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.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Sunday, August 27, 2006
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.
Meaning you slept alone.
Friday, August 25, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Monday, August 21, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
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.
There are no words.
p.s. yes, I fucking washed it myself and reclaimed it.
Monday, August 14, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, August 11, 2006
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:
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.)
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.)
Thursday, August 10, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
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.
I'm not talking about it because then the heat wins. And I'm not going down like that.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, July 31, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
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.)
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.)
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)