is not a lifestyle, nor is it a trend. It's just an uncommon way of looking at life - a value adjustment from which action naturally follows. And, as much as anything, vagabonding is about time - our only real commodity - and how we choose to use it."


Oooh, I get goosebumps just reading that. yum.

........

Oh, and this.

queen of hearts

Last Thursday was January 4th. As far as I knew, there was nothing special about it. Well, except for the fact that I had a date with my friend Ben. He had called me three months prior to announce that he was going to be in Chicago for New Year's and that, no matter what, we were going on a date on January 4th. Fine with me. I guess if it were anyone else, I would have thought something about this declaration, maybe been a bit suspicious, but it was Ben. Ben does things like that just to do them. Just to make people smile. He's good like that.

I first met Ben on an obnoxiously sunny day during my sophomore year of college. I was outside of Sherman Hall chatting with some friends when he came jogging up to us. He knew one of the girls I was talking with, she and I had graduated high school together. We all ventured into KU (Kennedy Union) for lunch. My impression of Ben after that lunch: loud, hilarious, charming and not too hard on the eyes.

(oh, the KU Belgian waffles on Sundays. A moment of silence, please.)

About a week later, on Homecoming weekend, my best friend/roommate, Katie, and I were walking through the ghetto (holy shit, how much do I love that there is a wikipedia reference for that?). We were headed to a party when I heard someone screaming my name from down the street. I turn around and there is that Ben kid, sprinting down the street towards me. He had been on the porch of his older brother's house and wanted to invite us over. And, hey! why not? We could head to the other party later.

As I can recollect, this was around 8 p.m. on Saturday night. Katie left for the other party around 11 and I stayed with Ben. As the party at Ben's brother's died down, he and I headed back to my dorm room. Now. Stop there. I know what you're thinking. And you're wrong. Surprisingly enough.

Ben and I sat around and talked for a while in my room, then decided that we wanted to stay up all night. Which, was entirely feasible considering when he and I were together, neither one of us shut up. We fell into our own world where pretty much everyone and everything else disappeared. So! We headed to one of the only places in Dayton, OH, that was open 24 hours: Meijer.

There we ran through the store like idiots, eventually settling in the toy aisle. We found these HUGE stuffed bears, spread them out on the floor and laid on them for a good hour...laughing until we cried.

By the time we left Meijer it was close to 5 in the morning. As we were headed back to campus, we noticed that Stan the Donut Man was just opening for business. Perfect. Once inside, this little old lady (who, we can only assume, is Stan's wife) was placing freshly baked donuts into the case. Ben and I saddled up to the counter and ordered donuts and milk. When the time came to pay the lady, Ben pulled out some cash and change and placed it on the counter. He seemed to be having some trouble figuring it all out so I barked,

"God, Ben, can't you count?!"

To which he replied, with a disgusted look, eyeing me up and down, "Yes, I can count. Can you count? Calories?"

I thought Stan the Donut Man's wife was going to hit the floor. He and I lost it. It was pretty much the funniest thing we'd ever done. To this day we still reminisce about it almost every time we talk.

Back to staying up all night. We sat in my car for a bit, listening to music and chatting then headed back to my room close to 8 a.m. Ben slept on the floor. Well, until Katie left for work, then I got in her bed and he got in mine. We woke up in the early afternoon and stayed in our respective beds talking and talking and talking until it was dark again.

We talked about funny things, life things, and some really deep and sad things. I dug the crap out of that kid.

After that night/day we started hanging out pretty regularly. We had a great time. Always. I think we really got each other and the uncanny similarity of our sense of humor provided unending entertainment. We cracked each other's shit right up.

One time Ben showed up at my door with a white fuji mum. One time I came back from the shower to find a poem written on post-it notes stuck all over my computer and desk (featuring the line, "I like you better than a starburst jelly bean/if you were a drug I'd be a dope fiend").

I took Ben to a formal. Here we are (in one of our best pictures ever) before I got accidentally hammered (didn't eat enough prior to consuming alcohol), complete with lying my head on the table for the majority of the event:

(I know I've apologized 4855 times for that night, Ben, but seriously, I'm so sorry for being your worst date ever. Ever.)

Another time, my most favorite memory of Ben, was when we took a walk through the University of Dayton campus at two in the morning, sober, on a Tuesday. There were 6,000 people within a mile radius, but somehow it was just the two of us. We sat outside of KU for a bit and then, on the stairs right by where we first met, we kissed for the first time. It didn't suck, either.

So, things went on as things do, and we never really got around to dating, despite the fact that we sure seemed to like each other enough. Who knows. We were young and had seeds to sow or something like that. Whatever the case, we stayed good friends through the rest of college and have kept in touch in the years since.

Bringing us to this past January 4th. Ben had been driving me crazy the few days prior by saying that the date was my idea and he was so glad that I wanted to go on a date with him, blah blah. I wanted to punch him. It was HIS idea, damn it.

He showed up at my place and we went to dinner and had a couple of drinks. At some point we started talking about how Ben is always so damn lucky. The craziest shit happens to him. All the time. He started making the point that, yes, he is lucky, but that he also puts himself in situations that allow for good/lucky things to happen.

"For example," he begins, "say I'm at a party and I'm sitting on a couch talking to this girl. I notice that there is a deck of cards sitting on the coffee table. So, I pick it up and start shuffling. I tell her to pick a card, any card. I don't know shit about magic, I'm just messing around. She rolls her eyes and picks the Queen of Hearts. By total chance, I swear to god, I pick the Queen of Hearts. She's flipping out, loving it, but totally thinking that I'm up to something. We have a good laugh, I mean, seriously, what are the chances?! So, then I decide to use this to my advantage and ask her what I get for picking her card. Still thinking I'm full of crap, she says that we'll go on a date. Good enough. But I have a girlfriend and she's dating someone so that's not appropriate. I suggest that, in five years, we'll surely not be dating the people we're dating now, so we'll go out then. There also happened to be a marker on the table, so I...."

I interrupt (rolling my eyes), "dude, Ben, you've told me this story already. You wrote on the card about going out with the girl in five years and you've kept it in your wallet."

He reaches for his wallet with a smirk, pulls out the card and lays it on the table, "take a look."

I grab the card and try to read the writing. It's worn from years of wallet-wear and it's dark as hell in the bar. I'm holding it up to the candle, "5 years from today..." and then there are numbers that I can barely make out, "01-04...January 4th, -02. 2002. January 4th. That's today. 2002? That's five years ago...Ben?! What are you doing here with me? Where's this girl?!"

Bigger smirk, "keep reading..."

"5 years from today, 01-04-02, Amanda Dickman will date me."

I was in complete shock. My hands were shaking, my eyes were tearing up, "Ben?! What? Me? No way. When? This whole time? Holy. Shit."

"One random night, you and I ran into each other at a party. We'd both been drinking quite a bit and you picked the Queen of Hearts. I've kept it ever since."

Flashes of that night start coming back to me. No wonder the story sounded familiar, it had fucking happened to me.

"Hey, turn the card over, there's something on the back."

Sweet christ, I even signed it.

I was so overcome with so many emotions. Predominantly shock, but also nostalgia, and just the overall ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? of it all. I just sat there speechless, hands shaking, eyes welling up with tears, a grin plastered on my face.

"See," he said with a smile, "this date was your idea."

what is wrong with people?

I just walked into the bathroom at work and there were at least 8 droplets of urine all over the toilet seat.

Sick.


Oh! this guy is making my favorite arty type stuff of the moment. I especially love this, this, this, oh and this, and this, this and this one too. (go to his cartoon archive page. glorious.)



Big, super excellent post to come tomorrow. Hold on to your hats.



Today's Wake-Up-Song-of-the-Day: "Bend and Break" (Keane)

get it? got it. good.

I was going through life at a million miles an hour. Drinking and eating with friends, dealing with job issues, changing living situations, paying off bills, finally getting my shit together. I was incredibly self-absorbed, par for the course when you are a twentysomething out there figuring your life out and trying to make something of yourself.

On that Sunday evening last October I was recovering from back-to-back trips to Denver and Atlanta capped-off with a crazy Saturday night back in Chicago. The phone rang and I saw that it was my dad. Groggy and lazy, I let it go to voicemail. I started thinking how odd it was that he was calling. And leaving a voicemail. We had just talked for an hour the day before. Unsettled, I checked the message.

"Honey, it's Dad, you need to call me right away."

Fuck.

He picked up after the first ring.

"Dad, what is it?"

"It's Mema, baby. She's gone."

"No. No. No, Dad, no. Please, no."

I was sitting on my bed, feet dangling off the side. Something was on the television in the background. All of a sudden the air in my bedroom was folding in around me. My lungs were a vacuum. He explained that she had had trouble swallowing some dinner and then her little 83-year-old, ninety pound frame just gave up. She gave up. She was tired.

I think I told my dad that I needed to call him back. He was asking about booking a flight to get home the next morning and his credit card and would I be able to get out of work and those questions were too much to process when my brain was preparing for shutdown/emotional breakdown in T-minus five seconds.

I was suffocating. I had to get out of that room. So I just started walking aimlessly around the apartment. Through the kitchen, around the coffee table, stopping every couple of steps to bend over under the weight of it all and sob. Sometimes actually wail. Like you see in the movies.

It was a combination of pure shock and a broken heart. She hadn't been ill to the point of imminent death, just the usual old people things like arthritis and losing her sight and hearing. No heart problems, no cancer, nothing.

I wasn't ready for her to go. I hadn't said goodbye or made my peace. I hadn't thanked her for always (always) telling me how much she loved me and how proud she was of me. I hadn't thanked her for helping raise my sister and I, cooking and cleaning for us all those years. I hadn't thanked her for always making sure we had clean laundry; the day after we wore something, it was cleaned and pressed and ready to go.

I hadn't told her how special she made me feel every time I came home to visit. She would cry when I walked in the door with a booming, "hello, woman!" and she would hug me so tight and wouldn't let go. And then she'd cry when hugging me good-bye. Telling me to be good and to be careful and, of course, that she loved me and was so proud of me.

She taught me to be independent, stand up for myself and never find myself in a position in which I was financially dependent upon a man. They weren't worth it. Most were, as she so gingerly put it, assholes. There were good ones out there, sure, and I sure as hell better wait until I found one of those. The woman never put things lightly. I never thanked her for that either.

But, I know she knows all of this. I just wish I could have held her hands and told her in person instead of in a casket.

Her death was a slap in the face. Just like that, you could lose a huge chunk of your heart and soul, a pillar supporting who you have become.

I had heard phrases like, "life is short," "life is what you make of it," "this isn't a dress rehearsal, this is the real thing," etc. a thousand times before, but for the first time, after she died, I got it. I really got it. I fucking get it.

Ironically, as painful as it was to deal with, my Mema's death has brought about a peace in me that I never knew existed. It put things in perspective. Big time. We're all going to have our worries and stresses in life, but for christ's sake, just relax. RE-LAX. Make choices for yourself that make you happy as well as the people around you. Surround yourself with people and things that make you feel good. Period. Stop and smell the roses, find delight in the little things (like the commercial with the guy eating the tiny fast-food value meal or accidentally stumbling upon back-to-back episodes of The Littlest Groom).

Smile. Call an old friend. Take a deep breath. Eat a good meal. Listen to a song that makes you want to dance around. Dance around. Grab a drink with a friend. Read a good book. Get over it. Laugh. Let people know you care about them. Let people care about you. Laugh more. Love yourself.

It really is that simple.




Today's Wake-Up-Song-of-the-Day: "This House is Not For Sale" (Ryan Adams)

good luck exploring the infinite abyss

One of the most genuinely fantastic things happened last night. Good lord.

And in true raging geek fashion, I can't WAIT to get it up on the blog, but, patience grasshopper, some picture-scanning and story-revising needs to be done first. Whew. This is a good one.


Today's Wake-Up-Song-of-the-Day: "Fair" (Remy Zero)

don't you hate it when...

...you wake up in the morning and your hair is looking surprisingly not a complete mess so you throw on a shower cap, rejoicing in the immense amount of getting-ready-time saved, the hair still looks pretty good as you check yourself on the way out the door, and then three minutes after you walk into the office you catch a glimpse of your hair and it looks like, after not washing it for a week, you put it in a blender?

I do.


Today's Wake-Up-Song-of-the-Day: "Put The Message In The Box" (World Party)*

* I don't think I've ever heard this song in it's entirety, it was just the line "put the message in the box/put the box into the car/drive the car around the world/until you get heard" from the opening of Lin's Bin.

welcome to the whorehouse, ricky bobby.

To say that I ended 2006 with a bang would be a disturbing understatement. December was an absolute shit show, but a shit show of the most fun and ridiculous variety.

Most notably, I had the best New Year's ever. Which is a pleasant surprise considering I hate the holiday, hate it. Too many expectations, too few of those fulfilled, too much money spent, too few cabs, too crowded bars. Night. Mare. I don't go out for New Year's Eve anymore, it's house parties only, and only ones in which I can walk home or stay the night. Period.

But! Everything about this year was fantastic. A little get-together surrounded by great friends (including a festive spattering of the gays), maker's mark, traditional British holiday favors, mexican corn dip, changing into pajamas after the bulk of the party-goers left, playing euchre until 5 a.m., waking up around lunchtime, making a breakfast of french toast and hashbrown casserole, six more hours of euchre, more food, constantly laughing, more food, and getting home after 8 p.m. still in my pajamas. It was the best start to the new year that I've had in oh such a very long time. Giddy-up.

Kottke just posted his Best Links of 2006 so my day is pretty much covered.


Today's Wake-Up-Song-of-the-Day: "Live and Let Die" (Paul McCartney and Wings)

2006 was a blur.

Today's Wake-Up-Song-of-the-Day: "9 Crimes" (Damien Rice)

What's yours?

song of the day.

Each day when I wake up, three things are guaranteed:

If it's before 10 a.m., I'm pissed to be awake.

I will go straight to the bathroom to pee then to the coffee maker.

I will have a song repeating in my head.

This last thing, the song thing, is something that I have kept to myself for years. I just assumed that everyone, without fail, woke up everyday with a different tune in their head.

It's completely uncontrollable and most of the time it has nothing to do with a song I heard the day before. And this song selection process in my brain does not discriminate. It can be any song from any genre or any time period. It doesn't matter if it's a song I hate. Hell, sometimes it's even a jingle from a commercial.

And, more often than not, it has no bearing on what I'm thinking about or what sort of mood I'm in. So, I don't know where it comes from. I like to think of my brain as an intricate, mushy DJ that takes it upon himself to pick out a song all willy nilly for me to wake up to each day. Personifying organs makes me much happier than it should.

So! Does this happen to you? If so, won't you join me in my new super blog endeavor?

Everyday I will post my Wake-Up-Song-of-the-Day and I'd love for you to share yours if you have one. It's like an interactive game thing! weee!


Today's Wake-Up-Song-of-the-Day: "If I Could Turn Back Time" (Cher)

merry christmas to me.

Since mid-November there has been this huge, obnoxious inflatable Winnie the Pooh (dressed as Santa, no less) on the front lawn of a house down the block.

Today I walked by and it's in a deflated heap on the ground.

three things.

one:

As if I needed another reason to stay away from Olive Garden.

two:

This fills me with such glee I may burst.

three:

And this?! gah! sheer awesome.

conspiracy theory.

I'm convinced that there is a secret summit somewhere buried deep in the Alps where the heads of all the companies in the world get together to establish the programming schedule of daytime television.

The sole purpose of this gathering is to ensure that all of the worst shows imaginable are on between the hours of 9 a.m. and 4 p.m. Thus, when people take time off of work whether for legitimate illness or just to spend a day on the couch, they are so MISERABLE with what is on television that they couldn't possibly be subjected to ONE MORE DAY of such mindless, horrifically acted, vomit-inducing shit.

Just how terrible it is blows my mind. Namely, the new iVillage Live (I want to smother every host on that joke of a "show"), any and all soap operas (especially Passions), the Megan Mullally Show, all talk shows (Springer and Maury just don't do it for me anymore) and all judge-type programs. All of it. It's all horrible.

I've been home most of the week dealing with a virus that has taken over my life. I could easily stay home and rest for the remainder of the week, but I'm out of movies here in the apartment and all that's left is daytime TV. I'm so physically aversed to such things that I am forcing myself TO GO BACK TO WORK. I'm choosing to NOT lay on my couch. Something is very wrong here.

I intend to expose the culprits behind this madness. Or, shit, start a career in daytime programming, it can't be that hard to put together complete crap.

words from the couch.

I have mono.

For those of you who have had it, you know it sucks complete ass (as far as trying to lead the life of a normal, functioning human being).

So, I've got that going for me, which is nice.

stay classy.

A laundry list of liquor consumed by yours truly between the hours of 6 p.m. and 2 a.m. on a random Wednesday night, for no reason, whilst still dressed in the suit I wore to an interview earlier in the day.

Ahem.

- one ketel one martini, straight up, dry, dirty
- one cosmo
- one bottle of shiraz
- 3 lemon drop shots
- one guinness

And then made out with a guy against the side of a car.

eat. with. spoon.

My cousins have the cutest damn offspring. This is Aiden.

hard candy.

On certain Sundays in November
When the weather bothers me
I empty drawers of other summers
Where my shadows used to be

Thank you, Adam Duritz, for that shining lyrical description of what I like to call "purposeful remembrance." You're down, having a hard day and you think, hey! this day could get SO much worse if I go and pull out a bunch of old crap that will make me terribly sad! It's like in the Dane Cook special where he's talking about crying and he, hilariously, explains the scenario where you are taken over by this uncontrollable need to cry, and once you're in it and getting that release, you come up with more really depressing shit so you can just go ahead and get it all out. So, similarly, you'll have those times where you take the gut-dropping, tear-inducing trip down memory lane. You look through old pictures, cards, letters, gifts, etc and then you have yourself a good old-fashioned depress-a-thon. And then you feel better. It's a catharsis.

These little episodes decline in frequency as you move on from whatever it is you're getting over. They help with the healing, blah blah, and then one day, you think about that drawer or box where all of those memories are and you realize that, holy shit, you haven't touched that in so long you can't even remember the last time it happened. And then this little smile comes to your face and you think, wow, I didn't think I'd ever get over that or feel as good as I do now. And the best part is, you didn't even realize you got over it. It's like, when you forgot about remembering that you needed to get over it, you got over it. Or something like that.

So there you are, all healed and whatnot. Christ, you can barely even see the scar anymore. Kinda like that little place on your right ring finger, right between the top two joints, where there's a scar from where you closed your fingers in a door when you were six. It's been so long and it's healed so well that now you almost have to look for the scar to find it. It's kinda like that. So you feel really great. General happiness with life is back to a nice high, I'd say an 8 out of 10 (9 if you were getting some good sex on a regular basis).

Then one night you pull out this job interview book that you haven't looked through in years. You've boxed it up and moved it 3 or 6 times, but you haven't had a need to read it. But, gloriously, now you do because you have an interview scheduled the following week for what seems to be an incredibly fantastic job. You crack the spine, start flipping through to get some great pointers to "Knock 'Em Dead" and from between two pages somewhere in the middle, out falls an envelope.

You're totally perplexed. What the hell could it be? Why is it in this book? You take the card out of the envelope and there it is. One of those pieces from a previous relationship that you thought you'd lost. A piece that's in the top 3 on the List of Valued Things that came from that particular time in your life. You look over at your roommate and all you can say is, "oh no."

You so don't want to open that card. You know what's in that card, what's written on the inside. You know that if you open it and read it you're going to remember the day you got it. And how you cried stupid emotional girl tears of happiness when you read it. You'll remember how full it made you feel. How right it made the world. And how that all went away. But, of course, since you enjoy pain a little more than the average bear, you open that bad boy up and give it a peruse.

And then you cry a little. Just a little. Because looking back on lost love is bittersweet. And then you wipe away the tears with your palms and take a sharp inhale through the nose and grit your teeth and remind yourself that this isn't something you cry about anymore. Remember?

And it's not like it rips open the healed scar or anything like that. If anything it's akin to those weird, random pains you get sometimes where you had surgery years ago or maybe like the phantom pains people get after they lose a limb. You feel it, sure, but it's dull, almost distant, and quickly passes.

The card goes back in the envelope, the envelope goes back in the book and the book goes back on the shelf. You won't need it anyway, that interview will be your bitch.

adaptation.

It's seasonably cold in Chicago today and I like it. And I'm scaring myself.

We've had a relatively mild winter thus far, so when I stepped outside into 30-degrees and freezing rain this morning, I cursed a bit, but then an eerie calm descended upon me. All of that going through November without wearing more than a little fleece (at most) was starting to freak me out. It's like those places where it's 80 degrees on Christmas; it just doesn't fit.

This is my fourth Chicago winter, infamous for numerous days of below-zero wind chills, record wind gusts and snow falls measured sometimes in feet. Of course there are plenty of other places that have winters worse than here, but in Chicago you ALWAYS have to be out in it. Whether it's walking to your car or cleaning your car or walking to and from the train, we're constantly all up in the nasty weather's shit. Which, at first, was numbing. Literally.

That first winter I walked about 6 blocks (maybe more) between my car/the train and work. Twice a day. There were plenty of days when, even though I was wearing two pairs of socks under my boots, thick tights under my pants, two or three layers under my parka, a headband ear-warmer under a winter hat, a scarf wrapped around most of my face and two pairs of gloves, all extremities and the fronts of my thighs were so numb they hurt. And let's not talk about the frozen snot. Let's not. (let 'snot! haha! ah. ahem. ok.)

I felt so crippled being out in those conditions that first year. My brain was all, "wtf? You know how cold it is out there, WHY DO YOU KEEP WALKING AROUND IN IT EVERY SINGLE DAY?"

And I was like, "brain, chill out (well, thaw out, actually. ba da bing!), we have no choice."

Although, I assume there are those few people that get in their car in their garage and then park in a garage or close to the entrance door at work. Do they even exist in Chicago? Does that happen? If so, sign me up (but not if it means I have to live and work in the burbs).

These days I don't even notice it. Or maybe I'm just used to it. Putting on layers and gearing up to face the cold is second nature. You just do what you gotta do. Sure, the bitter cold and snow generally sucks (save for that sweet calm late at night after a huge snow before the plows have had their way with the streets) but it's amazing how easily one gets used to it. So much so, that I found comfort in the horrible weather this morning. As the freezing sprinkles fell on my face and the wind turned my cheeks pink, I thought, "ah, here it is, that shit weather we've all been expecting." And I didn't mind it so much (keep in mind, this is Day 1...talk to me after a couple of months, it does begin to wear on you).

Just like the high rent prices, mass transit, crazy cab drivers, lack of parking, etc., the craptastic winter weather becomes apart of you; your life in this big, bustling city. And you love it and you hate it and you hate it and you love it. But it is what it is. And it's home.

It's times like these when I want one of my own.

This is my cousin's kid, Maddy.

She's 7 going on 27. She speaks like an adult. Very eloquent and intelligent. Lots of wide-eyed dramatic pauses and hand gesturing. It's unnerving.

At lunch over the weekend we were discussing her current interest in cheerleading. I ask her if she's thought about other sports as well, soccer perhaps?

"Well, yes, I've thought about soccer actually. But, see, the thing is, I just don't like to sweat."

Unreal.

Here she is lounging and enjoying her "fancy grown-up" hot chocolate from Starbucks. And, most importantly, not sweating.

no.

Is there anything worse than the first holiday after losing the grandmother that practically raised you?



(Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Enjoy the time with friends and family. Don't take anyone for granted, ok?)

Nor do I notice that when I sneeze he says, "bless you"

In my current job I work tirelessly everyday in an effort to cure cancer. Very literally. I'm at a highly reputable academic institution offering fantastic healthcare so there's little room for slacking or error. I take my job very seriously.

So seriously, in fact, that I hardly notice the unbelievably attractive male specimen that has taken up part-time residence in the cubicle next to mine. The first time I saw him I most definitely did not get all flushed and stuttery. Being so focused on my work, I had no time (or desire) to immediately send an email off to a gay male co-worker asking if he knew anything about this new dreamy six-foot-four hunk of man, most importantly if he played for his team or mine. To which the gay may or may not have responded, "strikes me as all yours, but my gaydar could be so jammed by his strikingly god-like features that he transcends all heretofore known sexuality."

Of course I don't sit here with a gnawing pain in my gut and loins just because he's less than five feet from my person. Why would you think that my eyes roll back in my head when I merely hear him clear his throat every few minutes? That's preposterous! I'm doing important work here.

Most notably, I did not, in any fashion, lose all feeling and function in my legs this morning when I walked by and noticed that, having come from work in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit, he had removed his scrubs top and was sitting at his computer clad only in a snug, thinnish white Hanes-type undershirt.

It's like they didn't even try.

oh, to have been a fly on the wall at this marketing meeting.

more info here if you're interested.

so true: sad and funny (respectively)

(via indexed)

typing this made me nauseous.

4 a.m. Monday morning and I'm on the bathroom floor in the fetal position. I'm at a 9 out of 10 on the nausea scale and I know what's coming.

If there's one thing in this world I hate more than personalized license plates and grammatical errors, it's vomit. Anything related to vomit. The sound, the smell, the nausea, the actual act of vomiting, dry-heaving, puking in my mouth a little. All of it.

Vomit always seems to visit me in the middle of the night or the wee small hours of the morning. When I was little and had to puke, I would resist it with the might of a thousand grown men. I would lie there in my bed, nausea taking over, writhing in pain, moaning and silently willing the vomit to go away. It worked for a while until I got the mouth sweats and would feel the tell-tale twinge in my chest. Then I'd sprint for the toilet, saving just enough precious seconds to shout into my parents' room that I was indeed heading to vomit and that I'd need someone to assist.

That job was reserved for my mom. Dad didn't do the vom. Maybe that's where I get it. So, Gina would follow me in there to hold my hair back, put a cool rag on my forehead and rub my back until it was all over. I couldn't have done it alone. I hated it that much. I would fight it even as it was forcing its way out. The mom would often have to coach me and coax me into puking. Reminding me that the act would be over quickly and oh how much better I would feel if I would just puke already stop fighting it I'm tired and want to go back to bed instead of looking at what you had for dinner for the second time jesus.

For as much as I hated throwing up back then, I'm quite certain I hate it even more as an adult (is that really what I am now, an adult? that seems ridiculous to type. I take it back.). I still fight it. I wrestle with the nausea, always in denial of what is to come. I'm pretty sure I hate it more now because I'm going through it alone. I kinda saunter sleepy-eyed to the bathroom to retch. With no one to rub my back and tell me that it's going to be ok. And then there's no one to put me in the recliner, tuck blankets around me, set a glass of ice and ginger ale by my side, hand me the remote and strategically place the bathroom trash can freshly lined with a plastic grocery bag next to me in case I can't make it back to the bathroom. It's amazing how comforting that trash can was. Knowing that at the very least, if I was gonna have to puke AGAIN, it wasn't going to be all down the front of myself.

So, these days when I have the pukes, it's as depressing as it is uncomfortable. Will I never again have someone to take care of me? Not in the I'm-Going-To-Die-Alone-And-With-Fifty-Cats way, but after you grow up and out from under your mother's care, do you ever get that again? Does that responsibility get shifted to a significant other? Can you really bank on that happening?

Even worse, before I know it, I'M going to be the one doing the comforting and mothering. And dealing with vomit. With my severely expressed and exaggerated Vomit-Aversion gene, will I be able to be present whilst the fruit of my loins blows chunks? Or, please god don't let this happen to me, have to clean up vomit that is ANYWHERE else besides nicely (if vomit can ever be nice) in the toilet bowl? Like, ON ME?!?! Ugh. I shudder at the thought.


p.s. Just for the record, if any moms are reading this, I'm not talking about the baby pukes/formula spit-up/etc. I'm talking about the full-fledged, kid eats all solid food thing. I don't know why I feel compelled to make this distinction. But I do.

p.p.s. A big thanks to Andrea for bringing home ginger ale for me and not killing me because I had to throw up while she was getting ready for work. Nothing starts the day off right quite like listening to your roommate yacking her brains out. Sorry.

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.