That's What She Said

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!

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.

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.

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.

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:

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.

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!)

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?!

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.

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.

Paaaaaassed out.

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

OOF! (7 weeks)

"Dude, get your paws off my paws"

But whew, it's good to be dry.

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.

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.