That's What She Said

A Lesson Learned 'round the Turkey Table

2009-12-02T13:22:00.014-06:00

My mom has something against my boobs.

I mean, say what you will about my character. Frown at the unladylike and awesomely sarcastic comments I throw at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade (I'm looking at you, Boys Like Girls. Goddamn you just make it so easy with that haircut.) Glare at me across the room when I pepper my smack talk with mild curses at the annual Erin's family UNO tournament. Relegate me to stirring gravy after bemoaning my cooking skills. But do not - do NOT - insult the girls.

I'm not joking. 3 days of getting my shirt tugged on to cover the barest hint of decollotage had me alarmed that some sort of reverse Electra complex was at work here. Or worse yet, that my mom was making a religious commitment to modesty in honor of the pilgrims. I was silently banned (you have no idea what my mom can convey with her eyeballs) from crossing my arms because some sort of lift & seperate action would be triggered and cleavage would be revealed, inevitably.

It's taken years to get these things where I want them to be, and I won't apologize. Though blooming late is certainly responsible for this excellent personality I have, it didn't do much for the old self-esteem back in the day. So now that I'm feeling (too?) good about this issue, let's not take me down a few pegs. And, the more I witness the mind-addling side effects of menopause, the more convinced I am that it's better to abandon ship at 40.

...And that's just one of the many delightful lessons I received while at the ol' homestead for a few days. Oh Thanksgiving, you are without a doubt my least favorite holiday.

Thank You, Thank You

2009-11-25T09:50:00.005-06:00

Ah, Thanksgiving! The time of year when I get to swallow not only my body weight in sweet potatoes (with the family looking disapprovingly on) but also my pride. I can get all soft and squishy about the things I'm grateful for and no one can say anything about it. Plus, the food coma usually kicks in shortly after my emotional outburst of the day. Feelings? Without consequence?!

Thank you:

1. Scrabble on Facebook. Decreasing my productivity at work by 1000%, but increasing my overall satisfaction with sitting at a desk all day. Also, expanding my vocabulary with trial & error words like "wangled" and "nixie." As in, "I wangled my way into that nixie's fantasy pants."

2. TBS for putting The Office on for 3 hours a night. JIM. Everytime I decide to turn on the TV.

3. My impending layoff, for getting me motivated to find another job, though it my just be another big soul-suck. I'll take my chances, and a few unemployment checks too.

4. Boat Captains. Future profession?

5. An amazing term at school that reestablished my confidence in my work. It is right and good that I'm doing what I'm doing, though...more school? On to an MFA? Delay my life a little bit more? I will take the American Literary Canon by storm...one day.

6. The impending education of my youngest brother in the ways of The Pixies and 30 Rock. Holy shit, I have only hours to accomplish this, but I will succeed. Commence indoctrination!

7. Technology, though grudgingly. Back on the Facebook bandwagon, Twitter, etc. I'm turning into just another social media whore. But this turn of events has rendered some good, from the obvious "getting back in touch with lost friends" stuff to discovering the naughty potential of Skype. The tiny eyes of Jesus on the crucifix above the dinner table this Thanksgiving will burn straight into my black, unrepentant soul. What Grandma? You want to read my novel outline? With the homeless chick giving a blow j? Well sure! Note the dog-eared pages, where the sexiest stuff happens.

7. Lastly, to my urban family. The last year has been a bit of a soap opera in the best and worst ways - weddings, break-ups, moving in, moving out, deaths, babies, disownings, scary diseases, losing jobs, trips, risks, etc. But nary a betrayal. If I had to put my heart through this paper shredder o' life all on my own, God only knows what kind of human wreckage we'd have on our hands. We chose each other, most importantly, and I wouldn't change it.

Tryptophan - activate!

Why I'm a Hipster #2

2009-11-22T09:40:00.005-06:00

Reason #2: I really love music. I really do. And the music that I love should be loved by everybody because it's that good. I'm not one of those people that throws out the overused "they're early stuff was better" rebuttals, contrary to what some would have you believe. I'm just passionate about discovering a new sound, listening to a perfectly constructed album, showing up at a concert and dancing my inhibited white girl dance for awhile before the beer kicks in and I do my uninhibited white girl dance. So yeah, I see how me getting drunk and lauding the many glorious works of Dan Auerbach all over your face might make you think I'm a hipster. Maybe. But I won't stop. Dan Auerbach is the beardy god of soul. Listen.

Here in the city I've reached the Golden Age of my concert-going. I have the means to spend a little too much on tickets and I have so many shows at my fingertips any day of the week. In a place where it's easy to get lonely and easier to just melt into your coffin-sized apartment, there are places to go and feel something extreme.

So call me a hipster. I will not be ashamed of preaching just how fucking much the Pixies rocked a few days ago. (Rocked so much, in fact, that I've been wearing the tshirt for something like 4 days now and blathered at a Trader Joe's cashier about the details of the concert well after my transaction was completed.) And I will also not be ashamed to tell you that you should be going to see Brighton MA play at Lincoln Hall tonight. Do it. I know what's good for you.

Oh, and please accept my gift of a playlist. It's been a beautiful lazy weekend. Folk Lite.

Meat Candy

2009-11-12T10:41:00.005-06:00

There have been a lot of questionable products married with bacon. Bacon Vodka. Bacon Jelly Beans. Bacon Air Freshener. (speaking of, one of these should be floating around my apartment...) But here is one that is oh-so-right: Jalapeno Bacon.

A) You can eat it.

B) You can eat it and not gag, as the jelly beans proved can actually happen when something is supposed to taste like bacon but merely imitates it poorly. There is an Uncanny Valley for bacon taste; who knew?

C) You can eat it for under $10 at T's and then get hammered on their miraculously cheap booze.

D) It's spicy bacon people; I don't have to explain myself any further.

rejoice!

Red Red Wine

2009-11-08T19:48:00.004-06:00

I'm on a roll with the posts this month. And no, it's not because I enjoy this with all my heart. It's because there is a grade contingent on my compulsive internet usage. And you thought you were special.

We here at TWSSC have a great fondness for alcohol. Most of our waking hours are dedicated to learning it's ways. So when I saw this, I nearly wept with joy. Who knew so much could be gained by watching anything posted on YouTube? (See the magic around :55!)

Get this man a medal.

That's What She Said

2009-11-05T22:37:00.004-06:00

Debating what time I should drive into the Loop to pick up some plants, while Megan was at work or after, I say to her: I just think it makes more sense for me to come when you get off.

Slam dunk. That's one for the record books. Also, it's a fitting introduction for this commercial I saw in my ad class tonight:

Guinness - Share One With A Friend
by mediafun

Evidence to the Contrary #1

2009-11-05T16:43:00.005-06:00

Reason Why I May be Categorized as a Hipster #1: I attended a small liberal arts college. And I have not one but TWO majors the world at large deems useless: Creative Writing & Studio Art (focus in painting, bitches!). Do you know how many years I suffered the "You gonna work at a McDonalds with that there learnin? I'll take fries with that! Hyuk Hyuk! Supersize me! HYUK!" joke? Do you know how many punches I withheld?

And it doesn't stop there. I'm halfway thru my Masters program. In writing. The head shaking at the dinner table around Thanksgiving...the glazing over of eyeballs when I refute Dan Brown... The internal self-loathing at Starbucks today when I recognized the trochaic tetrameter and delightful rhyme scheme of my order: TRI-ple GRAN-de NON-fat LAT-te. I gave a lecture in my head about prosody walking down the street, reminding myself all the time that if I was going to be accepted as a normal human being, I could never utter this lecture to another living human being.

so i might be a hipster. and i'm not proud of it.

Reasons Why I Am Not A Hipster #1, #2

2009-11-03T17:46:00.007-06:00

Some backstory: For weeks now I've been trying to defend myself against a constant onslaught of hipster accusations. When my arguments failed to be accepted by the slanderer, I sought comfort in the opinions of my friends, who turned out to be a pack of Judases. Reader, I cannot stress this enough: I am no such trendy thing. It's a filthy lie. And so, with all the internet as my witness, I unveil a new feature on "That's What She Said": Reasons Why I Am Not A Hipster. I hope you enjoy.

Reason #1: I can easily put my hands in my jean pockets. Even the tightest pair. Suck it, nerds.

Whachu gon' do with all that ass? All that ass inside yo jeans?

Reason #2: Why yes, that was a Black Eyed Peas reference in my blog post. Thanks for noticing.

(Look forward to my companion pieces "Reasons Why I AM A Hipster." Coming soon!)

Get Yourself Together Darlin, Join the Human Race

2009-11-03T15:00:00.012-06:00

This dose of daily hell brought to you by the CTA

Chicago is thick with Crazy. Crazy in varieties you never imagined; Crazy you quickly learn to ignore because Crazy pulls punches and usually carries a bottle for smashing and throat cutting. So you do. You act nice and quiet and usually it leaves you alone. Because there is no way to completely avoid it here or anywhere.

The Red Line is a straight line between the extremes of the city (literally running the economic/social/cultural gammut from the cusp of senselessly wealthy Evanston to the bowels of the super impoverished southside, Murder Capital '08 and doing a bang up job this year too) and my/several million people's primary way of getting around. So there is never a shortage of batshit insane.

Going home after work today. On the train, over my shoulder, some fool is shouting gibberish. This is usually what's happening over my shoulder, no big deal. Everyone on the train visibly slouches further, pushes their noses deeper into books, casts their eyes out windows, turns the volume up on their IPods. Because this pained, drunk man can be ignored away if we try hard enough. Then he's hitting on some poor girl. Then he's wailing, over and over, "You've never had an ooooooOOOOrgasmmm" and launching into his qualifications to provide said item. His delivery changes in degrees from flirty (ha.) to adamant to irritated to fucking pissed off. By now, the other passengers are getting restless. The girl has split. At least one old woman abandons the train at the next station. I stay turned away, pretending to read but listening and on edge in case he starts moving from his end of the car to mine. (I took about 2 months of tae kwon doe when I was 10 and I was more impressed with learning how to count in Korean than mastering a round house kick. Skipped the warnings to carry pepper spray too. Haven't figured out if I'm a pacifist or just lazy...) In any case, physical confrontation was going to end badly for me.

The anxiety in these situations is about taking action; the fear is about having to do something in front of all these strangers. Sure, part of you is worried about getting your ass kicked. But its almost taboo to consider doing something outrageous on the train, even in self-defense. It's the unspoken etiquette, and I'm not sure I've ever prescribed to something so powerful without even knowing it. I'm not proud.

A man speaks up, not eloquent, not even loud. He ignores the threats. He ignores this drunk bastard calling him "Nigger," drawling the ugly hard "rrrr" at the end of the word. He even manages to shake this same man's hand right before security comes and escorts him off the train. The man who spoke up mutters something about praying for him. And I'm not even sure I believe there's something to pray too anymore, but I'm impressed. And I'm overwhelmed with respect. And I'm ashamed. And I hate to think of where I misplaced my humanity and courage in the last few years. But today, there was a man on the train smiling quietly to himself as we rode express to Granville. I'm thinking about him, at the end of the day, not about one more amusing/pathetic/sad tantrum thrown on the El.

Yeahbacon!

2009-10-09T09:25:00.003-05:00

Hells yes. That was a good day.

comic courtesy xkcd.com

Your Guide to the Perfect Weekend

2009-10-06T12:13:00.004-05:00

I discovered something this past summer that changed my life forever. Is that hokey? Sure. Brilliant? Yes. But I deserve some sort of international award for figuring this shit out.

It was Sunday night and the weekend had gone by far too quickly, as usual. However, I realized that I didn’t have the same Sunday anxiety that I normally experience. I tried to piece together why this weekend felt different. I hadn’t done anything spectacularly exciting. And the looming work week wasn’t going to be better than any other. I hadn’t won the lottery or had a massage, but something about how I spent my weekend had calmed my weekly dread that Monday was just hours away.

After I bit more reflection, I realized I had made a momentous discovery, the likes of which should be published and credited to me in every scholarly journal on the planet. I discovered the formula for a truly fulfilling and satisfying weekend. Then I tested it and wrote it down to share, oh so generously, with you lucky bastards.

Step One: Drink.
That’s right, ladies and gentleman, the first and most commonly practiced activity that leads to a fulfilling weekend is getting fucked up. Plain and simple. I’m not advocating two straight days of drunken shenanigans because then you miss out on the other necessary components, but at least one night of blurry, beer soaked fun is imperative for a person to let off a little steam and take a brief mental vacation from reality. If I spend my entire weekend avoiding the juice, come Monday at lunchtime, all I can think about is how badly I need a cocktail. There’s a restlessness brought on by days and days of working and it must be put to rest, doused in alcohol and left to pass out. And if you can craft it so you are drunkity-drunk-drunk but not chillin on the bathroom floor with your new friend Toilet the next morning, you are on your way to an awesome weekend.

Step Two: Do Nothing.
A crucial component of a satisfying weekend is the part where you do nothing. This cannot be overlooked. In fact, write it down. In order to feel truly relaxed and rejuvenated, ready to face another week of jerkoffs riding you, you must spend a chunk of time doing whatever you damn well please. I recommended a minimum of two hours, if possible. However, if you are really good at being anti-social, sometimes you can plan yourself a whole entire day of lazing around the house. Time spent doing nothing comes quite naturally if you participated a little too over zealously in step #1 and your hangover forces you to spend some quality time with your couch (I find it to be more enjoyable, though, if I am not fighting waves of vomit). There is something extremely satiating about answering to no person and no schedule. Don’t even look at the clock. Just let it ride.

{Note: Occasionally, it can get a little boring if the most interesting thing on tv is a VH1 marathon of some sort. So instead, turn on the tunes, sit and listen to an album straight through (I suggest Wilco "Sky Blue Sky" for instance, or Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros "Up from Below" for something a little peppier). A little music therapy can go a long way.}

Step Three: Repent.
The final element to a perfect weekend is the time you spend making up for all the lazy, self indulgent activities you’ve been engaging in. More specifically, it’s accomplishing whatever small or large personal or domestic business you need to take care of but just can’t bring yourself to face during the week. I call it business because it’s grown up stuff. For me, that usually means cleaning, washing clothes and cooking. If I over-caffeinate enough, I can wake up, clean the bathroom, shop and cook for the week, and do a load of laundry, all before my Sunday night tv starts! The bottom line is that no one wants to do this shit. Ever. But if you have achieved steps #1 and #2, the guilt from being an alcoholic slug will motivate you to get all those chores done and give you something to feel successful about. Generally, it also puts you a step ahead for the coming week, which makes Monday that much easier.

There it is, friends. Incorporate these things into your weekend and you can watch the Sunday Surlies melt away.

That's What She Said

2009-09-06T19:53:00.003-05:00

The Scene: Megan is building a difficult piece of Ikea furniture in the living room. Erin is drinking a whiskey sour nearby and ignoring her cries for help.

Megan: So I couldn't find the hole because the wood is in the way.

Rain, rain go away

2009-08-11T15:09:00.004-05:00

Come again another day. JUST KIDDING. Please rain? Pretty please with a cherry on top? And some whip cream. PLEEEASE????

I don't know if the internet is the proper place to perform any kind of weather-related prayer, but I've already practically fallen to my knees on the sidewalk and begged the skies to open up and shower us with mercy. It's been days since it's rained in Chicago, which means that for days and days and days, while it has been just threatening to rain, it has felt like the goddamn tropics around here.

Erin and I have been sitting in our apartment, fans buzzing, beads of sweat clinging to our faces, watching each others' hair grow frizzier and curlier by the minute. Everything in our house is saturated with moisture. Even the wood on the door frames is swollen from the humidity, which is super entertaining (not) when it's time to lock the damn door.

I tried to pack some boxes the other day for our upcoming move. Made of the traditional sturdy cardboard, they all folded in the wrong places the moment I lifted them. It was soggy and impossible, like trying to carry a sleeping child's limp body.

Today hasn't been so awful. In fact the temperature right now is downright pleasant. But I still have a fro rivaling that of a certain scary haired comedian/freakshow, and any exertion outdoors results in just enough sweat for me realize that I should have a swimsuit on because I'm fucking five feet under water in a swimming pool. Only I've gotten used to it.

So again, I supplicate to the clouds, the gods, whatever the hell is up there, please, please rain. Please?

Erin's 1st Annual Best Bar Awards

2009-08-10T18:23:00.006-05:00

There is only one thing I have unequivocally excelled at in life: heavy drinking. And now, one year into my tenure in Chicago, I look back and admire the truly great places that have rendered me happy and incoherent. You have all been cruel lovers of mine; this one's for you!

Best Cocktail
You've seen it here before. The unparalleled gimlet/margarita at The Matchbox. There is no pleasure like the pleasure of sipping a long series of these. Say what you will about the bar; call it cramped, call it uncomfortable, call it inconvenient; you will COME to this bar for this drink and you will find it hard to leave. Zest that motherfucking lime
What you drink: How many times do I have to say it? The goddamn margarita.

Best Beer Selection
I would like to remind everyone that this is a purely subjective list, that these names are only from personal experience and tastes, and once I find something I like, I rarely deviate. So, in what is assuredly a contentious category, I give my vote to Quenchers Saloon. Located near my place (bonus points!) and hosting plenty of live music, Quenchers isn't just an inviting dark place to put back a few, but houses a selection of over 80-some odd domestic and international beers, including the beloved official beer of this site, Bell's Two Hearted Ale. Good God.
what you drink: The specials are always a good place to start; one of the only places I know with Quilmes readily available.

honorable mention: The Rock Bottom Brewery. I have a serious fondness for micros and any beer that aims only to fuck your shit up. See the seasonal beers and drink yourself retarded.

Best Bar Food
No competition whatsoever, Skylark. A bar that looks nothing at all like it tastes, it's a large innocuous place with a few mangy hipsters hanging around. When I was told I was in for the mac n cheese of my life, naturally I scoffed for I am a macaroni champ. And then I shut up and ate/drank my dinner. Glorious, holy, and unfuckingbelievable. Go there and eat, brethren. Spread the gospel of Skylark.
what you drink/eat: Another honorable purveryor of Bell's Two Hearted. Do yourself a favor and go decadent: Bell's, tater tots that will blow your mind, collard greens as you've never tasted them, topped off with the macaroni n cheese. If you die, it will be in the most complete, sated happiness you've ever experienced.

honorable mention: Not actually a bar, but no less dear to my heart, Won Kow is one of the oldest dim sum establishments in Chinatown. $2 Tsing Tao and some of the finest tasting dumplings. For best results, get there early on Chinese New Year and tie on a serious buzz with friends before hitting the parade.

Best Music
God help me, another category bound to get me lynched in this town. But for sheer awesomeness of acts, atmosphere, crowd quality (see: ratio of hipsters to me), and fucking affordability, I give it to Schuba's. My heart has been broken twice now in the space of a month having missed the likes of Elvis Perkins and Dan (holyshitareyoufuckingkiddingmetheguyfromtheblackkeys?i wouldmakeallhisbabies!whyyyyyyyyyamimissingthisshow?!!?!iwanttodie...) Auerbach. Couple these allstars with the fact that my friend's band has also played there on numerous occasions and drawn a crowd, and you have yourself a refreshingly unpretentious venue. Ignore the fools with their Ginsberg beards and PBRs. You are here to rock. And no one is going to stop you.
what you drink: Keep it simple. Bottled domestics - the waitress will be good to you while you dance your little heart out.

Best Atmosphere
I am a lover of novelty and deviance. You know these things; you're no stranger to my scribblings, Dear Reader. So this category goes to The Old Town Ale House. It's a close, dark dive (as all these bars are) with every inch of available wall space covered in portraits. The paintings are done, I understand, by the owner, and the subject matter ranges from frequent patrons to political figures. I arrived on the doorstep of this bar when word spread (circa the last election) of a scurrilous nude portrait of Sarah Palin. Buyer Beware: human paint-flesh is in no short supply here, and if you're some sort of uptight fascist, you should stay away. But if you too have imagined the ample breasts of Ms. Palin as she grins and clutches a rifle (Freud? Are you listening?), then I suggest making the trip.
what you drink: Standard fare here. You come for the happy crowd and interesting eye candy.

honorable mention: On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, we have Guthries. Going to Guthries is like stepping into someone's living room. The place is warm and lamp-lit. Small tables covered in red-checked tableclothes. More board games than you can handle waiting to be played. Quiet winter evenings were made for a good round of Trivial Pursuit and some fine bourbon, neat.

Best After-Work Dive
Brando's is hidden in a quiet spot in the Loop, beloved of long-gone deranged capitalist alcoholics who would sooner escape into the bottom of a glass than suffer another minute in corporate hell. As I am pretty much the opposite of this (for now), I come to Brando's with the expectation that I will be leared at, but not bought a drink; be the subject of an overloud hateful accusation directed at women (those bitches), but offered protection or an apology should some out-of-line outsider make a move. The place looks to have been remodeled with the hope that the clientele would be escorting high-class hookers. Abundant red velvet and blue lighting. But these hopes must have faded, since there is always some basketball game on tv and lovelorn Springsteen in the air.
what you drink: There are some wicked martinis to be had in these parts, but I stick to the whiskey sour or some kind of assy Budweiser product to remind myself I don't want to be here in 5 years' time.

Best Overall - The Bar All Bars Should Strive to Be
An easy pick for me - Delilah's. I have loved many bars, but none so well as you. Shall I name the reasons? Dark and intimate. A rotation of local artists' works on the walls (last I saw, a collection of unicorns doin it). Amazing punk and rockabilly music all the time at volumes that make your eardrums beg for mercy. A bartender that looks like James Dean. Zombie movies on in the afternoon. Draft beer that will give you a hard-on. A whiskey selection that will make you straight fall on your knees and declare your undying devotion. Oh, and the occasional promotional event in which they hand out free scotch. Free Scotch! I'm no scientist, but I'm pretty sure free scotch cures cancer. And AIDS. And did I mention the many-tattooed James Dean bartender? And I shall name my first born, be he male or female, Delilah.
what you drink: Bell's Two Hearted, when it's available. Piraat, if you're in a beer mood (this shit will kick your ass; i imagine this is what licking a Belgian pirate would taste like); whatever the shot of the month is; absinthe; whiskey/bourbon/scotch.....really, you can do no wrong here.

Biggie & Jan

2009-08-07T10:19:00.011-05:00

I've been dreading this post because it is mostly depressing. But since I have absolutely nothing else to do at the moment and this has been staring me in the face for a week, here it goes.

My sister's puppy, Biggie Smalls, passed away last Friday. Before they even got to meet him.

They bought Biggie from a well-reputed-among-Marines breeder in Missouri, whose son is also a Marine and is stationed in 29 Palms, which is near where Meredith & Tony live. The breeder and her husband were driving across the country with all the puppies, dropping them off at their new homes, when in New Mexico they let them out at a park to play. Biggie, being adventurous, got into something and began to choke; they were able to clear his airway and thought everything was fine. The next morning, however, he was vomiting and clearly very ill, so they took him to an emergency vet. About three miles from the vet their car broke down (can you believe that?). Biggie was in such distress by this time that the breeder's husband started running with him, but they just couldn't make it in time. Biggie died.

*****

Naturally, Meredith and Tony were pretty distraught after losing the puppy they'd never met but had come to love through photos and updates since he was a week old. They'd already prepared for this independent, outgoing little guy.

Another couple in Hawaii who'd put a deposit down on a female puppy, Biggie's sister, learned what had happened to Meredith and Tony's pup. They already have a bulldog from this breeder and offered to give up their puppy and wait for another litter to get a second dog.

Meredith and Tony thought long and hard about whether they would be able to accept this new dog who was so different in every way from the dog they had been ready to adopt. First, she was female, which would mean they would HAVE to get her fixed pretty much right away, something they'd planned to put off with Biggie until they decided whether to stud him out. This was a financial burden they hadn't planned on. Then there was the personality differences; the breeder told them that this girl was shy and cuddly, whereas Biggie had been, well, the complete opposite. But after sleeping on it, they decided that this must be the puppy they were meant to have, even if they were sad about losing Biggie.

They got her on Monday. Her name is Jan Levinson-Gould (Jan for short) and they are already in love.

Yes, very soon I will shut the hell up about Zack being gone. You're welcome.

2009-08-06T14:32:00.007-05:00

Starting around the end of April I began to dread the upcoming Summer of Quality Time With Myself. And when I say dread I don't just mean that heavy feeling in the pit of your stomach when you think about whatever you are not wanting to happen. I mean I was near tears when I thought about the TEN WHOLE WEEKS that stretched before me OHMYGOD and I was a constant ball of anxiety (because I like to sweat the small stuff). I even had myself a little drama queen moment when I actually - out loud - admitted to Zack that I was angry at him for leaving. Leaving to go off and do something necessary for his career. Where he would be making us lots of money. For me to spend. See how this is a little (or, you know, A LOT) of crazy to be all stored up in one person?

Cue over-acted dramatic flailing.

Now that the ten-week separation is coming to a close, I find myself feeling absolutely fucking ridiculous for making such a big deal out of the whole thing. Granted, we ended up seeing one another every weekend save one when we thought we'd only be able to afford to travel every second or third weekend. That helped a ton. It never felt like the separation was TOO overwhelming except that one day when my dad left town, my sister moved across the country, my grandparents left and my husband went back to Minnesota. That day sucked pretty hard.

So Saturday marks the end of this experience and I have to say that everything everyone told me was true. I did learn to value a good dose of alone time. I did not die because Zack was not around for ten weeks and I managed to keep the pets alive and even add a couple of basil plants to the mix (which, seriously, who wants fresh basil? because I have some pretty prolific basil plants flourishing on my porch).

People keep asking if I am nervous about having Zack home after "all this time apart". And the answer is "eh, not really". It's not like we'll need to readjust to one another because we've seen each other every five days. We talk multiple times a day. While I now know I can appreciate coming home to an empty house and cooking whatever I want for dinner without argument or compromise (and grocery shopping, I will miss you!), the apartment feels empty without Zack in it. Even the animals are different: needier, more clingy. We are all better when Zack is around, but we can survive a few weeks when he has to be somewhere else (as long as plenty of visits are involved, apparently). This summer has made me more aware of my own independence, which is never a bad thing. I missed Zack terribly when he was gone, but I also came to understand that I WAS OKAY ANYWAY. I could miss him and still get along alright by myself. Who knew?!

This Is Not My Beautiful House

2009-07-31T13:56:00.000-05:00

You didn't expect me to start squatting in you last August after our brief meeting a few months before at a party, me drunk and passed out on your air mattress, a friend of a friend. But there I was, setting up camp in the sunroom. You tried to accomodate me, and it was nice for awhile. Your built in cabinets and stained glass were charming. Your wood floors and brightly painted walls so amiable and cozy. I thought you were different, Apartment. I thought you were special.

It didn't last long; there were cracks. You shocked me by sporadically leaking all over my bed during thunderstorms. And "leaking" is the nice way of saying "Oozing Chicago city water through the roof and sodden plaster, leaving rusty, flaking stains on the ceiling." Oh how I hated the ceiling crumbs in my bed after it all dried a few days later. But I was willing to forgive. I did, afterall, have a habit of trailing coffee drips all over your floors. Tit for tat, yes? But then you hit me where it hurts. My books (my books!!) filled one of your cabinets, and you, for reasons I'll never understand, seeped that same disgusting goo all over them, topped with a dusting of mysterious powder that I can only imagine was a mixture of grout, dirt and asbestos. I want to believe you didn't see the next part coming, but I'll be damned if an alarming alien mold didn't begin to cover everything that had been spoiled by your leaks. There was an ugly fight. I said some terrible things. Our mutual friends didn't understand because you never treated them this way.

But by then it was winter and what was the use in going our seperate ways after all these months? Better together in hate than alone, we thought. Things quieted down between us.

And then a new low. Alone together one night, just enjoying the simple pleasures of hearth and home, I was distracted from my reading by the slightest motion. I know you didn't mean for me to see it and that made it worse. A rat stared at me from the kitchen doorway. How long had you been housing that bastard too, you whore? Don't even try to tell me that there was only one; i know how these things work, Apartment. Slut. I hope you've noticed my brazen Craigslist searches for someone far, far better than you. Oh, this one has a garbage disposal! And just think of all the things I could do with a BIG porch...

Apartment, we can't even say we had that great of a run. But now that the lease is up and our shaky peace is on the verge of being a memory, I'm struck with a perverse longing for those hangover days spent staring at your ceiling in the dark living room from the couch, Chinese food an arm's length away. Or standing alone on your back porch on a winter night watching the snow come down with a cup of tea and a cigarette. Your squeaky floorboards. Your view of the busy corner from my bedroom windows. It has given me no pleasure to list your crimes here (and I left out quite a few, didn't I?), but I'll always remember you as my first.

I've got BIG(GIE) news!

2009-07-30T15:11:00.012-05:00

My sister and brother-in-law are getting their puppy on Saturday! Stay tuned, for the next round of pics will be of Biggie Smalls with his new (and undoubtedly improved) family.

SHMOOSHY FACE (4 weeks)

Paaaaaassed out.

At 5.5 weeks. This is my fave picture of him:

OOF! (7 weeks)

"Dude, get your paws off my paws"

Noooooot so much a bath-lover, this one (8 weeks)

But whew, it's good to be dry.

Things I Will Not Miss About This Summer Separation Business

2009-07-30T12:36:00.004-05:00

As of August 7th Zack is done with his summer associateship in Minneapolis. It totally flew by, right? I know! And I wasn't even the soggy, drippy puddle of squishiness and tears that I expected to be (for lo, I am Emotionally Dependent) (also apparently exceptionally brilliant at summering alone, thankyouverymuch) (and loving on those parenthesis today).

And since it's clear from past posts on this here bloggity blog that I am List Master, here's one crafted lovingly to convey all the things I will not miss once he is back in Chicago full-time.

1) Taking the dog out EVERY EFFING TIME. I am way over that.

2) Having random discussions about Important Things over the phone because we will not see each other at home. Particularly discussions of the While-I'm-At-Work variety.

3) Carrying all the heavy shit home from the grocery store (note to self: Quit being the douche of your own life and pick up some freakin' cat litter already. No more putting it off in the hope that some burly dude will magically appear to carry it for you. That stank is getting out of hand).

4) Frying my own bacon. Those grease droplets that spit up at you are ouchy!

5) Airports can suck it. Particularly the security checkers at Midway who took 25+ minutes to check my stuff when there was no line whatsoever and the Delta/Northwest checker-inner guy who was a bitch to me when my flight was canceled from O'Hare for no particular reason. Wait! No! Airports I love you! Please don't make me take the MegaBus again! NOOOOO!

6) Doing ALL the housework ALL by myself ALL the time. I am not so generous as to take joy in doing all the chores for my beloved like some people I know.

7) Doing aaaaaaall my laundry only to pack it all up and smush it all into a suitcase [because I way overpack no matter where I'm going or for how long] thus ruining the fresh-from-the-dryer wrinkle-freeness of the clothes and then back home not having the "I'm living out of a suitcase" excuse for being wrinkly because technically I - ahem - don't have to live out of my suitcase anymore even though I am. Not that I do that for weeks after I return from a trip or anything.

8) Except that this summer I can't live out of my suitcase for weeks at a time because I am repacking the damn thing like every fifth day or some shit. To go to Minnesota. Which I thoroughly enjoy, for the record. But traveling so much is exhausting and I would like a weekend here or there to do things like see my friends or visit my mom. Or just laze about in my underwear all day, you know?

9) Eating cereal for dinner every. single. night. Cooking for one sucks.

10) Zack is super awesome at remembering to kick the cats the fuck out of our bedroom at night. Me, well, not so much.

Hungry Like The...

2009-07-23T18:11:00.012-05:00

I was delighted/horrified when a friend described me on a whim as follows: "You make a joke, Erin makes a sex joke. That's all you need to know." So is it any surprise that, over mostly empty bottles of red wine, one of our very own bloggers suddenly posed a Who Would You Rather Do It With question?

This:

No disrespect MJ. Moonwalk in heaven.

Or This:

Thank you, "sexy werewolf" Google search.

God, hard choice settling on a wolf man picture friends. But that's why I do this; to bring you, dear reader, only the finest fan art the internet has to offer. Look at the pencilly detailing on the rippling abdomen of that fantastic man creature up there...

So I assume you know who we settled on. Unanimously. Tell me you don't agree.

To not risk betraying a deep cynical streak and slandering the dead, I leave this post here, with the marriage of both our worthy candidates sprung from the great mind of Tina Fey.

Behold My Glorious List! Or, A Stunning Display of Austin's A.D.D.(Again)

2009-07-20T15:30:00.004-05:00

My mind is whizzing all over the place! So here's a list of what's been going on.

1. Zack's birthday was Saturday. Since I wanted to get going with that whole grand loving gesture business, I decided (months and months and MONTHS ago) to give him 25 gifts for being a quarter-century old. He had noooooo idea what I had in store for him and was pretty shocked at the giant stack of presents awaiting him on the morning of his birthday. Photos forthcoming of my aesthetic gift masterpiece as soon as I locate my camera cord hooky-uppy thingamajig. I also baked him a cheesecake, which I of course forgot to photograph. It was good! Was impressed with mah kitchen skillz. That is, until I attempted to make pesto from scratch but the handmade pasta did not cooperate and instead everything turned into a big mushy disaster. Lucky for us we had a late lunch and so it was more show-dinner than necessary-dinner. We topped the evening off with a trip to Kingston Mines, Zack's "Most Favorite Ever, Only Blues Bar Worth Stepping Foot In" bar. Overall, I'd say the day was a raging success. Except for the part where we saw the movie Bruno. Um, yuck. I do not recommend.

2. We also saw Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince this weekend. I RECOMMEND. I may have shed a tear or five. So. Good. And the theater wasn't even a quarter full so that was happy. I only had to give the stinkeye once to some girl who decided to start talking in a normal voice about what she thought of the previous scene during like, the most touching part of the film. People, wrangle your children! God, you'd think Harry Potter was like a kids' movie or something. Hmph!

3. I started Weight Watchers today. Um, I am sort of obsessed already. Which is good and bad I suppose. Good because it's taking my attention off mommy blogs and all the babies I can't have. And because I could stand to lose a bunch of weight. (They tell you on the WW website what your healthy weight range is based on your height and yeaaaaaah...I haven't seen those numbers on a scale in a couple years). Bad because...well...maybe it's not so bad after all. (see above)

4. I am also exercising each morning before work. That's right! I am dragging my lazy self from bed a whole 40 minutes early to power walk/climb stairs or to do calisthenics. I sort of hate doing anything exercise-y outside because I'm all red-faced huffing and puffing past the spandex-wearing, dewy Barbie doll who's lapping me (again). The gym is no better. But calisthenics? On my bedroom floor? LOVE! So I am switching it up and doing some of each.

5. My brother is coming to stay a week with me beginning Thursday! (!!!!) He's funny and we have a great time just hanging out together. I got him addicted to True Blood and have been saving all the episodes for him on my wonderful DVR, so I'm sure a little marathon of this season will be happening. There might also be some boozing involved, which is soooort of detrimental to my Weight Watchers goal but you know. BROTHER IN TOWN. This does not happen that often, so no judgment, k?

6. Sunburn update: Other than some strange and terrible tan lines, it's pretty much subsided into what is, for me, quite a nice tan. In related sunburn news, however, I upped my SPF from 15 to 30 in my daily face moisturizer (due to a severe, blistery sunburn on my face in high school I have to be extra super careful and this last sunburn was a little lobstery for my cancer-free comfort). I bought some Eucerin Sensitive Skin stuff that is unscented and so SMELLS LIKE SPF (OMG go figure!). And Zack whines about it every single time he gets a whiff. Which is apparently every time he's within two feet of me because this weekend was a constant stream of beach jokes at my expense. Sigh. $11 for moisturizer that makes your husband crinkle his nose is kind of a downer. Luckily! I can use it joke-free five days of the week because he's in Minneapolis. See? Silver lining to this summer separation. It's saved me 11 bucks so far.

Alright, I'm off to browse in wonder more Weight Watchers recipes. Really, so many sound delicious! Good food + Weight Loss = A Program I Can Get Behind.

Am I weird? I think I'm kind of weird.

2009-07-14T14:36:00.005-05:00

In the past three years I have moved four times. I am moving again in 11 months. That equals A LOT of house/apartment/condo hunting. And I am starting to get the impression that I am a weirdo because I get super! excited! about the search. I can spend hours on Craigslist browsing apartments and looking for the best deal for what I know we would want. I even do this when I am not necessarily in the market for a new place (I tell myself it's good to keep an eye on what's available, but really I am just crazy and juggling too much free time). I also watch ungodly amounts of HGTV because...well, read the title of this post!

It has come to my attention recently that this feeling of goodwill toward house hunting is not usually how others feel about it. Apartment hunting is often stressful and anxiety-ridden because it means lots of packing and the problem of changing your commute to work and saying goodbye to the things you love about where you currently live ("But I LOVE that corner store! It's so CONVENIENT!"). Or, you know, you might be moving completely out of the area in which you currently live, and therefore your entire life is about to become a raging mess for a little while. (I am - ahem - still, uh, excited for this type of move).

I hate packing (love unpacking and arranging), enjoy a change of scenery in my routine travels, and long ago decided that while I might LOVE something about where I live (Oh, central Virginia, I would have married you for the wine) I can always visit (or join a wine club that delivers). Strange detachment from the one who is usually so overly-sentimental, eh?

Maybe it doesn't bother me because I moved a lot when I was a kid. My mom casually mentioned the other day that she's lived in her current house longer than anywhere else in her adult life. She's been there seven years, since the summer before my senior year of high school. And seven years - seven years! - seemed like SUCH A LONG TIME to me. I would definitely not say that my childhood was unstable, for the record. We changed addresses with decent frequency but made sure to stay close to our schools. We only changed schools because of a move once, when we came to Illinois from Washington in 1992. Otherwise, the picture of stability! And small petting zoos! But that is another story.

Back to my obsession with living space.

I think I just really like to imagine myself in a new space. You can't really know how you will like a place until you live with it, so even the most well-researched homes have their issues. For example, in our current 680 square feet of apartment, we thought hardwood floors would be awesome. We had beige carpet in our Charlottesville townhome and a puppy who wasn't fully house trained. You can imagine the stains (and the security deposit flowing quickly down the drain).

So, hardwood. Ideal! Yeah, not so much. With our three sheddy shedders in such a small space, it is virtually IMPOSSIBLE to keep the damn floors looking clean. So while I am still up for hardwood floors in our next place, I'd like the space to be 1) LARGER (it will be for sure); and 2) sporting a lighter wood floor. We have a dark chocolaty brown wood now, which is really rich and lovely EXCEPT FOR THE HAIR. Oh, God, the hair. It is the bane of my housecleaning existence and I cannot wait to have a place where I can stay on top of it.

Another reason I am ready to publicly defend my silly habit of cruising Craigslist (but not the icky, illegal kind) is that it's just plain smart to know what the market is like. You know what you can get for your budget and which areas are most budget-friendly. You'll have a better sense of what's a good deal and who is ripping you off with that crazy rental price. Lately I've switched from Craigslist to Zillow.com because...ta da! Zack and I have decided to buy a house when we move to Minneapolis! And even though it's still a ways away we've received nothing but commendation from people who know we are already looking. Housing eats up a HUGE portion of your income whether you're renting or buying; so why not be as informed as possible? I may be over the top with my love of the hunt, but I know I'll be ready when the time comes to get serious about it.

What the hell is this?!

2009-07-13T14:01:00.003-05:00

Hi friends!

Erin and I were talking this morning and decided the blog needed a face lift. So we gave it one, Hollywood-style. And by "we" I do mean "Erin". My contribution consisted of "OOOOH PRETTY!" and a couple of Google searches. It was Erin who found the template and emitted the brain power necessary to make it ours. We hope you enjoy!

If this doesn't at least make you smile...

2009-07-10T09:33:00.004-05:00

Then you suck. In the past, I've judged strange people like this guy for weirdo dancing alone. But that was before I met Jon O. Jon O likes to dance. A lot. Before a show, Jon O talks about the music based on how great it's going to be to dance to. When he gets to the show, he stretches to get warmed up before he begins contorting and flailing his body in the glorious way that he does. Sometimes he's the only one dancing, alone there at the front of the crowd with a 5x5 foot space cleared for him, shakin his shit. This does not bother Jon O at all. Dancing seems to be something that brings him genuine happiness, and it is for this reason that I no longer frown at crazy dancers. Instead I've come to admire their free-spirited nature.
Now check this other fool out. Look how the happiness spreads! This is someone's video from Sasquatch Music Festival. Invest a minute in this and you will be rewarded. I promise.

The Great Peel Advances

2009-07-09T15:18:00.004-05:00

Last weekend I was on a boat for six hours straight. In the hot, hot sun. Sporting six applications of SPF-whatever-was-on-board. SIX applications I tell you! And still I have the most terrible sunburn.

Not only do I have said terrible sunburn, but you can see exactly where the sun was in the sky based on the burn patterns across my body. My left half is significantly more lobsteresque than my right. The inner part of my right leg is crimson, while it is the outer part of my left leg that is burned. I have (gasp! the horror! the shame!) bright white sunglass lines blaring from each temple and across the bridge of my nose. My shoulders got the worst of it, though. Oh, how deep the red of my shoulders.

Sleeping is a treat I'm not even sure I can describe, but I'm beginning to think a Ph.D. in yoga would have been helpful in this situation. After several nights of pretending I'm a contortionist I have found that it doesn't hurt so much if my lower half rests on the side of my [relatively unscathed] right leg, while the top half of my body stays flat, my head slightly elevated so as to reduce the amount of touching between shoulders and pillows. Throw a blanket into the mix, though, and everything is just fucked.

Gentlemen: Here is yet another way in which you are genetically blessed while we ladies are built to suffer: boobs. For when one possesses boobs, it is mandated that one must don a bra if one's boobs are any sort of large or bouncy (mine are both) before going out in public. And every time I carefully, painstakingly, pull brastraps onto my shoulders I let out a yelp that makes my dog flee in terror and the cats scurry under the bed. It HURTS.

But NOW - five days post-sun exposure - the peeling has begun. And the itching. It is...severe. My skin is...patchy. In between treatments of cooling and delicious aloe vera after my shower in the morning and before bed at night, I've been slathering on Aloe Vera After Sun Lotion which is wonderfully moisturizing (despite the label blathering on about how it's actually to "prevent and protect from the drying effects of wind and cold weather" (heh? then why do you call it 'After Sun Lotion' and not 'After Wind and Cold Weather Lotion'?! Get it together, Walgreen's label peeps!)).

I wish I hadn't left my camera on the boat in Minnesota, for the photos would be too amazing to not show you all. Really, you would be astounded. But alas, I have no pictures to share. I can only leave you with the promise that I am RED and BURNED and HURTY and PEELING. And a big, fat reminder to all my fellow fair-skinned folk to make SPF 4 Frillion your new BFF and stay your asses in the shade. Learn from my mistakes!

Adventures in City Dwelling

2009-07-09T14:10:00.010-05:00

Today I went to the grocery store on my lunch break to pick up a few things for my fabulous, funky dinner party tonight. The store is about a 20 minute walk from my office, 30 minutes when the streets are packed full of tourists on a beautiful day like today. Given that it would take me 30 minutes to walk there and 30 minutes back, I had to find a way to get there via transportation. So I took...dun dun dun...the bus. And thus began my hour long adventure.

Now I ride the bus out on the west side from home to the red line a couple of times a week, but rarely in the loop. These past few weeks, however, I've found myself running errands north of the loop on my lunch break, which has required extra bus riding. And the thing about bus riding, the most unfortunate thing about bus riding, is that it is not a solo activity. No, there are other, I shall call them "people" but I'm hesitant, other "people" that ride the bus with you. Occasionally, this makes for an entertaining trip. Usually it makes for an annoying trip. Like today.

1:05 p.m
I get on the bus today, quietly catching up with my mom on the phone. The bus seems pretty empty and I am pleased.

1:07 p.m
A couple stops down and the bus is much fuller. An ambulance is screaming by and children en masse are getting on the bus. One of them and his mother sits down directly across from me. This child appears to be about six, maybe seven years old. Old enough to behave. Upon sitting in his chair, he starts wailing and crying and flailing for reasons I do not understand. I am still on the phone with my mother.
Mom: Where the hell are you now? What's all that noise? Is that a baby???
Megan: No. No Mom. It is not, in fact, a baby.

1:08
More people get on the bus, this time a very angry woman and her child. She shoves her child down the aisle toward a seat and plants herself next to the driver and begins yelling. I'm trying not to pay attention because, quite frankly, I don't care. But the yelling escalates and finally I have to hang up the phone with my mom because we can't hear each other.

1:10
The angry woman seems to be angry that the bus didn't come fast enough. Or that some other bus drove right past her. I couldn't tell which. She eventually sits down, but not without comments from the peanut gallery behind me. Next thing I know, some dude yells to the middle of the bus, instructing the angry woman to sit down and shut up. Why on earth someone is picking a fight with this woman is beyond me, but he is. She tells him to shut up. He tells her to shut up again, for she is on the bus now, what is the point in yelling? He gets up to exit the bus at his stop. She gets up to confront him. They talk in each others' faces for a few seconds. He tells her to stop her bitching and gets off the bus. She yells after him, "SHUT UP! YOU GAY BITCH!!"

1:20
I see I'm at my stop and fly off the bus, only to be confronted, videogame style, with a load of tourist idiots that I have to dodge and wiggle through to get to my destination.

1:23
I finally make it to the grocery store where I search out my bread and marshmallow cream. Apparently, this grocery store does not have marshmallow cream because God hates Megan.

1:33
I get in line. The Express line, as I only have four items. I'm going to be cutting it close getting back to work, perhaps I will take a cab. I look to see who's ahead of me in line. The guy directly in front only has a few items. As I look to the lady in front of him, I noticed that it is her turn and she is paying. She has also just pulled a large pile of change from her purse. My eyes widen. She begins counting.

1:38
Her total is $21.19. Moving at the speed of a glacier, she puts the change into dollar piles and slowly reaches $7 of change. I nod my head to myself, "Yeah, this about right. This is my life." After another dollar pile and another two minutes, she hands the woman a $10 bill, pleased with herself and, apparently, finished counting. I calculate in my head and find she has only paid $17 of her $21.19 bill. The cashier agrees with my mental math and tells her she needs more money. The woman scoffs and mutters in another language and counts out another dollar. Again, the cashier points to the total on the screen and says, "It's $21.19". The woman mutters again and reaches into her pocket, from which she pulls a fistful of BILLS. Ones, fives, tens, twenties. My eyeballs nearly fall on the floor.

1:45
I'm out the door and standing on the street trying to get a cab. A seemingly harmless grandpa looking old man approaches the bus stop near me. He begins bumbling around and quickly becomes less harmless seeming. "Those motherfuckers!" he bellows, gesturing at some invisible group of motherfuckers. "Those motherfucker bastards! Shouldn't be workin a job like that," he growls. "They should be workin in a kitchen. In a dump!". He is talking to no one in particular. "I'll tell you what, those cocksuckers! That fucking bus!". As he continues talking, the words between curses begin to make less and less sense. Finally a cab rescues me.

1:48
I am in the cab of a rather friendly cab driver, probably in his fifties. We have some ambiguity about which way he should go, and he offers the information that he is new to cab driving. This is not the first time, or the second, that I have been subject to the confusion of a new cab driver, but at least he knows where the address is, if not exactly how to get there.

I asked, "How long have you been driving then?".

He tells me three weeks. I ask him, "Do you like it?"

He says no, with a very sad look on his face, and tells me that he lost his job and that this is what he is stuck doing. He also tells me that since he has started driving all day long, his back has already begun hurting him. None of this is said pitifully, just with resignation, which makes me unbearably sad. I tip him $3.50 for a $6 cab ride, as he probably needs the extra dollar more than I do. He thanks me profusely and I exit the cab.

***

Living in the city, you are forced to face the sadness of downtrodden people on a regular basis. Some days, some excursions you are forced to deal with it a lot more. It's easy to turn away and try to ignore it. But sometimes I like to indulge in the reality of it all to make myself realize how lucky I am to be protected in my white, rich person bubble, unlike the crazy old man, or the angry woman, or the sad cab driver. And then I like to give myself a pat on the back for still, even after seeing the sadness on a daily basis, being moved enough by what's going on around me to doing something uncharacteristically unselfish, like making the cab driver grin with an extra tip.

A Post Named Desire

2009-07-08T13:20:00.003-05:00

Readers, bloggers, friends, brethren. It's a shit day. It's drizzly. It's dark. It's putting everyone in a foul/somber/utterly depressing mood. For reasons related to my inadequate computer skills, the most I can do for you is provide a link. A golden link. A link that will lead you to the greatest 2 minutes in cinematic history. Minutes so frought with sexual tension and dirty southern excellence you will immediately pack your bags and head off for New Orleans in search of the great American lust fulfillment. Go forth and watch.

Struggling to see the purpose

2009-07-08T10:00:00.005-05:00

On Monday morning my childhood friend passed away.

We went to a small Catholic school through 8th grade and then to the same high school, although by 9th grade we ran in different circles. Even though shit happened between us that caused our friendship to end when we were kids, we were friendly in high school. After she heard that I'd gotten married in January she sent me a really nice message and we caught up a little. She seemed happy with her life and excited about her future. Her name was Niki.

Niki's death has sort of rocked my world. It's strange and uncomfortable to think that while I go about making my plans, hers have been cut short. She was six months younger than me.

Every time I think of her family I get choked up. I cannot imagine how I would feel if my brother or sister died. I don't even know how to fathom losing a child. I've never lost anyone close to me.

I am not sure if I'll attend her services. People are wearing pink, Niki's favorite color, to honor her memory. I don't know if I want my last memory of her to be her wake, her funeral, all the sadness and loss. I'd sort of rather remember our childhood sleepovers, the note-passing during class, and her big, bright smile.

And I'll huff! And I'll puff!

2009-07-07T14:32:00.010-05:00

That's supposed to be a reference to the big bad wolf. It is also, however, fitting for me, huffin and puffin and stuff (you will understand momentarily). A few days ago, to celebrate my birthday, my lady friends took me out for an awesome dinner at Silver Palm, a fun little restaurant tucked away on the west side of the city. You may have heard of this place (if you watch the same outrageous amount of food-related television that I do) as it was featured in Anthony Bourdain's recent trip to Chicago on No Reservations (video below).

It was at Silver Palm that Mr. Bourdain indulged himself in what was, for me, the ultimate pig-related sandwich. I say "pig-related" because it wasn't just a ham sandwich. Or a pork chop sandwich. No, my dear friends, this sandwich was allllll P.I.G. Fried and juicy pork cutlet, topped with tender slices of ham (real ham, not deli ham), topped with crispy BACON (!), topped with melty gruyere cheese, topped with a fried egg, TOPPED WITH an onion ring, all on a buttery brioche bun. "Three Little Pigs" it's called. Oh. Yeah.

Now I trust Tony to steer me in the right direction when it comes to eating. But I was still skeptical. You see, when things are so over-the-top ridiculously indulgent, I tend to think a lot of their hype comes from that alone, not really the taste or quality of whatever food concoction we are talking about. So while I was OF COURSE planning to order this make-me-a-fatty sammy, I wasn't convinced it would live up to it's reputation.

SURPRISE!! I was clearly mistaken, and despite not even wanting this sandwich to be that great (its proximity to my house is waaay too dangerous), it was. It was heavenly. It was also huge. I cut that baby in half, took a bite and passed it around to my four friends who each took a bite. After that, there was still 3/4 of a sandwich left. I finished the first half and promptly wrapped the second to savor later (sometimes leftovers are a happy thing). It took me the better part of 4 days to finish the rest, and each time I went to the fridge, I was impressed by how utterly delicious that sandwich still was. I loved every calorie laden bite of it.

Here's a clip about it from No Reservations. See fo yo self!

What did you do this weekend? I ate.

2009-07-06T15:27:00.017-05:00

I look forward to three day weekends the way little kids look forward to Christmas. For weeks and weeks before the actual weekend I dream of what I will do with THREE WHOLE DAYS. "Vacation" is a foreign word around here, so 72 hours without having to see certain attorneys' stupid faces and without freedom-ruining 'sick day' guilt is pretty much the greatest thing ever.

All that said, you might assume that I would do something spectacular with my wonderful happy extra free time. But you would be wrong. Instead I did all of the normal things I like to do (cook and eat and drink), on a much larger scale. Especially 'eat'. Lots of eating happened this weekend. And when people have asked me today, "So what did you do this weekend?", I've had to refrain from telling them I ate my face off. But it's been hard, because this is how I chronicled my three days:

Thursday: Freedom night: Ceviche and horror.
Sat on the patio at Dunlay's (which I found out is a chain). I searched the menu, hoping that if I stared hard enough a calamari dish might appear to satiate my inexplicable craving for fried squid. But to no avail. So instead I ordered me a real nice Bell's Two Hearted Ale and some ceviche. My beer was delicious. The ceviche not so much. I'm pretty sure it was all prepackaged frozen ingredients. Nuff said.

Erin ordered BBQ Pork Wraps. Sounds tasty yes? Barbecue pig in a fried wrapper. Can't go wrong there, you say. But again, you would be wrong. So wrong it hurts. What appeared before Erin was the disgusting love child of Mao Zedong and Sweet Baby Ray, two people never even meant to meet. Accompanying this horror of a dish was two different types of "sauce", one plum and one a mustard based barbecue sauce. Neither one was too offensive on its own, but they didn't do anything for the wrap. And the wrap needed something to be done because the barbecue pork with the Asian cabbage mix was offensive to my taste buds. I didn't even eat the second roll that I was entitled to. And I've eaten things off the floor. My conclusion is that Asia and the American South are on opposite sides of the planet for a reason. They should stay there.

Friday: Fireworks and potluck! But mostly a good reason to cook!
Feeling rather ambitious I chose to make a pasta salad and just make up the recipe as I saw fit. I was dying to roast some red peppers, as it seems so easy and yet so bad ass. It was. So I made a roasted red pepper sauce to go with wilted spinach and bacon(!). Delectable. Or it could have been had there been enough sauce to moisten the 1.5 lbs of pasta I used. The sauce had too much noodle to cover and so most of the flavors disappeared. I was pretty disappointed with the result, but vowed to fix it as soon as I could get my hands on some more roasted red peppers (fresh or jarred, I did not care).

Ms. Erin on the other hand consulted The Yellow Bible and found a recipe for panzanella. What is panzanella? It is perfection. It is Italian bread salad, so basically toasted bread and tomatoes all gettin it on with garlic and oil and onion. Plus did I mention bread and tomatoes? Seriously, I could have eaten the entire bowl. But Erin had a ~~fork~~ weapon.
We also made chocolate chip cookies. With nuts. I never get nuts in my cookies (laugh, laugh). It's such a delightful treat. I ate at least a dozen of them. Shhhh.

Saturday: Megan feels better about her skillz
Saturday I did not leave my block. This made me happy. Instead I did nothing all day but clean up the aftermath of the previous day's cooking extravaganza. I also popped into the Alb (corner store) to find that they did, in fact, carry a jar of roasted red peppers. It appears to be the only jar of them they have ever carried. I had to wipe about a centimeter of dust and dirt off the container to make sure it was really what I wanted.

At home, I tossed a few more red peps into the food processor, some more oil, and this time some spicy garlic chili sauce that burns my taste buds off but always keeps me coming back for more. I doused that dry ass pasta salad from the day before in my new saucy sauce, added a little more Parmesan and put that biatch in the microwave. What came out was a spicy, rich, cheesy scrumptious bowl of pasta that I couldn't get enough of. It wasn't what I started out trying to make, but like Erin said, "it evolved".

Sunday: Yes my stomach hurts because I ate so much.
Sunday I had foods with Ms. Rachel at Farmerie 58 in River North. Known for local, seasonal ingredients, Farmerie 58 is a lovely place for a brunch on a sunny July Sunday. I had the sour cherry french toast topped with hazelnuts and bourbon syrup. It was sweet and tart and a nice change from regular french toast. The crispy little potato pancake on the side pleased me too, as I am a sucker for the sweet/savory contrast. A tasty meal to start the day. Note "start".

Shortly thereafter, I met up with Erin to visit Taste of Chicago. Because, evidently, I needed to eat again. After avoiding The Taste last year, I guess I forgot why. Now I remember: because it's crowded and hot and crowded some more. Overall it's not worth the excursion or the prices, but I had a couple yummy bites. Since most of our tickets went toward assy beer, we were left to choose a few things we could get sample sizes of.

Cheese empanada, yum! But there was a cinnamon flavor sometimes present in Mexican food that I can generally do without.
Taro root french fries! MMMmm. Taro root is something I have only recently discovered, and let me tell you, I was missing out. Starchy like a potato, but sweet and creamy when cooked, taro root is really good in soups and other fried concoctions (like Chinese dumplings). It was only a matter of time before I met it in its fry form. Yum yum.
Cajun meatballs - Spicy as balls. I don't know who was the first person to grind up some meat and put it in sphere form, but I'm glad they did.

Now you've seen it. A weekend the way I see it. Covered in sauces and spices and bacons.

Drink Me

2009-07-02T13:51:00.006-05:00

You will not be sorry.....

Go to The Matchbox. Order the margarita. Or the vodka gimlet. Drink. Repeat as needed. But for best results, at least 10 times. A wise man once said "Livers were made to be broken."

In which I become a puddle and then begin farting money

2009-07-01T10:49:00.008-05:00

I am back and mostly recovered from Wedding Weekend. It was four days of exhausting, emotional goodness and my sister's all hitched and moved to California For Real and Actual Life, Not Just For a Visit. The wedding was gorgeous, the bride beautiful, and the weather was perfect. I maaaay have indulged in too many vodka cranberries at the reception and flung myself pretty terrifically around the dance floor. Hopefully there's no photographic documentation of my drunken idiocy but that remains to be seen. I know there was a photographer lurking about.

What sticks out to me most about the weekend, though, is that my baby sister moved 2,000 miles away at the end of it. Sunday we kissed her goodbye and sent her to California on a plane with That Boy. And if ONE MORE PERSON tells me how great! it! is! that I have a free place to crash in California now ("Isn't that awesome?!") I might have to punch them in the head. You've all been warned.

(Confidential to World: THAT DOES NOT MAKE ME FEEL BETTER SHE IS STILL 2,000 MILES AWAY.)

My sister and I have always been close, close friends. We make each other nuts, are very different in most ways, but none of that matters because she's Meredith and I'm Austin and that's just The Way It Is. We laugh at the same jokes and not even our parents can tell us apart on the phone; we quote TV shows and sing the entire Rent soundtrack together. We used to have sleepovers in one another's room to watch movies from our childhood.

So how have I kept from throwing myself onto her sheetless bed in despair and clutching at the clutter of boxes and wedding gifts that await the movers in her empty-walled-but-still-smells-like-her bedroom?

Why, I've gone shopping.

Yes, near my mother's house rests an ever-expanding and glorious outlet mall, where one can purchase last season's clothes at major discounts. And there I soothed my weary soul. So far I am one pair of pants and one tank top from Old Navy, one pair of capris and one pair of super cute shorts from Ann Taylor, and one Burt's Bees shampoo/conditioner set happier. Zack, however, not so much. He may be sending her some hate mail when he looks at our credit card bill because I have not, as this post title implies, begun farting money.

Onward!

My oh my, sweet strawberry pie!

2009-06-26T11:30:00.018-05:00

This week I finished reading Jeffrey Steingarten's The Man Who Ate Everything, in which the penultimate (that’s right bitches) chapter is dedicated totally to pies. Coincidentally (...or not!), I also visited the local farmers market, where almost everyone’s booth is overflowing with fresh picked Michigan strawberries. These two circumstances led to a most ambitious pastry endeavor: I couldn’t resist the idea of a perfect strawberry pie made from scratch.

Having never baked an entire pie before, this little project had the potential to be a giant ego shattering disaster. I’m happy to say, however, that it was not. My pie turned out beautifully (at least in my eyes, and mouth), but not without overcoming a few obstacles, such as the skin melting heat in my kitchen.

I started by cleaning my strawberries and mixing the dry ingredients, a recipe which I sort of made up from a few other recipes I had read. Berry pie filling is shockingly simple. Mine looked like this:

5 cups fresh strawberries
¼ cup and a tablespoon of white sugar
1/3 cup brown sugar
½ flour
1 tablespoon cornstarch

I mixed together the dry ingredients in a separate bowl and didn’t coat the strawberries in it until the pie dough was made and laid out in dish.

I will admit that I probably read Steingarten’s pie crust recipe a solid 20 times. In “Pies from Paradise”, he describes his attempt at baking a flawless crust, which he qualifies as “flakey, airy, light, tender, crisp, well-browned and good tasting” all at once. After much research and much practice, Steingarten developed a nearly foolproof technique. And though I was super intimidated by his final method, I was (as usual) seduced by the idea of producing a completely delicious, bad-ass homemade treat and impressing the pants off everyone (remember the four different types of truffles for 30 people last Christmas?).

The instructions for the crust are at least seven pages long, and involve five simple ingredients: shortening/lard/butter, salt, flour, sugar, and water. Steingarten recommends using shortening because it seems to be the easiest, but I used cold butter because I couldn’t get my hands on any Crisco. I have a feeling that the butter is really what made the crust so delicious, but it’s also what caused the most problems for me, because did I mention that I chose to bake this pie on the hottest day of the year so far? In my apartment, without central air, the kitchen was no less than 90 degrees. Why would I do that to myself, you may be wondering. And the answer is simply that it is what happens when you are both a masochist and hedonist.

The crust making process went very well considering the conditions. Toward the end though, it started to melt...apart. But I worked quickly and patched a few pieces together to form the bottom layer. By the time I got around to the top layer (which was originally going to be one solid shell), the dough was so soft that I had to cut it into strips and go with an unwoven lattice top. At first I was disappointed with making that change, but it turned out just fine.

Following the directions in Steingarten's book, I baked the pie for a few minutes at a very high temperature. After checking to make sure that the it had begun browning, I turned down the temperature of the oven and let the pie go for about 40 more minutes.

When I finally removed the pie, I was very pleased with my creation. I was also devastated that I had to wait at least two hours before I could find out how it tasted. Patience is a foreign concept for me.

Ta da!

My pie, though it looks like a pizza in the silly picture, is scrumptious. Sweet and tart and gooey. I wouldn't say my crust met all seven standards of greatness, (flakey, airy, light, tender, crisp, well-browned and good tasting) but it was definitely good tasting, well-browned, tender, crisp, and light. Flakey and airy will have to be achieved somewhere other than my hellishly hot kitchen, but I have no doubt it's within my capability. The biggest challenge with this pie appears to be not eating it all immediately.

That's What She Said

2009-06-25T14:49:00.000-05:00

The Scene: Megan is making a strawberry pie in our hellishly warm kitchen. I am supervising with a whiskey sour. Megan has used some foreign kitchen instrument to bludgeon some sticks of butter into submission. She holds them up for my inspection.

Megan: Is this what you thought it would look like after I beat it?
Me: ......... That's definitely what she said.

I Want to Hold You, but my Hands are Tied

2009-06-23T15:05:00.008-05:00

Everyone at my office thinks I'm a kinky freak.

I was invited to a coworker's "Boudoir" shower being thrown by my boss-ladies, both hard women who I would never imagine having enjoyed sex, ever. So I was confused. This was their high class version of a bachelorette party, yes? That I could get down with. Bring on the midget porn and anal beads, the heavy drinking and scant clothing.

But I decided to play it safe. Body chocolate and bondage tape for the bride-to-be. I have to work with these people.

Fast forward to the party. The bride actually found me melting at a bus stop in the Chicago heat, clutching my now wilted and wrinkly giftwrapping job and the lusty contents therein. I was in need of strong drink after 3 bus transfers. She smiled politely and offered me a ride. We arrived at my boss's condo: very nice, clean, fancy. I was sweating balls and totally dishevelled and now completely horrified that I was doomed to hours of hanging out with people I'd already spent hours hanging out with. I added my gift to the pile forming on the table. I checked out the swag slyly. Sheets. Pillows. Cards in pastel envelopes.

Fuck me.

I buried my present amid the appropriate and clearly purchased-from-the-registry gifts. Immediately sought out a martini. Not gonna lie, it crossed my mind to just stuff that present o'mine back in my purse and leave. But a few drinks later I'd forgotten about the impending awkwardness. The hours passed and still no gift opening. Finally, I secured a ride home and rolled out early, throwing congratulations and well-wishes all over the place and certainly being more jovial than anyone there had ever seen me before. (Alcohol?)

The next morning I am of course at the office before everyone else, going about my business, when one of my bosses rolled in. She pointed at me, stonefaced, and said, "Where did you get it?"

"Whaaaa.....?" The horrors of what must have happened after my gift was unveiled begins to flash before my eyes. Wailing. Glasses shattering as they fall from scandalized hands. Children crying inconsolably.

She whispered, "The bondage tape."

Jesus Christ.

How come you taste so good...yeah...

2009-06-23T14:29:00.013-05:00

Last night I was seduced. It happened at about 5:30 in the little basement grocery store in Austin's neighborhood. I was mindlessly wandering the narrow aisles of the store, fumbling with my beer and waiting for Austin to choose her dinner, when I noticed that one of the pints of ice cream in the freezer was staring at me!

I turned to give it the "Hey buddy, I'm not interested in the cellulite and double chin you have to offer, so buzz off" look, when I realized it wasn't just any pint of ice cream. This guy was special. His name was Häagen-Dazs. Dressed in plain, clean white with a classic gold top, he was whispering something to me...

"5". Huh?

Yes, "5" he said. Five what?

"Five ingredients!" he said. Just what I've always wanted in an ice cream! I took another step closer, examining this foreign pint of goodness, considering how perfect and pure my seducer appeared. It wouldn't take much for him and his five ingredients to seal the deal with me. And it turns out he knew just the right way to do it.

All of the sudden, I was face to face with the foggy glass, checking out the flavor selection. Now I don't usually go for Häagen-Dazs, I try my best to remain loyal to my suga-daddies Ben and his pal Jerry. But before I knew it, H-D was offering me something Ben and Jerry never had.

Brown Sugar.

WHAT?! That's the most bad-ass ice cream flavor ever! Within about ten seconds I was walking with my new lover on my arm to introduce him to Austin. She wasn't entirely impressed. Brown sugar isn't her type. "Whatevs," I thought, "This is the beginning of a long and happy relationship".

We got back to apartment and I figured I would spare Austin the discomfort of watching me get down with my dreamy friend, and the added suspense could only serve to make that first touch to my lips all the better. Even at home later, I waited until Erin went to bed before I got cozy with Häagen-Dazs. And then I did.

*********

So how was it? I know you're dying for the dirty details. Unfortunately, I must report that my new pint wasn't all I had ever dreamed of and more. Like most, he fell just short.

In regards to the "just five ingredients", this Häagen-Dazs was more than satisfactory. The ice cream was creamy, but airy, just like American ice cream is made to be. It had a smooth and silky texture that's generally absent from other store-bought ice creams. It would be fantastic to see all ice cream available in this, its most simple and natural form; no need for all that chemical preservative junky crap (ahem, Ben...Jerry...)

It was the flavor that ruined it for me. It wasn't that Brown Sugar was bad, I think it's just that I was expecting a rich and almost salty brown sugar flavor. You know that sugariness inside a well-made chocolate chip cookie? Maybe it was brown sugar and butter flavor that I was anticipating. Instead this tasted like molasses ice cream, which...you know...ick. I only had a few spoonfulls, and fully intend to give it another whirl tonight when, perhaps, it will fall on a friendlier, less-discriminating palate. This also might taste nice next to a pie...maybe even a strawberry pie made from the 19 lbs of strawberries in my fridge...

Either way, the good news is that Häagen-Dazs five™ is available in six other flavors besides Brown Sugar: Milk Chocolate, Vanilla Bean, Passion Fruit, Coffee, Ginger and Mint. I can't wait to see which flavor beckons me on my next stroll down the ice cream aisle.

Notes on a bachelorette party

2009-06-22T16:06:00.010-05:00

This past Saturday we celebrated the end of my baby sister's bachelorette days.

There were raunchy gifts

Fierce Top Model poses

A drag queen or three

Some butt grabbin'

Drunken conversation & subsequent dancing with a middle-aged stranger

A spilled drink in a bridesmaid's purse

Improvisational pole dancing on the way back to the train

And, finally, a hangover.

Happy last night of freedom, sis. I love you enough to shove Advil down your throat and rub chapstick on your drunk-ass lips. You're welcome.

Wardrobe malfunctions

2009-06-22T14:06:00.005-05:00

...and by malfunctions I mostly mean malexistence. As in, lack thereof. Void.

I was a preschool teacher for one year. Last year, to be exact. And while it was a really fun, high energy, rewarding job, I was mentally and emotionally exhausted when I left. But the beating my closet took was worse than anything that was done to my poor little feelings. My clothes were pretty much entirely decimated by dirt, snot, all manner of non-washable art products (Crayola "washable" markers and finger paint can SUCK IT), blood, and the general grime that four-year-olds tend to collect.

I am not a fancy dresser. My greatest desire is not for Prada and Gucci or even Banana Republic and J.Crew to throw up their wonderfulness all over me. I am most comfortable in jeans and casual shirts. For my current [office] job the dress code is business casual, so I can even buy nice t-shirts and wear them with dress pants to work and nobody gives me the side eye. Due to the severe decline in my wardrobe options after last year's devastation and a lack of funds now, I am caught in a pretty awful cycle: I buy a few [cheap] items as we can afford them (or as the special occasion dictates) and am then able to retire some of the limp and stretched out pieces that I've been suffering for months, only to overwear and overwash the few new items, which fast replace the wilted ones it feels like I finally just got rid of. It seems that faded, misshapen, and hapless is my current style and I frankly couldn't be sadder about it.

What to do, friends? What to do?

Last week I came into a little money (bwaha, I feel very gangsta saying that, but really it was just a work award whose prize was some cash) and I would like to use part of it to bulk up my closet. Out with the faded and in with the fashionable! And the not-too-expensive! Because it wasn't THAT much money.

I think that with some careful planning regarding what to buy on the cheap and what to, shall we say, invest in, I can create a wardrobe that I am happy with, or at least satisfied.

Things Which Shall Continue to Be Bought On Sale and For Cheap:

T-shirts
Socks
Underwear
Summery skirts
Sun dresses
Cute accessories with which to glam myself up as needed

Things Which Shall Be Considered An Investment (shut up, Zack, I NEED IT):

Jeans
Bras
Dress pants
Nice dresses
Shoes
Work skirts that are more professional than summery skirts even though I wear them both to work
Dress shirts

I'll let you know how it goes. In the meantime, what are your shopping habits? Where do you skimp and where do you go all out? I'm very interested to compare notes.

TBR - Temporary Boredom Relief

2009-06-19T09:08:00.011-05:00

What’s your favorite...

Song:

A: This changes, um, quite a lot. I'll admit to getting REALLY OVEREXCITED to hear "Boom Boom Pow" by the Black Eyed Peas recently.

M: This week it is "Can't Keep No Good Boy Down" by Parlor Mob. Thanks, Erin.

E: Changes all the time! Right now, can't get enough of "my mirror speaks" death cab for cutie; "shampoo" elvis perkins

TV show:

A: Oh man. I watch too much TV for this question. Currently addicted to True Blood, Weeds, Friends, Sex & the City, and The West Wing (not necessarily in that order). In the fall this rotation will change slightly; Grey's Anatomy, Private Practice & House will replace True Blood and Weeds. I cannot believe I just admitted all that. Gah.

M: Currently, Weeds yo.

E: gah!! again, changes! "Weeds"; "Flight of the Conchords"; "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia", etc

Movie:

A: Eh. No faves, just many many loves.

M: Pulp Fiction stands I guess.

E: fuuuuuuuuck. Probably "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind"

Store:

A: Tarrrrget. Also Old Navy.

M: H&M for clothes

E: H&M, mostly. though it's sucked for a good 6 months now.

Drink:

A: Cosmopolitan

M: Beer! specifically Bell's Two Hearted Ale and Goose Island IPA. YUM.

E: beeeeeeers. Whiskey sour!

Animal:

A: Mah babies! But mostly my dog

M: I want a little piggy

E: ducks, bitches

Pizza topping:

A: Pineapple or pepperoni, depending on my mood

M: B.A.C.O.N.

E: salami

What is your number one goal for this year?

A: Be a better person (that encompasses many smaller goals, you see)

M: Pick a @*&!$ing career path.

E: to make it better than it's been

3 things you can't live without:

A: food, family, friends

M: beer. food tv. my family.

E: good friends, good music, space to roam

Pets:

A: Arlo, Ella & Sappho. Also Shep, who lives with my parents

M: Not since the parakeets, Diego and Pierre. Teehee

E: none. frowns.

Nicknames:

A: Stee, Austie, Blondie

M: Meg, Megs, Megalo, Megalowski, Spin.

E: Farha, Bear, (sweet) E

Do you get most of your traits from mom or dad?

A: I'm told I'm a good blend.

M: I'm all kinds of Irish, thanks, Pop.

E: Dad for sure

In the last month have you...

Gone to a mall?

A: Actually, no

M: To the outside mall, yes. Inside mall, hell no. Disturbs me....

E: no!!

Eaten a box of Oreos?

A: Nope!

M: I choose not to answer.

E: no!!

Eaten sushi?

A: Do California rolls count?

M: Mmm unagi!!

E: no!!

Been on stage?

A: Yes, to receive an award

M: hells no.

E: no!!

Stolen Anything?

A: No, but not for lack of trying exactly.

M: Yes. Soda. Hahahaha.

E: um.....probably.

How much cash do you have on you?

A: $6

M: $11

E: $27

What did your last text message say?

A: "Good morning, I love you"

M: "haha that's good. who got mercied? and how old exactly would you say that magnavox is???"

E: received: "Who all is coming?" sent: "now we come"

What were you doing at midnight last night?

A: Sleeping

M: Changing the channel to Friends because I was still awake.

E: going to bed

What's a word that you say a lot?

A: I! Don't! Know!

M: Besides the best @&!$ing expletive ever, "ridiculous" comes out of my mouth a lot. It has surely lost its meaning in my conversations.

E: fuuuuuuck; jesus

Can you do a headstand (not using a wall)?

A: Absolutely not

M: Can you?

E: fuck no. I can try though.

Who would you like to see right now?

A: Zack

M: Frankie

E: we all know the answer to that one.

How do you want to die?

A: Quick and painless

M: unknowingly. And painlessly.

E: gloriously in battle

What do you want to be when you grow up?

A: Kind, generous, loving, patient, creative

M: HAPPY.

E: happy

What did you want to be when you grow up?

A: Veterinarian

M: I used to want to be an architect. Then I discovered that would involved like...numbers and stuff. Ugh.

E: ha. so many things....teacher, doctor, writer

What are your worst bad habits?

A: I have a quick temper but shut down toward the person I am angry with

M: Drinking, eating junk food, swearing...all cliches. I always leave the kitchen cabinets opened.

E: nail biting; penchant for being opinionated and snobby

Biggest regret?

A: None!

M: Being afraid of failure in various contexts and situations.

E: man. lots.

Do you have recurring dreams?

A: Sometimes, not lately though.

M: Yes, started when I was like 5. About driving my Dad's old car and not being able to control it.

E: not yet

Have you ever been out of the country? and if yes where?

A: Noooo (hangs head in shame and despair)

M: Just to Argentina. Aw.

E: lots of places in europe. it would be douchey to list. japan soon i hope!

If you could only vacation in one place out of the US for the rest of your life, where would it be?

A: Umm...I don't know because I haven't been anywhere else. Do I get to travel around before making a final decision?

M: Entrenched in my food book obsession, I shall say Italy.

E: french riviera

If you won the lotto, what would be the first thing you would buy?

A: A gorgeous home on the river in MN. Or some clothes.

M: A condo on the lake, bitches!

E: a big fucking vacation for me and my wolf pack

If your house was on fire and you could only save three items, what would they be?

A: My three pets (perfect!)

M: Ma silkies, a drawing of mine, and my computer I suppose.

E: this house? my journals, hard drive, roommates

If there was a hour extra everyday what would you do in that time?

A: Probably sleep.

M: Ideally? Work out. Duh. Realistically, I would surely spend it frivously on relaxing and doing whatever I damn well please.

E: probably drink, let's not kid ourselves
If you were given a thousand dollars and only an hour to spend it, where would you go and what would you buy?

A: Target. I would buy clothes and probably crap I don't need but am convinced in that moment I can't live without.

M: I would divvy that money up, $400 on clothes on State Street, $300 on kitchen goodies from Sur La Table, or somewhere comparable, and the remaining $300 would go toward a magnificent spread of special fancy foods to sample and cook with!

E: ikea! get a real bed!
If you could be immortal, would you? And if you would, you can chose one person to live eternity with you, who would it be?

A: I think this is a stupid question, to be honest

M: I would not choose to be immortal; scary as it is, there must be an end in site. But if I had to choose someone to be with, it’d be my brother Kevin.

E: oh.....dilemmas. yeah. maybe i would say yes to the immortal part. and i don't know if i've met who i want to spend eternity with just yet....i have time now, being immortal and such, to decide. I would have "forever young" as my ringtone and rub that shit in
If you had the chose to be a ghost, a vampire, or an elf which would you be?

A: Ghost! Or...Vampire! Or...I could see reasons why being an Elf would be cool! (Am indecisive).

M: Vampire. I got the skin tone down, yo.

E: vampire, hands down. ghost would be alright too; get my haunt on
If you had the choice to see the future, would you?

A: Errr. Maybe if I could selectively see. But then again, where's the fun in that? Life's messy and that's what makes it great.

M: Um no.

E: i think not.

You will fall on your knees from the cuteness

2009-06-17T09:26:00.008-05:00

My sister, the one who's getting married and leaving me in favor of southern California in a week and a half (and who can blame her?), is getting an adorable English bulldog puppy in July. And by adorable, I mean I want to shmoosh his little puppy face up against my face and maybe nibble on him a bit.

Introducing Biggie Smalls, the newest member of my extended family. In these photos he's about 3 weeks old. Scrumptious!

In search of a duvet cover (don't bother looking for a metaphor)

2009-06-15T11:20:00.015-05:00

It's been a rough seven days. Lots of feelings accompanied by lots of tears. What's left is a wake of used tissues and ice cream wrappers, an ephemeral shell of a person, and, surprisingly, a desire to shop like I've never known. What is it about being emotionally assaulted that leaves me itching to spend money?
I no longer possess the clarity to determine if I realistically need the items I'm in search of (or if I need them for anything beyond my own momentary well-being). Am I just looking to distract myself? Most likely. Luckily I can justify a few of my purchases with the knowledge that I've wanted (and maybe needed) these things for months, but never got around to buying them because I was otherwise occupied.

Item #1: Duvet Cover:
I bought a new bed at the beginning of the year, complete with new sheets and a new down-like comforter. It was white. Then it lived on my bed for six months without protection. Now it is almost white. Almost. So I have spent the better part of the morning (!) looking for a duvet cover online. I'm not asking for much really. A simple, solid, reasonably priced cover available in an assortment of colors from which I can choose. Easy, yes?

Wrong. It seems that amongst all the Pottery Barns and Land's Ends and Targets and Bed, Bath and Bludgeon Me's, you should be able to find this most basic item. Instead, all I can find is an limited selection of hideous and hideously overpriced covers for my once pristine blanket.

Why is this so difficult? My request is as modest as it gets and it's 2009 for crying out loud. Aren't you supposed to Google anything and be able to purchase it in just a few clicks? Apparently, this does not apply to bedding. I suppose it would mean this particular concept of an item would have to be manufactured to begin with.

Maybe I'm being too picky, but it seems that what I want should not be harder to find than a Ruched 400 Thread-Count Floral Embroidered Organic Duvet available in each Cocaine White, Bone(r) White and Kiss My White Ass White. Seriously. I do not want leopard print cerca 1989. I do not want flowers that look like a freaking table cloth you'd find at a yard sale. I do not want stripes, not even monochromatic stripes. Is someone fucking with me?

Once I do manage to find a few companies that sell a PLAIN duvet cover, I'm left to eliminate by price. $150 for a blanket holder?? I mean, come on, it's two flat sheets sewn together for god's sake. Are you kidding me? (Sidenote: If I had a sewing machine and knew how to sew, you wouldn't be suffering through this post at all).

Now I'm left with very limited color choices. Why are solid duvet covers only manufactured in white, chocolate, hunter green, sage, red, navy blue and burgundy? Why? Why does everyone who owns a comforter want a goddamn ugly hunter green duvet cover? I cannot understand this phenomenon. The ability to see colors and connect emotions with colors is one of the greatest things about being a human. Why in the hell do we limit ourselves to effing navy blue and burgundy?!? WHY DO WE FORSAKE THE RAINBOW?!? What is wrong with us?

I finally weeded my way through Overstock.com and found a nicely priced duvet cover available in sage (ugh), navy (GRRR), taupe, hunter green (WHYYYYY), bone, white, and (gasp) RASPBERRY!!
Really?? Raspberry? Not red? Not wine? Raspberry. Yes! This is what I was looking for. An escape from the palette of 1990's Lazy Boy love seats. Triumph!! On to lamps!

Item #2: Soft Light Lamp:
Are you fucking serious? After all that, like I'm going to try and buy a lamp today.

And so help me god if the color of that duvet cover is even CLOSE to burgundy...

This is what adult A.D.D. looks like

2009-06-09T15:04:00.007-05:00

My attention span is short, folks, but I don't want to leave you hanging just because we been lazy 'bout postin' since Friday. So enjoy this list of Things I Think You Should Know, starring me (!) (and occasionally some other crazy people).

Since Friday I have:

Tried a fabulous new recipe in the company of wonderful friends and lots of laughter.
Been really, deliciously happy to see my husband.
Toured awesome local architecture and a street art fair. Was sad I could afford neither condo nor work of art.
Saw "The Hangover" which...honestly...go see it. Just go.
Found out that oh mah gawd Old Navy is having the SALE OF MY LIFE. And took advantage.
Drank copious amounts of beer and ate seriously spicy corn on the cob at the Printers Row Lit Festival. Books + Beer + Friends + Corn on the Cob = Happiness. (as if you didn't already know that!)
Comforted a friend with sympathetic words, a little laughter, GOBS OF CHOCOLATE, and a good old fashioned stomach ache.
Turned my air conditioner on and snuggled into my down comforter with my puppy dog. Awww.
Discovered that there exists a feasible if complicated mathematical calculation that says we won't be drowning in educational debt until we qualify for Social Security, which, WHEW. We have been concerned about that for some time.
Helped my sister nail down some important song choices for her upcoming (Really Fast Upcoming, GEEZ) wedding. I would link to the song(s) but I think she might want that to remain confidential, bitchez.

As I'm sure you'll agree, I've had a pretty good (with the exception of a few rough moments) couple of days. Which does nothing to explain why I can't focus enough to write a real post. But I provided all those nice shiny links for you to click, so get busy. Huzzah!

Perhaps a real post tomorrow. If I feel like it. Or you know...not.

Knockin' us back to the Victorian era

2009-06-05T14:16:00.004-05:00

Me hears there's something terrible a'brewing over at Fox. Go on, click that link. You know you wanna. It's okay, I'll wait.

*****

OH MY GOD, I KNOW RIGHT?!

Fox actually has a show in the works called I Married a Stranger, where a woman agrees to marry a man chosen for her by friends and family. Before meeting the dude. Ever. That's CRA-ZAY! There are six initial husband-to-be contestants (way too small a pool if you ask me), which the family whittles down to two. Both finalists (if you can call a guy about to marry some lady crazy enough to wed him blind a "finalist", but then maybe he's just as whacked?) walk down the aisle before one man reveals himself as the "winner" ("weiner"?).

This is most definitely an arranged marriage situation (ick). But isn't it also some type of long-term, one-john-specific prostitution ring? Assuming of course that Fox is paying the ladies to marry these strangers. Cause, you know, screwing your husband is an important part of marriage and all.

Ugh.

My heart hurts for these people.

I will so so SO be watching this.

The Crazy

2009-06-04T16:32:00.008-05:00

While we're sharing our sex dreams and posting pictures of our asses, I think it's time I made a little Internet Confession. Step into the Confessional, friends, and behold.

I have baby fever. Which shall heretofore be known as "The Crazy".

[Peeps one eye open] Whew.

Pretty much every time I see a human being under the age of, oh, twelve (because who wants an ucky twelve-year-old with attitude, blech!) I get all "OMG BAAAAYBEEE!" and Zack is all "OMG YOU'RE A FREAK ISN'T THERE A VACCINE FOR THIS?!"

Clearly we do not have similar feelings re: The Crazy.

While I am a steaming pile of hormonal mush, Zack's all responsible and adult and reminds me that we uhhhhh live in 680 square feet, dumbass.Which we do. So squishing even an infant in with us and our three (yes, three) pets seems crowded at best. Not to mention little details like Money! and Childcare! and School! and Newlyweds! and did I mention Money!

Seriously, though, you guys don't even understand. I don't WANT to feel this way. Logically, I comprehend how un-ready we are. But damn if I can keep from being a damn puddle every time a baby poops.

Aaaaawww BAYBEE POOPS. I mean...gross. Do you see? Do you see how this is not okay?

Let me also add to this list that very few of my friends have kids, are married, or are even really ready to settle down and start thinking about that stuff. Which, like, cool. Enjoy your twenties and do all that other junk when you're ready. Later. Except...could you talk Zack into a baby for me? I mean... What? Did I just say that out loud?

It's actually taken me quite some time to go public with this Personal Life Development. Mostly due to the fact that I know I am quite alone in my desire for a baby within my social circle, but also because...okay, COME BAAAAACK into the Confessional....

I've discovered Mommy Blogs. They are delicious. And I love them very much. Gah.

Wow, getting that off my chest didn't really make me feel any less lame for being addicted to mommy blogs. But...they are so witty...and funny...and amusing...and I just said three words that all mean the same thing.

In all seriousness, though, I have always liked kids and been good with them (former preschool teacher and oldest of seven, holler!). I feel like I'm SUPPOSED to be a mom. So I feel a certain bond, or kinship, or understanding with these women who are totally In Love with their kids. Sometimes I read their posts and am like "oh yeah, I totally get what you mean!" and other times I am like "wow, I can't even imagine what that must be like". But I know that someday, and someday soon, I'll be ready for it all.

And honestly, I just can't wait.

Off to Never Never Land!

2009-06-04T15:02:00.006-05:00

I guess I tend to think of myself as a couple of years younger than I actually am. When I hear something about 20-21 year olds, I empathize with them in ways that I don’t when someone mentions a girl in her “mid-twenties”. I’m constantly referring to senior year of college as “last year”, as in, in the last 12 months, even though it was a good few years ago.

In the ER this past summer, I was asked how long it’s been since my last tetanus shot.

“Ummmm....,” I shrugged, “Beginning of high school I suppose? So...5 years ago?”

And the woman just stared at me. “How old are you again?” she asked, incredulously.

“23,” I said, and again, she looked at me blankly, waiting for me to put it all together. Which I didn’t. (I may have been distracted by the fleshy tip of my finger dangling on a thread from its proper position ON my finger, but still).

“So...that would be...eight or nine years ago then?” she encouraged me to keep thinking.

Finally, “OH! Yes...eight years ago...eight years ago I started high school...Damn.”

I don’t know why I have such a mental block about aging. Or why I’m clinging to an age group that is no longer mine. Perhaps it’s because when I was a teenager, trapped in the daily suffocating HELL known as wealthy suburban high school, I wanted nothing more than to be 19-21. Why that age range I can’t say exactly, but it seemed to represent a freedom and control over one’s life without the responsibilities of actually being an adult. And looking back, that’s really what it was.

It’s not to say that my life is all that burdensome nowadays. I have my bills to pay and a few other grown-up obligations. But overall, it’s not too taxing and there isn’t anything tangible about 20 that I miss. Still I guess since I had dreamed and wished so hard to be 20, I can’t seem to grasp that I’ve passed it. What age do I want to be now? I don’t know. That’s why I’m so confused. And really, I am. Confused.

Just yesterday I was chatting with Erin about the fax machine in my office, which was teetering on the brink of death.

me: man
so i was all like, ‘too bad, fax machine is broken, lets just get a new one!’
but now i realize that means i'll have to figure out how to use the new one
ugh
i hate technology
Erin: me tooooooo
man, i thought i would be OLD when i started saying that kind of shit
but here we are.

Confused. What age am I? What age should I be? I have the sense of humor of a fifth-grader and a fear of technology that rivals my Grandpa’s. Identity. Crisis.

I have a birthday coming up in a few weeks. I’ve always been the baby in my class with the summer birthday, so for my friends, my anxieties over 24 are easily dismissed. They’ve already reached that age and don’t want to hear it. And really, to be fair, I’m not concerned about “being 24” and there being some social stigma that the best days are somehow behind me. I mean, that’s ridiculous. It’s more that I don’t know what to expect from 24 or where it means I should be in my life. Or where I thought I’d be at 24 because I never really planned for this. I fear the answer is that I should have a little bit more direction. Less floating. More focus.

Bummer. I guess well...that’s what makes it more fun to let my mind just pretend I’m still 20 and live accordingly in my own personal Never Never Land .

Who need sleep? I don't need sleep! I'm fine without slzzzzzzzz...

2009-06-03T15:51:00.003-05:00

I'm having sleep troubles! Of all things!

So Zack's gone and waaaaaah poor me, so lonely little Austin. But really, I've been pretty okay. No crying, no tearing of the hair or gnashing of the teeth. Gold star, right? Totally!

Except that I haven't had a good night's sleep in days and it's beginning to piss me the hell off. Because damn; I like sleep. And I sort of depend on sleep to get me through my eight hours of bleary-eyed staring at a computer screen, where I work and write my love notes to you, lovely Internet.

First thing's first. I am going to stop letting my damn cats sleep with me. They are annoying (ELLA) and needy (SAPPHO) and are only cute at 10:30 when I go to bed and they are curled up together at my feet but not so much at FOUR FUCKING O'CLOCK when they are JUMPING ON MY FACE. Because...well, because they are idiots. (Or maybe I'm the idiot. Yeah, that's probably it.) Anyway, the cats are officially Kicked Out.

Also, my subconscious decided to jump start an irrational fear that SOMEONE IS TOTALLY GOING TO COME IN MY SLIDING GLASS DOOR AND RAPE ME IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT just as I'm about to drift off. From 34 stories up, they are going to do this. With their springy legs and Stretch Armstrong arms and Spider-Man abilities to climb up buildings and shit. Ha. But still, I stumble out of bed to close and lock my slider (which we rarely close and never lock) and am then awake. Wide Awake. Not anywhere close to sleep anymore. Shit. (Note To Self: Would be good if this fear made itself known before going to bed so as to avoid leaving bed to assuage it. Would also be good if you knew how to work the lock.)

And have I mentioned that I thrash around in my big ol' empty bed looking for a comfortable position? (Moment of Truth here, folks: I'll admit that being able to throw my arms and legs out with abandon was an appealing thought before Zack left...uhhh...not that I do that when he's there, no, definitely not). I spend a lot of time trying to figure out a way to be comfy. Which takes foreverrrrrr. All that flopping around is a really good way to wake oneself up. I should know.

Alright dudes, I am boring myself talking about this so I'm sorry I'm putting you through it, too. I'm going to go have a damn beer and shut my damn mouth. And then sleep. A lot. Weeee!

Klutz /klʌts/ [kluhts]

2009-06-03T11:44:00.010-05:00

Anyone who knows me knows I’m prone to injuries. Generally self inflicted, or a result of my own stupidity, I am constantly waking up with scrapes, bruises, splints, bandages. On any given day at any given time, there is something wrong with me. I’m not sure exactly when this ‘condition’ of mine began, but I think I can trace it back to my first couple of years of college when I began indulging in alcoholic beverages, the ones that impair your sense of balance and motor skills, things necessary if you want maintain the “wholeness” of your body.

Over the past few years, I’ve face-planted on my chin (my already scarred chin). I frolicked my way down a sidewalk where I fell on my ankle, severely spraining it and damaging myself for life. I’ve had multiple bruises the size of cantaloupes decorating my thighs and ass. And I deftly chopped off the tip of my finger as a birthday present to myself. My knees are permanently purple from bruises and scars (hardwood floors + vodka + dancing = wipeout). I walk around in jeans with rips on both legs. No point in getting new ones, it’s just bound to happen again.

Musing over this topic (I’m concerned because I’m more than due for an injury, it’s been a few weeks), I decided the best solution for me may be to look into a personal, well, bubble. Ya know, something soft and squishy to surround me and protect me from my environment (and myself). A mobile bubble, I imagine something of a clear beach ball, maybe? As I discussed this with Erin, I started to get really excited about the things I could do with my bubble. It would be endless fun, living in a bubble. Erin and I even came up with a list of fantastic activities I could participate in if I had my own springy sphere.

Things I could do in my bubble:

Float on the lake, or walk on water, if you will.
Roll down a giant hill.
Let Erin to take me to a Flaming Lips concert and have the audience pass me around over their heads.
Attach a parachute to the bubble and free fall off a building.
Be a toy for whales and dolphins.
Clambake the bubble!

But as were happily brainstorming the bubble list, things that I couldn’t do with in the bubble started popping up in the conversation...

Things I could not do in a bubble:

Ride an elevator, or any type of public transportation.
Lay down flat.
Enter a cave, go spelunking.
Be in the sun (lest you become a ball of fire, ant-magnifying-glass-style).
Approach cacti.
Climb the hill I want to roll down.
Go swimming.
Use a ladder.
Play hide and go seek.

It seems that perhaps the cons outweigh the pros of the bubble. But that might only be temporary. Who knows what injury is in store for me next and how imperative it will become for me to seek extra protection if I have any interest in seeing 30.

That's what she said!

2009-06-02T21:24:00.005-05:00

Time: The present (9:00 pm, Tuesday evening)
Setting: Where else? The living room.
Characters: yours truly and my trusty Fahrer-ha sidekick.

Stuffing my face with some lovely dark chocolate covered cherries (thanks Moz, Niki), I was overwhelmed by the sweet/tart combination.

Me: I thought this cherry mix was supposed to have like..almonds in it, or something. I really need some nuts to like..break it up!

Erin: BWAHAHA. That's what she said!

An Ode to Bacon

2009-06-02T11:58:00.012-05:00

I love bacon. Bacon bacon bacon. I love bacon on everything. In everything. Bacon by itself. Bacon with breakfast, swimming in syrup. Bacon in salads, defiling their purity. Bacon on a sandwich, delicately woven into a perfect bacony meaty patty. Bacon is a gift to humans, a salty, fatty delicious gift, and no one should ever refuse such a gift.

Lately, however, I’ve had to grapple with the idea of giving up meat. It’s that whole we’re-destroying-the-world-and-there-is-something-we-can-do-about-it thing. Read any article that’s serious about helping the environment and you’ll find that decreasing the amount of meat you eat has a more positive impact on the earth than recycling plastics and driving hybrids combined. And ya know, it’s good for your body and stuff too.

FROWN. But what about baaaaaaaacon? I’m the girl who on a recent trip to Vegas, where buffets rule, wanted nothing more than to stand in front of a giant catering tray filled with the fatty meaty strips. It’s all I could talk about. I can’t give up bacon. “Just say no” to bacon? HA! The mere idea of it is difficult to resist, and we’re not even talking rejecting it when the smell is wafting ever so enticingly from a nearby griddle. I mean, what chance do I really have?

Still, bacon-obsessed and forced to consider betraying my true love for reasons greater than I, an inner conflict rages over the thought of forsaking this porky delight. I feel guilty that I don’t even want to do it (sorry Mother Earth). And then that guilt mixes with the always present guilt of eating bacon at all (you know that’s why it’s so good). And the result is just one big guilty bacon mess that only makes me want to eat it all the more!

Sigh. What's a girl to do? Distraught that I may have to put an end to my bacon indulgences, I contemplated my problem on the train the other day, where it occurred to me that perhaps I shall bargain with the environment (Monty Hall was my child nickname).

“Earth,” I said, “I’ll (one day) give you beef, chicken, and all other pork products, but in return, you must give me bacon. A compromise, you see. Give up everything but bacon. How does that sound?”

And with that, the universe answered my question.
“BACoN,” it said.

“BACoN” here, “BACoN” there. It appeared written in light blue graffiti on the wall of two buildings I pass everyday. That’s right. Someone was speaking to me! Tagging walls with pork product pleasantries.
“Yes, Megan, of course you can keep eating bacon!”

So with that little wink from the gods, I begin my journey. Less chicken. Less beef. And enough bacon to keep my ass plump and porky.

You Don't Have To Put On The Red Light

2009-06-01T15:22:00.004-05:00

Ask my friends and they'll tell you that I have been toying with the idea of prostitution for awhile now. Faced with the ugly truth that I can't support my ramen and whiskey fueled lifestyle with legitimate paychecks any longer, the time came to look to my other assets. Which I did, only to discover I have alarmingly few (thank you, liberal arts education). And then one day, pondering my personal economic crisis and wandering the dirty streets of Humboldt Park for my own filthy reasons, I noticed two hookers, sipping as sexily as one can on 7/11 slurpees, get picked up by a striking man in a white Cadillac. Hello, meal ticket. I might not look the part, but show me a Frederick's of Hollywood, a pair of Candies slingbacks and somewhere to stash my self-respect and Catholic upbringing, and you'd have a passing whore working the corners of Logan Square. You're welcome, gentlemen; world.

I proposed the career change to my urban family. First they laughed. Then they paused. Then they began listing the cons to my spectacular idea: disease, murder, drugs, arrests, vile pimps (like that handsome fucker up there), a whole slew of mental abuse issues, botched back alley abortions, blah blah blah. But there remained the tremendous pro of tax free dollars and not having to know how to make a goddamn spreadsheet in Excel to move up in the world. What eventually broke me was the surfacing of memories from one weird night in which I was mistaken for a legitimate hooker no less than three times, and actually found myself praying to whatever God was punishing me to spare me from what seemed to be my certain abduction, rape, and death by dismembering. No joke.

After that, the whole sex thing fell by the wayside. But what remained was the problem of my bank account and my laziness. I still wanted to make a quick buck. I reevaluated. Certainly there was a way to whore yourself to the world without actually putting a P in a V. After a triumphant weekend of lending shoulders to cry on, posing as a sounding board, and helping with all sorts of friendly issues, it became clear that my greatest contribution to the human race would be to act as its friend. It's best friend even, if it was willing to pay that much. Here's one satisfied friend's testimonial: "I've had a lack of best friends in my life, and I enjoy talking to Erin so much because she has the ability to fill all of the roles that were always seperated into different people....she's like the one-stop shopping of friends." -Jake M., friend

Couldn't have said it better myself. You too, Reader, can be as lucky as that fine gentleman. For a nominal fee, I will allow you to rent out my friendly skills. Need a shoulder to lean on? A date to a high school reunion? Want to go see a movie, but too afraid to go alone? Have an extra ticket to the ball game? Afraid of looking like a loser on a Saturday night? Dying to try a new restaurant? Just want to spend a nice evening building a fort out of couch cushions in your living room and telling ghost stories?

Have I got a deal for you.

I will burn down the fucking plane so help me God

2009-06-01T12:52:00.004-05:00

So, Cape Cod, y'all.

I left Friday morning and the plane ride Made. Me. Nuts. Let me break it down for you.

The first person-to-person encounter I witnessed was some bitchy lady not wanting to put her computer bag under her seat to make room in the super-over-crowded plane for another woman's too-big-for-under-the-seat carry-on. I guess she just...didn't feel like it? Way to be a team player. Awesome. I spent my first ten minutes on the plane glaring holes into the back of her little pinhead. Then, before we even got off the ground, I laid my head against the window and fell asleep. Until we landed in Detroit for my layover. Turns out that nap would really come in handy because the second leg of the trip was when it all went to shit. Bitchy computer bag lady was just my warm-up.

I shuffled my two enormously heavy bags (I'm a nice wife and carried Zack's suits for him so he wouldn't have to check a bag...off to Minneapolis from Cape Cod, remember?) down the narrow aisle of the plane and finally - sweet Jesus, FINALLY - got to my seat, which was by the window. An elderly Filipino couple were already seated in the aisle and middle seats next to mine. The man got up to let me by, but the woman, oh she looked up at me all smug and said "You go over" and gestured over her lap. Uhhhh..?

"I don't actually think that will work. I won't fit there."

Gestures again to the impossibly narrow space between her knees and the seat, "You go over."

"Ma'am, I'm really not going to fit. I think you're going to have to get up to let me pass."

And thankfully, she did.

Now cut to the surround-sound wailing of two babies at either end of the plane. And the mom with her two school-aged children giggling behind me and KICKING MY SEAT. Incessant with the kicking and the TALKING REALLY LOUD OVER THE PLANE ENGINE. Oh my glorious, glorious iPod. That tiny little box of wonder saved me from life in prison on murder charges because had I not been able to tune those fuckers out I might have had to fling myself over the seat and strangle them in rage. But the iPod was my happy place.

And then...then...

Oh my holy Lord. I can't even properly describe to you what was definitely the most offensive and horrifying fart I have ever had the displeasure of smelling. I mean, this was an epic, clinging fart that undulated throughout the cabin in waves. I'm pretty sure that I smelled like a fart until my next shower. And no amount of turning my head or shifting my position helped lessen its stink. It finally began to die down as we landed in Providence (oh, the irony of landing in Providence was not lost on me, friends). So of course once we are at the gate and the plane's engines are off (so it's getting all hot in the cabin because we're smashed in like sardines and everyone's trying to will their way off the plane by moving toward the door before it's actually opened) the horrible fart returns because my life isn't bad enough in this moment.

And then I blew up the plane.

But what really happened was that I shuffled off the plane in much the same manner as I had shuffled on (now cursing Zack and his FUCKING NEED FOR THREE SUITS BECAUSE WHO REALLY NEEDS THREE SUITS OH MY GOD) and I waited for Zack's plane to arrive, 40 minutes after my own. And when it did I relayed to him my FUCKING story about the FUCKING people on my FUCKING plane, complete with extensive hand flailing and yelling for dramatic effect.

And he was all cute and sympathetic and appropriately outraged at my suffering and it made me slightly less mad about carrying his heavy-ass suits.

And thus we began our weekend.

Harumph

2009-05-27T11:14:00.005-05:00

My week is thus far rather craptastic (with the exception of my Banana Nut Cheerios discovery, mind you).

1) I currently have HIVES on my NECK. They itch, and I have no allergy medicine with which to annihilate them. Boo to me.

2) I spent the majority of my morning with no internet. NO INTERNET, I tell you. Which left me staring into space and trying desperately to talk to busy passers-by without success. Sometimes it's cool being me; today is not one of those days. I've also had no coffee.

3) I am searching the world for a spring sweater that doesn't cost a small fortune. I need it for THIS SATURDAY for the wedding I'm attending in CAPE COD. I know I will probably be the least-rich person there, but I don't particularly want to LOOK LIKE IT. Wah.

4) I am BFF with the CAPS LOCK KEY.

And, worst of all:

5) My husband is LEAVING FOR 10 WEEKS. He's got himself a spiffy job in Minneapolis for the summer (whoo-hoo summer associateship!) but that means he'll be there and I'm staying here in Chicago. By myself. Without Zack. And I am very bummed. So bummed, in fact, that using the caps lock key doesn't even make me feel better.

6) As a result of #5 I am EATING MY BODY WEIGHT in terrible-for-me food and CRYING about EVERYTHING. I just can't seem to help myself. NOM NOM NOM.

Sometimes you've just gotta vent about the suckitude of your life. And then you feel better. RIGHT?

That's what she said!

2009-05-26T16:16:00.006-05:00

Time: 3:00p.m.
Setting: living room, Sunday afternoon. Everyone has finally crawled out of bed to cure their hangovers with a Chinese food extravaganza.
Characters: Megan, Erin, the Irishman, and Jake.

The Irishman eats his dumpling, when all of the sudden, the perfect little greasy meatball jumps right out of its doughy cocoon and into a puddle of dumpling juice.

Me: Aww, baby! You lost your meat!
Erin: BWAHAHAHAHA

The Irishman and Jake remain completely oblivious.

Banana Nut Cheerios, y'all

2009-05-26T12:51:00.010-05:00

I had an IM conversation with fellow blogger, Megan, today that went a little something (or exactly) like this:

me: I am DYYYYING

Megan: of boredom?

me: What are you doing?

Yes

I am about to write a post about Banana Nut Cheerios

Unless you stop me

Megan: ...

what are banana nut cheerios???

me: OMG

Maybe I SHOULD post about them!

Megan: hahahahah

me: because everyone should have the opportunity to know Banana Nut Cheerios

Megan: hahaha

me: Okay, I have to meet the van now and go to lunch. But when I return, Banana Nut Cheerios 101.

So here we are. And I know you are just dying to know about the banana nutty goodness that is Banana Nut Cheerios, aka SUSTENANCE FOR LIIIIIIFE.

I saw this commercial on Sunday whilst lounging about my mother's house post-sister's-rockin'-bridal-shower (thrown by yours truly) for Banana Nut Cheerios. I should tell you now that I am a sucker for banana nut anything; I would eat banana nut poop and probably tell you how amazing it was. So naturally I came home and wouldn't shut up about the Banana Nut Cheerios until Zack agreed to buy some for me. Our conversation went something like this:

Austin: Did I tell you about the Banana Nut Cheerios I saw on TV?
Zack: [trying to study for upcoming finals] Only about four times.
Austin: So...how do you feel about a trip to the store?
Zack: You can go if you want.
Austin: Um. But I don't want to go by myself. I want you to go WITH me to the store to get my cereal.
Zack: If you want to wait...
Austin: But honeyyyyyy...I need it nowwww.

After this basic conversation is repeated about six more times:

Austin: So, about those Banana Nut Cheerios...
Zack: GAAAAAH! ALRIGHT WE'LL GO GET YOUR MOTHERFUCKING CEREAL!!!!!
Austin: Thanks, baby! You're always looking out for me!

And that is how Banana Nut Cheerios came to be in my mouth. Where they will live a long and happy life. Forever. With me, in my mouth. Because they are delicious (and only 100 calories per serving!). And no, Cheerios is not paying me for this shameless endorsement of their newest product (though clearly they should).

Now go forth and try Banana Nut Cheerios because they will change your life. Or inspire your spouse to kill you.

I have a friend I've never seen. He hides his head inside a dream.

2009-05-21T08:35:00.006-05:00

There is something enormously cruel in having your sex-dream satisfaction stolen by an alarm clock on your day off. Without giving too much away here (and allowing my waking self to relive those brief subconscious moments - mmm, yeah, right there...), lets just say that foreplay had wrapped up on that seedy motel bedspread. Someone ordered an Erin Special with extra headboard banging and a side of screaming orgasm, and I was just about to serve it up, when the dulcet tones of my cell phone beep-booping melted it all. Never to be dreamt again.

I'm not getting enough in real life to let this pass lightly, y'all.

The reader may ask, "But why, Erin, was your alarm set to go off on your day off?" and I would reply, "Dear Reader, you must understand that I generally go to bed in an altered state when I do not have to work the next day, for I am human. Forgive my drunkenness this once, please." Yes, it was a mistake to have the phone even in my bedroom, I agree. But good judgment has managed to evade me for 24 years, let's not go thinking that something was miraculously going to change last night.

And the reader may also ponder why I didn't try to retrieve that dream by falling back asleep immediately. Oh I tried. I tried. I threw myself back onto my mattress and mashed up pillows and twisted around seeking that precise position that had rendered me senseless and blissfully deep in erotic dreams. But the Chicago sun was up and burning through my blinds. The weekday traffic of the city was screeching, honking, whistling, squeeling, sirening below. It should be noted, I live on a corner of acoustic miracles, where conversations across the street are broadcast directly through my windows; where pigeons cooing on the other side of the building seem to be perched on the nightstand beside me, heads confidentially twisted down to better lend me their noisy pigeon secrets. Chicago screams directly at me each morning. It was no good. It was irreversible. I was awake.

Then perhaps the reader pauses, consults a calendar. "But Erin, it's Thursday! Who on God's green earth gets Thursday off?" And I would point at myself and say, "Me, assholes. That's who." Subtracted from full to part time around Christmas, I have since been "enjoying" this midweek oasis. That's right; not only am I NOT getting thoroughly fucked on a regular basis, but I'm also not getting paid anymore than a circus elephant. The depressing truths of my life will be revealed all, by and by. Just hang around, you'll see. I have to cling to the whisps of comfort that I can get, like cottonwood dander floating in the air. All the more biting when they are stolen from me by a goddamn cell phone.

The reader may then ask, "But Erin, you do occasionaly convince the odd gentleman to accompany you home at the end of the night. How can a dream possibly compete with these living, breathing men?" And I would say, perhaps with a revealing sigh in spite of myself, that He was my counterpart inside this dream. You know, the one that exists sometimes as a voice on the phone or a typed word. The one that has lately been pushing the limits of how far west (away) he can go.

So there's that.

And so much like life, the dream has already diminished to just emotional residue. Little context, fewer images. A depressed kind of cloud that is breaking up on what is inarguably a beautiful day. But there is always another nighttime and another set of dreams and a hope that resurrects itself, however unbidden and painful it may be.

But I still look forward to a rerun.

Plz ban txtng!

2009-05-20T14:36:00.010-05:00

Making headlines today is news that the Illinois Senate has approved a ban on text messaging and web surfing on your phone while driving. After reading a couple of different local papers’ stories on the subject, and the readers’ comments that followed them, I can’t help but be baffled and disturbed by people’s attitude toward this change. I don’t think I’m alone in my confusion, but I just cannot understand why this ban is only now being accepted, and why Illinois is one of only a few states to be considering it. Why should anyone be texting while driving?

After looking at some readers comments, and drawing from a few conversations with ignorant drivers I have known, I’ve concluded that some people believe they have the right to do whatever they want behind the wheel, and asking them to please keep their eyes on the road is too restricting of their so-called ‘rights’. When I used to drive on a daily basis, and even when I rode the train along miles and miles of highway every morning, I always noticed people in their cars doing things that were far too distracting to be acceptable driving behaviors. Examining boogers, reading the newspaper, curling their eyelashes, shaving their neck (that was a woman), and a million other things that if actually seen by a police officer, you would most definitely get ticketed for (okay, maybe not the booger thing).

I’ve had this discussion various times with people who I know text and drive and aren’t phased by it. “But I’m a good driver. It’s not that hard. And I don’t do it all the time,” they say. I don’t know where this driving ego comes from exactly, maybe from people who have never been in a car accident and don’t know how easy it is to lose control of a car or traffic situation. But the bottom line is that when you are driving, you should be focused on driving. It doesn’t matter if you think you are invincible. You are not. I promise. And being in a steel box with wheels doesn’t make you exempt from the laws of mortality either.

Furthermore, if you choose to be an idiot and distract yourself while driving, that decision doesn’t just put you in danger. It affects all the people around you, especially those not inside the little steel boxes. In a city like Chicago, pedestrians are everywhere. We, too, follow the rules of road and cross at designated spots and generally obey traffic lights so as not to get run over by cars.

Sometimes standing on the corner in the loop causes a bit of anxiety as taxis fly by and non-taxis (who seem to be even more aggressive around here than the cabs) try to maneuver in and out of the crowded streets. I can’t tell you how many people I see on their phones, and how often I worry that when I step out into the street for my turn to cross, the car speeding toward the red light isn’t going to stop. Sometimes I even wait to make sure the cars have to come to a complete stop before I start to cross, I mean, who knows what these drivers are paying attention to?

Look at the girl in Illinois a few weeks ago who was painting her nails while driving. She wasn’t paying attention, didn’t stop soon enough at a changing light and crashed into a stopped motorcyclist, killing her. I’m sure the girl thought she’d be able to give herself a manicure without any problems. Everyone does. If you thought to yourself, “Oh this is really dangerous what I’m doing and someone is probably going to get hurt because I’m not paying enough attention,” you wouldn’t do it. Instead, people think, “No big deal. I’m a good driver. I can multitask." And what seems to happen in these kinds of situations is a giant karmic twist, where the person killed is never the person who was foolish enough to take everyone’s life into their own manicured hands.

I consider driving a privilege. When getting your driver’s license, you have to prove that you are capable of operating a machine that has the power to kill in a matter of seconds, and you must demonstrate that you understand the rules that come with operating said vehicle on the road. What many people fail to realize, it seems, is that these rules are put in place to keep people safe. Not because there are a bunch of government officials secretly plotting ways to make driving less fun.

If something happened to you or someone you loved because some other driver had to answer an urgent text message, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t think, “That’s okay, it’s his right to not pay attention while driving.”

Things You Don't Consider Until It's Too Late

2009-05-20T10:07:00.003-05:00

1) They call it the Windy City for a reason; plan your wardrobe choices accordingly and be careful when wearing a skirt.

2) Sandals, flip flops, Crocs, etc. will leave you with disgustingly dirty feet at the end of your trip, regardless of how short or long it was.

3) Bring your CTA pass everywhere, even when you think you won't need it.

4) Avoid carrying a purse/bag if possible (personal preference).

5) Taking photos makes you a tourist even if you're technically not one.

6) Carry an umbrella at all times, even if you have to shove it down the back of your pants to make it happen.

7) Never ever for any reason sit in the single isolated seat located at the back of each car on the El. It smells like pee because someone has peed there. I promise.

8) There will always be someone better dressed than you. The upside? There will always be someone more ridiculously dressed than you. Cart around a pair of heels & some dangly earrings if it makes you feel better to do so.

9) Sales tax is 10% and prices here make you feel like using your firstborn as a bartering tool might be appropriate.

10) Public transportation takes about twelve times longer to get you to your destination than a car would.

Please share your experiences in the comments section!

Body, Meet Mind. Mind is Actually Your Boss.

2009-05-18T15:32:00.002-05:00

When I started college, I was skinny. Not skin and bones or anything; I've always been a healthy girl. But I was thin. And cute.

Now I am merely cute. Sometimes.

Everyone has heard of the "freshman fifteen" and I was no exception in receiving that little gift. I discovered booze in college and nursed quite the love affair with it. I ate my share of late night pizzas and learned that nothing cures a hangover like Chinese food. Plus your sleep patterns are off, your lifestyle is weird, and when you are not stuffing your face with greasy takeout you are trying desperately to find anything edible in the cafeteria, which often leads to a high-carb intake.

So I wasn't totally shocked (or even dismayed) when I packed on an extra few pounds during college. What I didn't count on was that changing my lifestyle so dramatically in those years produced some really negative habits that have caused me to grow, and grow, and keep growing.

And that brings me to today, overweight and bearing little self-control to do anything to fix it. I should say that my husband (law student, remember?) and I are living on a very meager income; he's a full-time student and won't have a job during school until the fall. As a receptionist I don't exactly bring home the big bucks. So we eat a lot of pasta and things that are cheap and that we can stretch into multiple meals. Also I should mention that Zack and I have, well, different culinary leanings, so compromise is a must since we can't afford to diverge much on meals. Which means that I often sacrifice the healthier, more expensive, "rabbit food" for the less expensive, definitely less healthy "man food."

ANYWAY...

So, I have all these excuses for why I can't eat super healthy all the time. But then I realized that I just really like to eat, so I can't blame all my bad food choices on Zack (sorry honey!). I will pop open a snack at any time. Also I realized that it takes way too much food to make me feel uncomfortably full. A couple years ago I couldn't finish my food at restaurants. Now I am cleaning my plate and asking for a dessert menu (okay, maybe not really, but the difference between now and then is significant). I suspect that what's going on here is that I've become an emotional eater; or maybe I always was one and the stress of adulthood has just freed it in me.

And this last thing is something I can't stress enough:

I hate exercise.

Yes, it makes me feel good and powerful and strong. I like the endorphin rush as much as the next person. But for me, getting motivated to exercise is like trying to gear yourself up for that medical procedure you've been putting off; once it's over you can't exactly remember why you thought it would be so awful, but you continue to dread medical procedures regardless.

The gym is my own personal torture chamber, with all those cute perky distance runners and the buff guys lifting our combined bodyweight on the bench press. Sigh. I can't help but feel like that will never be me.

Alright so you've been patient with my little pity party here, and I appreciate that. I didn't write this to make people feel sorry for me, or to air the fact that I have no self control (well, maybe a little I did, on that last point). I am saying these things in public so that hopefully I will take control of myself and do something to start losing weight. I just need to be consistent and to remember that I am the boss of me; my hormones and my stomach and my emotions do not control my eating habits, my mind does.

So, Mind, just say no to Wendy's next time, okay? Thanks.

Get your dog off my dog

2009-05-14T15:18:00.008-05:00

One of my big pet peeves, now that I don't have a yard, but a park out my front door, is when I have my dog outside, we are minding our own business (well, I am; Arlo is running frantic circles around me because there's another dog sharing his patch of grass) and some lady in designer pajamas brings her little shit dog over to say hello.

My dog will eat your dog, lady, I think.

But I say something along the lines of "My dog isn't always friendly with other dogs."

Now, we are all about the dog park and doggy socialization, but our dog isn't always on board. One of the deciding factors of living where we do was that there is a dog park just outside our building; Arlo can run around and we don't actually have to walk him around the city, which triggers some anxiety for him and almost-pulled-out-of-their-socket arms for Zack and I. But sometimes, and we haven't figured out what triggers it, he's mean to other dogs. He'll just snap, and not in a warning kind of way. He means it. Then we scoop him up and flee the dog park in shame.

So when Designer Pajamas looks at me with a sort of half-smile and bobs her head a little so I know she's heard me, then continues straight on toward us and lets her dog get all up in my dog's business, I get pretty irritated. I mean, does she think I'm kidding? I know it seems like Arlo is a big wriggling mass of friendly slobber, but he can bust out the nasty pretty quick.

While she allows her dog to jump all over mine, their leashes becoming a gnarled mess, I am glaring and muttering and trying to pull my always enthusiastic, sometimes snarling, 40-lb-beast off her little nitwit dog. Arlo doesn't do things halfway, so the leashes are good and tangled, and only as I finish pulling them apart and grab my handle do I realize that Designer Pajamas' dog has piddled all over it in fear. Nice.

Then, of course, Designer Pajamas yanks her dog and heads off in the opposite direction, glaring and muttering about how I shouldn't have let my dog get near her dog if he's not friendly. Or she slinks away and casts furtive glances over her shoulder as if we are wanted criminals and she's sneaking off to call the cops.

Dog owners, beware. And keep your dog off my dog.

**EDIT** I realized after posting this that I never clarified that Arlo is never mean or aggressive toward humans or even cats. Just the occasional dog whose ass smells bad or whatever. Didn't want to give the poor guy a bad rep!

Be Careful What You Wish For

2009-05-13T18:01:00.006-05:00

I frequently walk home from work. I live just over a mile from my office and since I spend most of the day sitting I like to walk to and from to get a little blood flowing. I spent my walk today scanning the folks around me as usual, thinking that those who don't take advantage of people watching in the city are idiots. There is so much to see! So many kinds of people and I like to size up every one of them. Some judgment may or may not be involved.

I've never understood how people can walk down the street here as if they're in a bubble. I'm used to store line smalltalk, waves of thanks from drivers I've let into my lane, and eye contact with strangers on the street. People here bump into each other without saying anything, weave complicate patterns over-around-and-through one another at every corner crosswalk, and never for a second make eye contact with anyone. I'm still figuring out this phenomenon (and trying to avoid being caught gawking at everyone who passes me since meeting eyes is a big faux pas here).

So, back to today. I'm walking across the BP Bridge that connects Millennium and Grant Parks, covertly watching everyone around me. I may have been judging the girl walking around in navy blue leggings, high heels, big sunglasses and a screaming wedgie. Just a little. And for the billionth time I'm wondering why no one in this blasted city wants to look at anyone else when, all the sudden, the man candy coming up on my left registers.

Um, he is hot.

Holey jeans, just-ragged-enough-to-be-trendy t-shirt and lightly tanned with shoulder-blade-length dreds tied back in a pony tail. Mmmm. I'm sure he is a vegan smoker with a secret tattoo somewhere inappropriate.

Ohmygodheislookingatme.

And what does he see? A slightly overweight twentysomething huffing it over this bridge in dress pants and ugly tennis shoes, a light sheen of sweat covering her face and neck (nearing the end of the power walk here, okay?). And worst of all - most embarrassing of all - he passes just close enough that while I am feeling nauseous from near heatstroke, he's probably feeling nauseous because he can see my sweat mustache. Ugh. I put my head down and pass quickly.

Never again will I wish for people to look up at me while I'm out walking around the city, particularly not when it's any kind of warm or humid out. From now on, I'm an invisible bystander watching things silently. And invisibly.

I'll probably still judge a little, though.

The Scary List

2009-05-11T12:03:00.005-05:00

When Austin suggested we make “life lists”, my reaction was, “Absolutely not”. Make a list of my life goals? Me? The most idle and directionless person currently in existence? Ha. Why on earth would I want a written documentation of my future failures? I try not to think of my goals, it’s easier to think myself successful that way. Pessimist? Perhaps.

But here I am now (thanks friends), making a list that hopefully will not haunt me for the rest of my days. Maybe it’ll be the motivation I need. You know, crossing stuff off to-do lists is always strangely satisfying. Perhaps I will print this out, so I can physically scratch these suckers off when I reach them.

As you can see, I’m a simple girl, and most of my goals center on food and on building a home for myself and future family.

Pay attention to my first goal, as it is the one that will allow me to achieve a lot of the things that make up the rest of the list.

Fall ass backwards in to large amounts of money

Go to culinary school just for fun

Own my own business/be my own boss

Figure out what that business will be...

Chronicle the romance and childhood of my parents and their siblings

Produce a few mini me’s

Have a home with a yard, a workshop and a hammock

Create a vegetable garden I can live off of

Visit every continent/ Take a food tour of every continent

Have an enormous kitchen where my friends and family can all help prepare meals

Sail around the Pacific

Go to Guam where I was born (perhaps on a sailboat?)

Live greener

See more of the U.S

Publish something I’ve written

Learn to cook kelaguen and its accompaniments

Sell some of my own art

Be more disciplined in every area

Publish a cookbook

Make a record of my grandparents’ stories about their lives

Meet Bruce Springsteen

Take more trips on a whim

Lie in a field of cilantro on a sunny day

Go skydiving

Learn to sew from my Grandma

Visit New Jersey and Bruce’s hood

Learn to play the piano

Be at least trilingual

Have enough money

Coach a girls’ softball team

Meditate everyday

Find a working exercise program

Swim with dolphins

Return to Maryland and visit the town where I grew up

See a hockey game in Canada

Teach a class about something I really love

Make a documentary about a trip through Latin America

Go snowmobiling

Mentor someone

Make a grand gesture to repay Frank and Jacqueline for all the help they’ve given me

Send my parents on a honeymoon

Take a road trip with my brothers

Play with a monkey

Write a children's book

Life List, Bucket List, Whatever You Want to Call It

2009-05-11T09:14:00.002-05:00

I've decided that I need to be more positive about my life.

Between working a job that one wouldn't call exciting and being (for all intents and purposes) broke, the downward spiral into a boredom-induced stupor has been swift. I whine. I fuss. I watch a lot of TV. And since I can't seem to get serious about doing any one thing, I decided to write down all the things I feel would make my life better. I included things I can do within the confines of my every day life as well as things that require a little more courage and financial planning. Stuff to learn, stuff to make, places to see, items to acquire, etc. etc.

Now, compiling my life list didn't do anything earth-shattering for me. I haven't found Jesus or made a medical discovery. But it makes me happy to look at it and think that someday I really will do this stuff. So, hooray!

Here's my list. I'd love to see what other people put on their life lists, so please do share.

My List:

Take a dance class

Go on an Irish pub crawl (in Ireland)

Send my mom on a long vacation

Have a tire swing

Visit every continent

Commit to some type of volunteer work long-term

Write every day

Take a road trip from one U.S. coast to the other

Donate a significant amount of money to a cause I am passionate about

Set up a scholarship for a person paying their own way through college

Work on my relationship with my brother

Get to know my mom's side of the family

Own a home on the Mississippi River

Be politically informed

Adopt senior dogs and cats and give them a loving home

Raise a newborn puppy or kitten that's been orphaned

Teach my kids to perform random acts of kindness

Perform random acts of kindness myself

Join a volleyball team

Be less judgmental

Keep my house clean for more than two days at a time

Throw away/Donate stuff I don't use (clear out the clutter)

Send hand-written letters to people

Maintain a consistent exercise regimen

Be able to sing on-key in front of an audience

Take guitar lessons

Take piano lessons

Live as a vegan for a month

See all 50 states legalize gay marriage

Be a patient and level-headed mother

Learn how to sew

Have a successful vegetable & herb garden

Learn my way around a new place within two weeks of moving there

Be excited about something in my life every day

Spend a month touring wineries in Napa Valley

Visit Charlottesville again one day

Be more involved in the lives of my half-siblings

Perform grand loving gestures

Be considered an expert at something

Spend an entire year traveling

Learn Spanish

Help solve a crime

Go kayaking

Tour as many Chicago Blues bars as possible

Go whitewater rafting

Visit the elephant sanctuary in Kenya

Run a marathon

Get a whole-body spa treatment

Go away on a girls-only vacation

Go on a long, romantic vacation with my husband

Create a book list and complete it

Live a more environmentally-friendly lifestyle

Explore as many neighborhoods in Chicago as I [safely] can

Make someone a crafty and creative gift

Get published somewhere other than my own blog(s)