Live together, watch the series finale of "Lost" alone at a convent

Jeez, the events of two weeks ago seem eons behind me. This is what I get for failing to blog on a regular basis. Per usual, I'll just have to use exaggeration, distracting similes and falsified facts to fill in the missing pieces.

Lost. On Lost. On the TV show Lost.
I distinctly remember the first time Matt and I watched an episode of “Lost.” And by distinctly, I mean vaguely. We were visiting my family in St. Louis for one reason or another, and after a hearty meal of casserole, we found my brothers hunkered down in our walk-in closet of a family room, watching some new bullshit sitcom about castaways and polar bears. At that point, a third of the season had already passed, but we slowly, reluctantly began to tune in to see what this trend amongst fanboys and survivalists was all about. And so it goes that we finished the first season eager to watch the second.

And the second, eager to watch the third.

I was caught, like a wild boar between a spear-toting plane crash survivor and the ocean’s cold abyss, in the grips of an inexplicable crush on Ben Linus. And Matthias was similarly trapped under the spell of Kate Austen. If I were to guess, it was because he has been told, by numerous friends, relatives and strangers at restaurants, that he looks like Dominic Monaghan. And, in addition to playing Charlie on Lost, Dominic Monaghan happened to be dating Evangeline Lilly, who plays Kate. So, you know, of course.

For reasons mutual and individual – for him, the complexity, the adventure, the literary allusions; for me, the Ben; the Sawyer; the Desmond; the Dharma-issued canned peaches; the comfy, retro hatch; the moments so painfully poignant that a few times I found myself sobbing through previews for next week’s episode.

As it happens, Matt and I broke up just shy of season three’s end. And having watched it every week together since that first fateful encounter in the family room, it seemed fitting that we would watch the season finale together before going our separate, undetermined ways.

The episode? “Through the Looking Glass.” You know, “not Penny’s boat”? The one where Charlie dies. It was all very disturbing and meta for me. For the next two years, I swore off Lost completely.

I even changed the channel during Lost commercials. It, like Charlie, was dead to me.

And then we got back together. And not even a week after our wedding, a mutual decision was made. Although Matt had been loyal to Lost this entire time, we would watch seasons four and five in time for the premier of season six. Jumping back in was easy. My desire to watch was less about nostalgia and more rooted in a genuine interest to be part of it again. In among the helicopters, the mysterious cabins, the sarcastic quips and pseudoscientific ramblings.

Plus, if I hadn’t watched season four, I would’ve missed my favorite episode – “The Constant.” I’m sure it’s everyone’s favorite episode, but that’s just because it’s that good.

We made it through season five with time to spare and watched season six with the fierce dedication of the loyal and DVR-less. When I found out my brother’s college graduation would put me in Boston the night of the series finale, I realized watching the very last episode with Matt wasn’t going to happen. In fact, watching it at all might not happen. We were staying at a convent, so hot water was a hope and expecting access to television was like expecting your potential rescuers to actually rescue you.

TWIST: To make a long Lost story short, I had the good fortune of running into a nun/Lost super fan at breakfast that Sunday morning. She graciously let me watch with her in the inner sanctums of the convent where there was, in fact, a very nice TV. And while it would’ve been nice to watch with Matt, I’m sure he appreciated the utter silence my absence brought – no one yelling “Lupetis is alive!” through a mouthful of Doritos or air kicking as Jack forced ghost Locke over the edge of the cliff.

The end? Nearly perfect. I have no qualms. Lingering questions, sure – that was inevitable. But that night, I drifted off to sleep in my convent bed with dreams of Ben Linus and the satisfaction of relationships, both real and imagined, come full circle.

What do you like to do?

I try not to give Facebook too much thought, which is difficult, as it caters to my shifty, flakey, shiny brain. A brain that is curious about the inane, and indifferent to most things meaningful. I was proud of myself for leaving my original (or maybe one generation down from the original) list of interests, movies, music, etc. virtually untouched for years. (I can say years because I joined Facebook in early 2005, when it was all college students and unsolicited poking.)

However, given the new format of the “info” page – with its word bubbles, links and pictures, I was forced to reevaluate my idealized self. Or, to be more accurate, I was forced to reevaluate my self-effacing self, which is actually a palatable version of my idealized self. But the thing is, Facebook now forces you to choose for a menu of sorts. And that is where I ran into trouble. Mostly in the activities category.

I can’t legitimately say that just plain “reading” is an activity for me. Reading is an accomplishment. “Starting a book” or “Reading half of a book” – those are my activities. But Facebook doesn’t recognize those choices (although it did give me the option of “functional illiteracy”).

I also tried to choose “microwaving” and ended up settling for “defrosting.” Not the same, but it least it has a picture (the glaring white insides of an empty refrigerator).

There are nine other people interested in defrosting, which is kind of sad and intimate. Brought together by compromise, torn apart by warmth.

Before you take to the internet.

I have long been a self-analyzer, a self-diagnoser, a self-helper. Not a hypochondriac, it's not the same thing. But whereas Matt can stand by in the face of a potential malady and let nature take its course, I cannot. I have to be doing something. I have to know that should I one day fall prey to an illness, a mental breakdown, a marinara stain on a white tablecloth, at least I've done everything in my power to fix it.

Of course, when I say everything in my power, I mean that I Google the crap out of it. But herein lies the problem. Because most intelligent people will Google a problem once or twice before moving on to more effective solutions. They call doctors. They consult real people with faces and voices. They figure their shit out and move on with life. The remaining people sort of get sifted to the bottom of the search result pile. It's a scary place that smells like Funions and hairspray.

The bottom of the pile is where people go when a neglected cockatoo has eaten their fingers, preventing them from dialing 911. Where pregnant middle-schoolers with iPhones go. Where people with shotgun wounds go to find out if some leftover bathtub caulking will stop the bleeding. The inquiries are thrown out into cyberspace and left hanging until someone equally clueless replies, weeks later, after the caulking falls off and the infection sets in. Needless to say, no one can help you here. They will only feed your paranoia, suggest dangerous home remedies, and do it all without using a single vowel.

The cure? Ignore or treat. Don't Google a symptom more than three times. And don't, whatever you do, put your fingers in the cage.

I returned safely from Vegas with only a slight hand helmet. Nothing major.

Here we go.

Heading to Vegas for the first (and likely last) time to celebrate Michaela's upcoming wedding.

I'll post when I return! (Dear God I hope I return.)

My kind’s your kind, I’ll stay the same

I wish with everything in me that I could relive a few distinct moments, in particular those instances when I was stalled in the midst of a hasty departure by my dad calling after me, “Catherine, let me make you a map.” I’d duck back inside to find him poised at the dining room table with a red Bic pen in hand, carefully studying a larger map of St. Louis. The fodder for his map. My map.

This was a pre-GPS era. It probably wasn’t pre-MapQuest for the rest of the world, but it was for us, when going online involved a 10-minute symphony of beeps, hisses and static as our little Packard Bell clawed desperately at the outer limits of cyberspace. Attempting to create driving directions would cause a definite crash and a potential seismic shift.

If I had it my way, I’d just jump in the old Geo Prism and rely on my memory to get me where I needed to go. I pride myself on a particularly keen sense of direction, and I rarely got lost. But my dad had the foresight to realize that my mind map might one day fail me – that I could potentially leave to meet my friends for a movie and end up at an abandoned strip club across the Mississippi.

The entire process was a lesson in patience. I had places to go, Steak ‘n Shakes to loiter in, Weezer lyrics to overanalyze, cigarettes to not smoke, memories to make. But first, I had to wait in the front hall, sighing and pacing as he drew arrows, sketched landmarks and wrote out street names in his patented all-caps font. The final result was so precise, so endearingly perfect that I’d soon enough forget my frustration over missing the first five minutes of Bowfinger.

In hindsight, I wish I’d saved at least one of those maps instead of letting them get buried and broken under piles of physics books and pools of sun-warmed soda. I can’t say I ever completely depended on them to reach a destination, but they were always next to me for the journey, and that part hasn’t really changed at all.

From Slate:
Wonderful hand-drawn maps from firefighters, club-hoppers, Boy Scout dads, grandmothers, and Alexander Calder.

(Image from Slate)

Happy 30th Birthday

Like the musical hotdog card hidden in your lunchbox says, we just make sense together. Thank you for keeping me in your heart. Happy birthday!

Lights, psychos, Furbies, screaming babies in Mozart wigs, sunburned drifters with soapsud beards...

By far the funniest thing I've seen on SNL this season:



Note: I totally screwed up the quote in my headline yesterday. It has since been corrected. So embarrassed...

Spicy Szechuan Chick Lit

Spicy Szechuan Style Vegetables and Chicken, you are my new favorite frozen meal. Always at arm's reach when the idea of putting things between bread seems too time consuming, too overwhelming, too involved. You taste frozen enough to remind me that I am at work, with enough zucchini to convince me that you are healthier than something with no vegetables at all.
____________________
Speaking of tasteless consumption, this post was actually supposed to be about a book I just read. The other day, I found myself saying to Matt, "I just want to finish this book so I can write a blog post about it and then never talk about it ever again." Having reached the finish line a few days ago, this post is way overdue.

For some odd reason, I got it in my head that I wanted to read Amy Sohn's Prospect Park West. I'd developed this slight fascination with Brooklyn's Park Slope neighborhood's parental culture simply because Gawker sometimes talks about it. I knew the book was an easy read, full of namedropping and metaphors comparing human emotions to expensive objects like strollers and shoes. The straw that broke the Manolo's heel (I don't think that worked, which is why I don't write chick lit) was the fact that it took me approximately forever to finish On the Road, a book that seventh graders can read in one sitting, while texting. All of this created the perfect storm that propelled me to order Prospect Park West from Amazon's marketplace for $6.

And here I sit, still debating whether or not I want my $6 back (it would be enough to buy three Spicy Szechuan Style Vegetables and Chicken meals). I'm no better for having read this fictional romp through an upper-class neighborhood populated by over-medicated movie stars and self-righteous super moms. The plot kept getting more ridiculous as the story lines began to overlap, sort of like the movie "Crash" if you replaced the racial tension with references to sleeping pills.

I bet by now you're thinking a) it sounds like she hated this book and b) this isn't the blog I was looking for. But believe me, I'm grateful to PPW for getting me through a slump when anything more intellectually stimulating was completely out of the question. If I hadn't been reading about playground politics and affairs between food coop workers, I would've been drawing finger pictures in bathroom mirror condensation and wishing I'd spent my $6 on a smutty read instead of frozen meals.

So now I'm back on the literary straight and narrow. Next up: Illumination and Night Glare, an autobiography of Carson McCullers that my sister gave me for Christmas. No condo board squabbles or chardonnay hangovers in that one. At least I don't think so.

Slowly, but surely...

I have begun dressing like an elementary school art teacher. One piece of the puzzle at a time, I now feel uncomfortable in anything that isn't garishly colorful and unflatteringly comfortable. One jumper and two dangly cat earrings away from a water color dinosaur.

Stove Sweet Stove

Growing up, we had a wooden toy stove - a really stark, simple toy with sliding panels that allowed us to keep important things inside, like plastic pots and pans, rubber WWF figurines and stolen cans of soup. When I'd outgrown the stove, disregarding the fact that my siblings had not, I made the offhand suggestion to my mom that it would make a good dollhouse. This was bullshit because anyone looking at it would agree that it would make a bad dollhouse. But I was still at the age where I thought building a slide next to the basement stairs and cushioning the landing with Easter grass was a brilliant idea, so, you know...

But my mom, never one to back down from a challenge if thrift is involved, went to work turning the simple stove into an equally simple dollhouse. It had four rooms and an attic with a removable roof. An artist friend painted the front butter yellow with creeping ivy. And before unveiling it to us, my mom filled the inside with Victorian-era Playmobile furniture that looked amazing but tasted really bitter if you licked it. Everything about the dollhouse was anachronistic and mismatched in scale, but we loved it and took special care never to let the people inside know that they were living in a converted oven.

The years gave way to other dollhouses - the kind with staircases, chimneys and porches, but the sturdy stove was the one to survive falls off shelves, dog attacks and small cousins looking for places to hide half-eaten pieces of cake. As far as I know, it's still sitting in the basement, waiting for the day when my robot children or cat children can lay claim to it. And at that time, I'll be able to say, "Gather round robots/cats, and I'll tell you the story of how a fake stove became a real home."

All of this is a segue to a piece in today's New York Times about modernist dollhouses. Intriguing for anyone who likes dollhouses (past me) and modern design (current me, in theory).

Modernist Dollhouses

“The whole world was tamed by men who ate biscuits.”

The weekend of three movies…

After finally returning the Netflix I’d been carrying around in my car for nearly a month (Herb & Dorothy and the last disc of season five of Weeds), I rearranged my queue to allow for any new releases. Up next in the docket: Julie & Julia and Brothers.

The older and more crotchety I get, the less interested I am in going out on Friday nights. After a long workweek, it just seems like an expensive way to ruin an otherwise productive Saturday. A sober Friday means spinning class and errands on Saturday morning, whereas a drunken Friday means no Saturday morning at all. Just groggy stumbling and scrambled eggs that I will regret eating two minutes after the last bite.

So instead, we took the classy route – we watched a movie about the life and times of a famed gourmet chef while eating Long John Silvers’ famed gourmet fried fish parts. When all was said and done, we were both satisfied by the hush puppies, but Matt was less than pleased with the movie. I, on the other hand, was able to look past Amy Adams’ characters’ vapidity and mullet to thoroughly enjoy the “Julia” parts, the scenes in which Meryl Streep is tall and talented and Stanley Tucci is short and good natured, true to form.

Movie 2: Crazy Heart, seen Saturday afternoon. This was originally a movie I felt I needed to see for street cred. Like it would cancel out the fact that I’d paid to watch Valentine’s Day two weeks before. And when we found out it was still playing in Omaha, we knew we had to hop to it before it was too late.

I’m glad we did because it was great – great music, great performances, about a dozen great shots of Jeff Bridges’ slack, sweaty, whisky-filled stomach. In one particular scene, Bad Blake (Bridges) is making biscuits for Maggie Gyllenhaal’s young son, and he utters the quote I used as a title. So, you know, good biscuit quotes. If you have the chance to see it before it’s out of the theaters, it’s worth the $10 (and the other $10 you’ll probably spend on the soundtrack).

Movie 3: After an evening at The Brothers, drinking good cocktails and playing one particularly bad game of darts, it took everything in me to get outside in the sunlight on Sunday and hobble around pretending to exercise. So when Dana and Brandon reminded me that we’d talked about watching Mulholland Drive that afternoon, I was all in. Just like fried fish and Julia Child go together, so do beautiful Sunday afternoons and David Lynch movies.

I have less to say about this one. It was baffling, as expected. After falling asleep thinking about the various plot points: dwarfs, decomposing bodies, the creepy synthesized score, Justin Theroux, cowboys and the logistics of fitting all things disturbing into one film, I gave in and sought the help of experts this morning. I’m not sure whether the various online analyses confirmed my theory, or whether my theory came out of smarter people’s analyses. Either way, no hay banda!

Silencio.

Awesome for multiple reasons

Bird and the Bee. Hall and Oates. Super pregnant. Great song.



Spin article about the album

Ah well...

After growing my hair out until it looked like a dog-chewed Barbie head, synthetic and gnarled, I got a haircut. It was supposed to look like this:



...but I forgot my picture, and my ability to describe things is less than keen. So instead, it looks kind of like this (the one on the right).



Or maybe more like this.



Life, via my hair, comes full circle.

On this St. Paddy's Day eve...

My mom is barely Irish… like, probably more Na’vi than Irish, but because she’s German and French and Native American (I think) and Brazilian (probably not), and therefore unlabelable, we opted to identify with my dad’s side of the family tree (or, as my mom’s ancestors would call it, the Tree of Souls).

We leached off his 100% Irish status from the time we could eat horseshoe-shaped marshmallows. This was particularly easy for me because I was round, pale and freckled and could have been an overfed extra in Angela’s Ashes. My sister and I took up Irish dancing in grade school, sleeping in hard pink plastic curlers, wearing heavy embroidered dresses, and performing reels and jigs at nursing homes, shopping malls and the occasional hotel ballroom. During an especially awkward stage, I played famed Dublin street hawker Molly Malone in the St. Patrick’s Day parade, my black fingernails clutching her wheelbarrow of cockles and mussels.

After years of tentative planning and speculation, we actually made it to Ireland as a family in 2004. We spent two weeks hauling our luggage from county to county, pointing at signs featuring our last name with the elusive “g,” kissing walls, leaning over cliffs and reveling in the place where it all began – at some point, in a town that now longer existed (having been incorporated into rainy Galway).

In sum, my dad’s heritage became an integral part of our family’s identity. He was buried in his green and navy shamrock tie, while the rest of us donned some sort of reciprocal emblem.

Now I face my first St. Patrick’s day as a Kraemer, having lost the distinctly Irish last name that served as my automatic pass into drunken conversations, my badge of pride every March 17. I have a bit more Oktoberfest clout, but a little less St. Patrick's Day credibility. I’m trying to face it like a man and remember that it’s what’s in your DNA and on your head (Kiss Me, I’m Irish antennae) that matter, but it’s still hard… like the Blarney Stone… or a rock.*


*A difficult traditional Irish dance movement. Also, a pun.

Happy birthday, Chuck Norris

A shameless marital plug...

After this I'll be done linking to other people's work and write something of my own, but I thought I'd share something intellectually stimulating first. Matt has always been a veracious reader, but as of late he's become an equally veracious Goodreads user, updating his bookshelf regularly and writing book reviews on an almost daily basis. Because I do not read as... consistently (unless you count food packaging and anything with baby bump in the headline), I haven't even read a fraction of the books he's reviewed. But sometimes I read his reviews anyway, and - if I didn't witness him writing them, holed up in the upstairs office as I frolic around, making messes and indulging in short-lived hobbies, I'd swear these were written by an honest to goodness professional. The kind that gets paid in money (whereas Matt is compensated through the overwhelming adoration of the Goodreads community). Anyway, I thought I'd spread the literary love and provide a link to his page. You might have to join Goodreads to see it, but then you'll be able to make fun of the books I've read (and haven't read), and that's a pretty decent bonus.

Matt Kraemer's Goodreads Page

This is Annie...


And this is her tumblr. You should check it out! She's way more into pictures, inspiration, conciseness and updating than I am.

You could sense that I was missing Chicago a great deal, couldn't you?

Thank you, Lauren. You are fantastic.

TCOB

Ignorance is totally bliss. I love ignorance. But the fallout from ignorance that has gone too far for too long is the opposite of bliss. It's blisslessness. And it's harsh. Left to my own devices, I'll ignore anything I can - obligations, bills, due dates set far into the future. But lately, those months and years of denying reality have come back to haunt me, most recently when some dude in Plano, Texas, opened a cable account on my dime because I would rather stare at the wall than return phone calls from concerned creditor. So while I was putting packs of gum on my Visa, he was watching $7 On Demand movies, probably a dozen a night, all complements of my dumb, blissful self.

With that little incident acting as the cable account that broke my glass castle of denial, I've decided to TCOB. First on the Business of Which To Take Care list was following up with the identify theft. Today I continued to TCOB by taking our new car into the dealership for the so-called Platinum Package, wherein they rustproof and Scotchgard the car for a million dollars. Or rather, they charge you a million dollars at the time of purchase and assume that you will forget. Dealership gets your money; you get rust on your doors and taco sauce stains on your seats. So I stuck it to the man by actually showing up, and actually taking the rental car they'd promised, and actually taking care of business. Next up? Thank you notes, the alternative being a lifetime of awkward Thankgivings and the scorn of the polite and elderly.

Never pick sides, Never choose between two

"I Think Ur A Contra" by Vampire Weekend sounds vaguely like Joni Mitchell, which I think is why I was open to it in the first place, having been mislead by a split-second conclusion and background noise. You should listen to if if you get a chance. It's wonderful.

Hoarding Possibility

A few weeks ago, as I rode home from the bar in Adam's car, my head lodged at a 90-degree angle against the ceiling, one of the other 74 passengers mentioned that the 49er was rumored to be closing to make way for a CVS. Drunk on whiskey and my love of convenience, I let out the lone cheer. Everyone else gasped in unison, horrified that I could applaud the destruction of a landmark, the end of an era, simply because it would mean easy access to half-gallons of milk and Cover Girl products. To backtrack a bit, the 49er is a bar in our neighborhood -- dive-ish in nature, host to hopeful bands and patient patrons. It's a cool place, but the truth is, I haven't set foot inside in more than four years, and I'm almost sure none of my friends have either. Their need to protect its bricks and lukewarm beer from the evils of corporate convenience stemmed from pure nostalgia and the idea that maybe, possibly, they might return for a drink one day. In this particular instance, I expressed remorse for my temporary delight and joined team 49er. I haven't heard any more about that rumor since, so it could be that one of my friends just pulled it out of their bored butts.

But it got me thinking -- don't we all sort of hoard possibility? Much like the semi-senile women on TLC keep rotting pumpkins in their bathtubs, cats in their freezers and 300 jars of mayonnaise on the basement stairs, I tend to accumulate a large number of people, places and things I simply like the existence of. I like that restaurant because it's there, and maybe one day we'll eat there... but probably not. I like knowing those rekindled Facebook friendships could maybe possibly lead to in-person reunions one day, but probably not. I like knowing the nooks and crannies of Omaha's more eclectic neighborhoods exist, but exploring them takes energy, so instead I draw satisfaction from their mere existence. I have friends in places I'll never visit, memories of places I'll never return to, reams of possibility I'll never make real. But it's all there, just in case.

I guess I'd liken the 49er to Conan O'Brien. I liked knowing he was there, and even though I admittedly never watched Late Night anymore, when he was bumped from the Tonight Show, I felt that pang of regret knowing I'd gotten by for the past four years on the idea that I could watch him if I wanted to. I imagine the same is true for a good number of people who were With Coco or whatever.

So is there a point? Not really... I'd like to try and reflect on the possibilities I've been keeping in my body-size freezer, throwing some away once and for all and making the others a reality. Because any day now, that rotting pumpkin could become a CVS. A convenient, convenient CVS.

Recommendations of the citrus variety.

Clementines - You can eat upwards of three in a day and avoid the aching guilt that comes from eating three Pop Tarts in a minute, not that I have ever done that.

The Trapeze Swinger by Iron & Wine - I'm well aware that this song is fairly old. Apparently it's on the "In Good Company" soundtrack, which means it dates back to around the time Topher Grace was still a household name (although he'll always be a household name in our household). I've never been one to stand perched on the cutting edge of anything. I was like 23 by the time I saw "The Cutting Edge." But in my humble and belated opinion, this song is beautiful. If I were planning my funeral and wanted to make people sit through a seven-minute montage featuring pictures of me when I was young and alive and wore over-sized Animaniacs t-shirts, I'd ask for this song to be played (right after the mimes hand out communion).

The Hurt Locker - Not going to launch into a review here. An amazing movie. For a few days after we watched it, I kept mistaking piles of my own crumpled gym clothes for IEDs.

Bloody Mary's - I had one at Applebee's last night that was pretty sub par (for those of you who live outside of Omaha, Applebee's is a restaurant we have here). But I had one at Wheatfield's this morning that wasn't half bad. Either way, I fulfilled yesterday's dream of drinking one within the next 12 to 24 hours.

And last, but not least, Conversations with Walgreens Service Clerks. I had a really good conversation with the girl working at Walgreens this morning. It sort of set the town for an all-around decent day (I shouldn't get ahead of myself since it's only 3:40). But if you have the opportunity, go for it. Even if it means buying another extension cord or getting next year's Christmas cards made.

Picture this.

In an effort to cut wedding corners, we only invited people who promised us gifts like cruises and horses, we served guests a variety of cheap but salty microwaveable frozen dinners (include a vegetarian option for those willing to remove small bits of dehydrated ham), and we hired our photographer from Craigslist. Craigslist is a wasteland of gently used Danish Modern furniture and serial killers, so I guess you could say we lucked out, in that said photographer was neither a killer nor was she seeking a missed connection or a leather love seat.

Now that the cloud of Facebook photos has dissipated, some beautiful and others candid (mostly of me letting my chin retreat into my neck), I've finally taken the time to look at (and pay for) the actual professional photos. Here are a few of my favorites...


So far, I've received every sacrament at this church. One hot May in sixth grade, we read Lord of the Flies here - a dark, echoing, refreshing alternative to our humid classroom.




I like this picture because it looks like the end of a basketball game.




And this one because it looks like we're in a community theater production of The Crucible.





My cousin Alice - the greatest, most beautiful flower girl I've ever had in any of my weddings.















I like this one in an unfunny sort of way.













They were asked to cheer, but nearly everyone did a passable job of looking sincere.






Riding off into the sunset... or around the block and back to the church parking lot.

One More Sleep Til Christmas

Since the start of the Christmas season, I've watched four different versions of A Christmas Carol (five if you count the version that takes place in space and has four ghosts and a small amount of time travel). We kicked off the holiday season by going to see the motion-capture Jim Carrey version (my love for Colin Firth has now taken on a third dimension). This was followed by a really, really old version that Matt ordered from Amazon... and then the George C. Scott version. And finally - I say finally because I'm pretty sure I've reached my quota - we spent the latter half of our Christmas Eve in St. Louis watching A Muppet Christmas Carol. It is far and away my favorite. Time to sleep! Merry Christmas.

Babies, etc.

Over the past month, my friends have taken it upon themselves to repopulate the planet, birthing babies all over town, filling orphanages, setting records, receiving donated 14-passenger vans from generous members of rural church congregations, and using up all of the names I've had on the secret baby name list that I began composing in grade school (#1. Nancykerigan, #2. Bill Guttenberg Pullman).

In reality, only two babies were born to only two of my friends in November and December, but that in itself is a feat -- many of us are still struggling to take care of ourselves, much less take responsibility for the health and well being a new, impressionable life. So with that I say...

Congratulations, Meg and Kael! Brody Daniel Busing is the greatest, handsomest baby I have ever had the privilege of giving a bottle to. Let's hope his keen ability to cover his eyes with his hands will serve him well later in life, when his parents embarrass him.

And congratulations, Katie and Keith! Although I have yet to meet Natalie Ann Hamlin, I can safely assume that she is beautiful, awesome and always up for a cold beer or a lively discussion surrounding the personal lives of high school classmates.

Love you all... thank you for giving me small, automatic friends for Christmas.

When it comes to breakfast, I cannot win.

I've been on a low-key hunt for an ideal breakfast food over the past few weeks - something delicious that does not require milk... something that can be eaten in the car without an excess of crumbs and can be eaten in front of others without embarrassment or shame. Something wholesome, but not excessive - containing an acceptable amount of fiber without exfoliating the inside of my mouth.

This morning, in an effort to get to work a bit early, I chose car toast... only the bread was too cool and the butterish spread was too cold, and the result was congealed and disappointing.

But onward and upward! I will not let this set the tone for my day.

I don't feel different. Do I sound different?

I guess marriage only makes you boring if you let it. To be completely honest with myself, I wasn't that exciting before, and now the only difference is that I get to float along in this tedious sea with someone else. It's noon on a Saturday, and I've already eaten the rest of my Mini Wheats, watched two episodes of Lost and trolled the internet for whatever funny videos of post-op face lift patients and Jersey Shore clips I missed during the week. So, you know, the usual.

I've also spent the last few weeks noticing things and making mental notes to blog about them, or at least mention them in conversation or write them in an e-mail (a funny e-mail, one not to be wasted on parents or business). When it comes to Matt, I've noticed that his disdain for dishwashers is far more deep-seated and sincere than was originally thought, almost to the point where I'm beginning to suspect a traumatic childhood run-in with a Maytag. When it comes to life, I've noticed that a singular source of frustration can fester and bubble until sandwiches don't taste good anymore and even e-mailed videos of kittens that wave their arms in surprise aren't as cute anymore, but this only happens if you let it. And when it comes to the bitter, bitter cold of a Midwestern winter, I've learned that Chicago made me smart, at least when it comes to layers (and time management!). Not so long ago, you might've found me wearing Umbros in a blizzard or eschewing hats as merely a decorative way to make your hair look worse than it already does. Now I won't leave the house wearing anything less than everything I own. I have a feeling this also has something to do with me slowly turning into my parents, but that's another story for another day. One that involves Bloody Marys and narcolepsy.

Time to go! More to come.

I have a sadness shield that keeps out all the sadness, and it's big enough for all of us.

If I've said this once, I've said it twice (this being the second time, or possibly third). When my days lose structure, my mind loses momentum and all of the thoughts I think collect behind my ear until they're spit out as drool and toothpaste.

I've been home since the beginning of September, adapting to the same routine I had during high school summers... only this time I'm getting married, so that sort of changes things. I wake up earliesh and eat Frosted Mini Wheats, which I used to think tasted like little baskets. But times change and tastes change and suddenly not buying the groceries means you will eat whatever is in the cabinet, from celery salt to candy canes.

Wash the Wheats down with weak coffee, peruse various Web sites (celebrity and otherwise), try to hit the gym at the exact time when the youngs leave for work and the olds are still in the middle of their morning naps. This particular gym, chosen for its proximity to my mom's house, serves as a source of mid-day entertainment for wealthy housewives who don't mind handing their children off to gym-employed strangers if it means three hours on the elliptical, and elderly people who have yet to realize that they are too fragile for leg lifts.

After that, well, sometimes I shower, sometimes I eat lunch, sometimes I write form-letter thank you notes for holiday hand towels and measuring spoons. And it's pretty much all down hill from there. Internet. Glue gun. Casserole. Law and Order rerun. Sleep. Repeat. (But to be fair, it is sort of blissful in its own way, and I will miss this unadulterated time with my mom when life becomes normal once again.)
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My youngest brother fell victim to a nasty infection behind his ear, which brought him home from the dorms and into this den of early dinners and hapless DIY endeavors. (Thank you, Paul! You made the last two weeks really fun, and you're getting better to boot!) We went to see Where the Wild Things Are on Monday night, and while it could've been 20 minutes shorter (a little less dirt clod throwing, perhaps?), I really enjoyed it. After all, muted colors, a scrappy child, giant felt monsters with celebrity voices and a twee soundtrack is a formula for guaranteed cinematic success in my book.
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It is raining.
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If you watch Mad Men, you should be reading the Slate TV Club's reflections of the previous night's episode. It will make you slap the side of your head and think of everyone and everything, from neighbor Francine to Don's pajamas, in a new way. It also makes that dreamy, tipsy feeling one gets while watching Mad Men last that much longer, and that is fine by me.
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And finally, if you live in Chicago (or can find the motivation to get there within the next few weeks), I suggest that you go see Mrs. Gruber's Ding Dong School. It's Robot vs. Dinosaur's latest show, and it runs through mid-November at the Gorilla Tango Theater in Bucktown. Full disclosure: I have one sketch in the show, but please don't let that deter you (rumor has it the show is insanely funny). I'll be there on Halloween; I'll save you a seat.

Want to know more? Read Don Hall's review here .

Where I sit...

Day in and day out, flanked by our diabetic family cat (I had originally written this as "fat" - freudian slip) as he lies on the floor and pretends to preen. The dining room has become my new office. During the day, there are jackhammers and at night just the dull, gurgly hum of a window-unit air conditioner. If I were any more motivated, I'd try for something more comfortable and less... everything I just mentioned, but ah well...

I wrote this piece the other day and found out that it was published (Web style) today. I did not come up with that title, but it works well. My essay aside, Double X is a great blog -- one I highly recommend to guys and ladies alike.

Time to move to another room! My butt is beginning to bear the imprint of the pears embroidered on this dining room chair.

This is not goodbye. It's just a long break between animal crackers.

Have you given up on me? I mean, if you did, I would completely understand. It's like that raccoon that sat on top of the telephone pole behind your house for a week and then suddenly disappeared. After a while, you just stop looking.

As it happens, I have left Chicago for the more murderous and less expensive pastures of St. Louis, before I proceed to Omaha in November. I normally leave personal details out of my blog posts, replacing them with vague references to feelings and hopes and dreams, but I feel it necessary to explain that I am leaving to get married. And I couldn't be happier... unless PBS decided to run a primetime "Today's Special" reunion episode, under which circumstances I would be happiest. Anyway, I imagine I'll write more about wedding things down the road. This, however, is a time for reflection.

I arrived in Chicago in November of 2007, fresh from a breakup (with the person I'm now marrying) and eager to test my own fortitude in a city I'd always dreamed of inhabiting. During my first few months, I turned one friend into a few acquaintances. I was cold sometimes. Drunk often. Lonely always. I survived on carrots and mustard and weekend visits from friends. And occasionally... just occasionally, I wondered what the fuck I had done.

Fast forward to Valentine's Day, 2008. I was working for a PR firm and hating love and eager to get home to my carrots and mustard when a co-worker, who up until this point had been known only to me as the one girl I think I could probably be friends with, swung by my office and made a joke in passing about spending a lonely holiday at Chili's. We glanced back and forth for a minute before we both realized the sad truth: we had nothing better to do than to make this quip a reality. At 5:30, we braved the wind and walked west on Ontario to a Chili's restaurant otherwise populated by starry-eyed tourists. We drank expensive margaritas, followed by expensive beer, chased by cheap chips and salsa, and talked about where we had been up until this point. Nothing very remarkable, but we were hopeful.

This person, by the way, is Lauren Svoboda, resident person on my list of top Chicago-related accomplishments.

When you spend Valentine's day at Chili's with a person under unexpected and somewhat sad circumstances, you sort of cement yourself to them because you share a secret that you will laugh quietly about every time it crosses your mind. And you will laugh loudly when you are together.

At this point, it was all downhill in an uphill sort of way, as I had finally made a friend that I could complain to and not feel like a burden, call and not feel like a telemarketer, cry in front of and not feel like a zoo animal. When my dad died, Lauren was the person I called to say that, for the time being, I would not be at work. And three months later, when I received walking orders from my employer, she was the person I called once I'd hauled my belongings home and taken a moment to realize the enormity of the situation.

And when I called, I found out that she had suffered the same fate. If, when I am old and a little closer to dying, I think back on my life in phases, like the time I was listlessly detached or the time I was monumentally happy, this will be the time I was poor, confused and thoroughly entertained. We spent our mornings talking about going to the library that afternoon, our afternoons at the zoo and our evenings drinking sugary pre-mixed cocktails, knowing full well that we had nothing to wake up for in the morning, except maybe lunch.

Getting laid off with someone is sort of like going to Chili's on Valentine's Day only slightly more raw. And thus the cement grows stronger.

A month later, we were back to work but not back to normal. At this point, I would mention Lauren's name in conversation with family and friends in other cities and states, as if by osmosis they knew exactly who she was, what she was like and what enormous role she had taken on in my life. To everyone outside of Chicago, she was a ghost and a super hero and a character from the short story I was writing with this portion with my daily existence.

In reality, we spent a great deal of time drinking things and eating things and watching things and talking about things that usually remained off limits to everyone else. Sometimes we would watch One Tree Hill, sip whisky and tap water and wonder where the months and days had gone since October 16, 2008, and when our novels would be published.

I'm not exactly sure what I wanted to get out of my sudden, unplanned and seemingly immature move to Chicago. I wanted to do the writing program at Second City, ride on buses and trains, carry an umbrella and learn to navigate my way through large crowds. I wanted to go to concerts (I probably made it to four) and do vaguely adventurous things. I did not expect to make really good friends, but that's perhaps the one area in which I was most successful. The number is small, but the people are good. And the very best of all is Lauren Svoboda.

So thanks, Lauren, for not only being the sole reader of my blog, but also my favorite person in Chicago and one of the greatest friends I've ever had. I'll see you in October. Save me some triscuits and please be waiting with a hug.

Beautiful

I know it’s probably odd to emerge from my no-blogging closet to praise a women’s magazine, but I felt compelled to do so. Besides, it’s dark in there, and it smells like old Keds and tennis balls.

I can’t say I stumbled upon this on my own – I don’t subscribe to any of these magazines, and when I buy them individually, I usually opt for Marie Claire because it’s the French version of my sister’s name and I get a few more pages for my buck (granted, that likely amounts to a few more perfume ads and subscription cards, but oh well). Instead, I found this by way of Jezebel, which I hit up daily, usually during lunch.

To preface, I don’t have much of a soapbox when it comes to the way women are portrayed in lady mags. Not because I don’t think it’s fucked up, but more because it seems like the dead horse has been ground into glue, and the fashion industry will always opt for the expensive, the impractical and the emaciated, when given an option. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t pleasantly surprised by Glamour’s use of a not even plus-sized, but a just plain normal model in its most recent issue.

I have these moments that occur from time to time in the locker room at the gym, when I catch someone changing out of the corner of my eye (in an accidental, non-dirty way), and I find myself breathing this silent sight of relief – because that’s how I look. That’s how my stomach looks, or that’s how my legs look, my butt, my back. And that’s exactly how I felt when I saw this picture. That immense sigh of relief.

It’s sad to think that in between those moments, I’ve somehow been convinced that I’m abnormal, slightly bigger or doughier or awkwardly shaped than everyone else. It sucks, and I have a feeling I’m not the only one. It’d be nice to go through life without that distorted sense of physical self brought on by pictorials of skinny Russian models riding tigers or whatever.

So maybe my soapbox needs to be bigger, since it’s virtually impossible not to be an unwitting victim of the images put in front of you. Regardless, kudos to Glamour for taking a look at the world through everyone else’s eyes. I hope it’s not just a glimpse.

Not bitter – just wiser.

Any real excitement in my life has ground to a halt (case in point: I just spent five minutes attempting to eat Lean Cuisine sauce with my fingers while avoiding the confused and pitiful gazes of coworkers). So when my brother, Joe, announced that he would be making a visit to Chicago this past weekend, I attempted to prepare by putting Jeopardy on mute and drinking half a sugar-free Red Bull. Joe returned from his semester abroad in Chile on Wednesday, and it just so happened that his girlfriend, Meg, would be in Chicago for the weekend. I found out a few days before said visit that it all centered around a 21st birthday celebration… one that I was told I could attend (insert same level of sauce-licking pity here). I coolly expressed indifference, spouting vague “maybe I will, maybe I won’t” excuses as I fought my fears/exhaustion and worked on convincing myself that 26 is only five years older than 21, and five years is nothing… unless you’re a five-year-old or a carton of milk.

As we meandered back from a bar near my house so Joe and Meg could drop off their belongings and touch base with friends, I spotted my roommate Kayla, already somewhat tipsy from dinner and therefore vulnerable and maybe, just maybe, open to an evening of bad decision making. I was in luck, and having found a similarly ancient companion, surrendered to the invitation. Twenty minutes later, we were out of the cab and staring into the steaming mess of drunk that was McGee’s.

It’s at this point that I slipped into observer mode, conducting myself not as a Gap-wearing fish out of water, but as a sociologist of sorts. And I stared unashamedly. At conversations that went from formalities to full-on make outs in just seconds, at girls who’d given up on trying to make their eyes focus hours ago, at Harry Potter lookalikes downing shots of shitty tequila and trying with all their might to exude machismo. When the DJ played “Back That Ass Up,” a staple of my high school years, I wondered what it meant to this crowd. Is it like the “Ice Ice Baby” of my set? Fun and danceable but always listened to with an underlying sense of irony? I never thought I’d feel so strangely possessive of anything performed by Juvenile.

I was brought back to reality when the Doogie Howser of DePaul called Kayla “ma’am,” at which point it was mutually decided that we would call it a night, while Joe and company forged ahead to a four-o’clock bar. A quick Godspeed in their direction, and we were on our way home, tired, drunk and no longer sure of our place in the circle of life.

What I do know is this: I may not be old, but the space between 21 and 26 is a chasm. In it you’ll find lessons learned, a lot of hangovers, a few harsh realities, not as many successes as you’d expect, but not as many mistakes or failures either. Something in it renders you slightly more self-conscious of your own existence, but slightly less concerned with the opinions and reactions of others. Not the girl in the leggings puking in time to a Michael Jackson medley, not the choch in the bowtie whose deck shoes are stuck to the floor, and certainly not Doogie Howser.

Please say it's Breakstone...

Right now I’m really into reading online reviews of the food I eat… while I’m eating it. Which is sort of stupid and counterintuitive, and more often than not, it dictates my own opinion. It makes sense to read a review before buying a product in the first place. But the other day, as I was about to mosey into the kitchen to heat up a Healthy Choice frozen meal, I decided to humor myself by reading the popular opinion first. The reactions I found were so strongly worded, so impassioned regarding the inedibility of this particular meal, so detailed in their disgust (I think someone compared the flavor to a Glade candle), that I threw it away and ate paper clips.

I just caught myself Googling “best cottage cheese,” hoping to God I’d find that everyone loved the cottage cheese I was already in the process of eating. Thinking somehow that just because I think it tastes like Wite-Out and sand, that someone else will think it’s amazing, causing me to reevaluate my opinion.
No such luck.

(Spoons out last bite of cottage cheese and chases it with a piece of gum.)

Everyone loves a parade (or) Pride and Screwdrivers

Living in Boystown provides ample opportunity for visits to the lakefront, feasting on noodles and getting downtown without much time or fuss. On the flipside, our neighborhood is just far enough east that sometimes it feels like we’ve broken off and drifted into Lake Michigan, an island of small dogs and Asian food. We don’t have many festivals, novel bars and restaurants or flagship stores to bring in outsiders… except for one weekend a year, when our little Northside island becomes the center of the universe.

We moved to our apartment last year in May, about a month before Pride, and my trial by fire put be in bed by 3:00 in the afternoon with a hangover that woke me up at midnight (the festival is pretty equal opportunity, in that drag queens and straight girls fresh from Nebraska can both drink themselves senseless). This year, I knew what to expect. My mom and brother had been in town earlier in the weekend for a family wedding, and it was an unspoken agreement that she would be on her way home early Sunday morning, before the parade started to roll and her soul started to wilt.

I’d promised Lauren pancakes and vodka as early-morning prep for the afternoon’s festivities. Not wanting to brave the grocery store, I stopped into Walgreens after spinning class and bought the dustiest box of pancake mix I could find. By 10:30, we were downing flapjacks and flat champagne, and by noon, we’d positioned ourselves along the parade route, just feet from my front door.

For the next three hours, we collected a wasteful assortment of beads, stickers and pins. A neighbor with a wagon and a cooler refilled our glasses, and slowly, as my skin continued to bake in an unhealthy (and later painful) fashion, the floats started to blend together. Pat Quinn, school children, a gay rugby team and some guy in a van with airbrushed kittens on the side… they could’ve all been in the back of a flatbed truck together; I’m not entirely sure.

As things began to wind down and the last float passed by, we refilled our red plastic cups and took to the parade route, mixing in with stragglers and spectators. It is at this point that my memory gets even hazier. There were high fives and Mexican food and a final pit stop at Friar Tucks, a bar that looks more or less like a Six Flags concession stand. It was here that I drank expensive beer and cut a sloppy rug on a dance floor the size of a handicapped stall. And then I went home. I bought a horrible movie that may or may not star Annette Benning. I threw up. I went to sleep. And I woke up surprisingly hangover free thanks to the aquarium’s worth of water I’d chugged hours before.

Lauren remarked yesterday that she wishes we could do this every Sunday. I’m not so sure, as I like the peace and quiet of the antique stores and noodles. But before my memory started to turn on me, some of those floats - the ones with families and parents and friends brimming with, well, pride - made me get that lump in my throat that will turn to tears if you don’t wash it down with vodka. Every day in Lakeview East is pretty beautiful, but this one in particular takes the cake.

HERB & DOROTHY Trailer from Herb & Dorothy on Vimeo.

"HERB & DOROTHY tells the extraordinary story of Herbert Vogel, a postal clerk, and Dorothy Vogel, a librarian, who managed to build one of the most important contemporary art collections in history with very modest means. In the early 1960s, when very little attention was paid to Minimalist and Conceptual Art, Herb and Dorothy Vogel quietly began purchasing the works of unknown artists. Devoting all of Herb's salary to purchase art they liked, and living on Dorothy's paycheck alone, they continued collecting artworks guided by two rules: the piece had to be affordable, and it had to be small enough to fit in their one-bedroom Manhattan apartment."

Subterranean: An olfactory journey

I work above the eastern end of what is commonly referred to as the Pedway – a series of interconnected tunnels that gives Loop workers a place to walk, eat and travel from place to place when the weather is too brutal in either direction – and gives Potbelly another place to stick a franchise (I’m not complaining). While I have little need for the Pedway most of the time, since I usually bring my lunch and am fortunate enough to have a bus stop right outside of my building, I still troll its dark corners from time to time. Often enough to know it well; sporadically enough to still find it fascinating.

Aside from housing an eclectic mix of businesses – small convenience stores, fly-by-night shops with perfume and Kate Spade knockoffs arranged artfully on folding tables; Cosi, Fresh Choice, Burrito Beach, 16 different Dunkin Donuts; the Pedway also houses an eclectic mix of aromas (odors?). I mean, you do the math: no ventilation + dozens upon dozens of places that cook, melt, spray, fry, process and perm = 40 city blocks of unrelenting nasal assault.

I can’t claim to have walked the entire Pedway, but I’ve memorized my path from Houlihan’s, where I begin my journey, all the way until I reemerge at ground level. So, moving eastward…

(Door), appetizer sampler, coffee, ink, Potbelly (burnt), concentrated sandwiches, coffee, coconut shampoo, overripe produce, Sterno Canned Heat, (door), cigarettes, (door), sweaty kids in summer/melted grape popsicles – a thick, cloying smell (which makes no sense because at this point, I’m walking past some sort of small outfit that makes video presentations for Hyatt), hair relaxer, blow dryer heat, rental cars, curry, steam, (door), cool vacuum of museum air, (door), coffee, Mexican breakfast sandwiches, florist’s foam, (escalator), sunlight.

Things to listen to, read, watch... IMHO.

Truth be told, I do have an iPod (see previous post). I guess I lied for effect, but in my defense, what I own is more like ¾ of an iPod, if that. If Apple is the parent, the iPod Shuffle is its red-headed stepchild’s MP3 player – small, screenless, pathetic, useful only if you are running and/or blind. But you work with what you have, and I recently went on a rare downloading jag, refilling the old Shuffle with new music for an upcoming bus ride home.

Yawns – Frightened Rabbit
We Own the Sky – M83
Quelqu’un m’a dit – Carla Bruni
Shove It (feat. Spank Rock) - Santigold
Re: Stacks – Bon Iver
Lisztomania – Phoenix

Frightened Rabbit makes this summer feel like last summer. Phoenix makes me recall being in Omaha, stuck in hot rush hour traffic. Listening to the French first lady sing makes me think of pastries. All of these songs come with my recommendation (and my $.99).

I just finished reading The Forever War by embedded NYT reporter Dexter Filkins, purchased in haste from the Phoenix airport and relished on a number of recent rainy days. Regardless of your stance on our involvement in Iraq, Filkins’ story takes it out of the news and into someone’s head (his own). Every single thing he sees and hears is jarring and unforgettable. I feel a heightened sense of awareness regarding this war just for having read his relatively short book. Needless to say, this is another recommendation.

For the ladies: DoubleX is a new blog from the folks that brought you Slate.

And one more - happy Thursday!

You can't trust a moai.

My brother, Joe, recently informed the world via Facebook that he lost his iPod on Easter Island. That sucks, Joe.

Really, really sucks.

I’d like to take a quick break from thanking God I don’t have an iPod to lose or a Polynesian island to lose it on to wish said brother a belated happy birthday. Now that I’ve traveled down this road of birthday wishes, I can’t exactly miss anyone for fear of exclusion from future Thanksgiving dinners. So, a month behind schedule...

Happy 21st birthday, Joe! I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you, but I trust that you underwent a traditional Chilean drunkening, shot glass in hand and tongue firmly in cheek. As soon as you make your way back stateside, we’ll celebrate in style.*

*Style = Sitting on the front steps, drinking white wine out of chipped coffee mugs and throwing rocks at wild turkeys.

Eating my words, as long as they weren't made in a facility that manufactures peanuts.

Putting aside one particular incident 22 years ago when a cap full of Mr. Bubble left my sensitive skin raw, red (and clean), I have never been allergic to anything. I am so unallergic that I’ve developed an allergy of sorts to other people’s allergies, lacking sympathy for even the most severe reactions. I’m student body president of the school of thought in which cat allergies are imaginary ailments created by haters; where mold, ragweed and pollen allergies are simply signs of weakness, often accompanying nearsightedness and above-average intelligence. All in all, I’ve always assumed allergies are nothing that can’t be solved by some good old-fashioned exposure. Eyes watering? Rub a cat on your face.

I have since changed my tune. Wednesday morning I woke up with hives that began on the back of my head and ended at my ankles. A trip to what I can only assumed was an urgent care facility and a discussion with a man I can only assume was a doctor produced little more than a verbal prescription for Benadryl and the recommendation that I go see my real doctor. The kind with a license.

By the end of the day, my feet and hands were painfully swollen, and the idea of walking to the next room, much less hauling myself to the airport as I was supposed to do the following day, seemed an undesirable alternative to sitting on the couch, watching HSN and counting my welts. I was fine by Friday, when the extreme temperatures of Phoenix burned away any remaining histamines. So now, while I am hive-free, I am also insanely paranoid because I have no clue what I am allergic to. I had a very benign day last Tuesday, typical in every sense. No weird foods; I didn’t ingest any new detergents or lather myself with any new lotions. As a result, everything is suspect. I could be allergic to English Muffins, Dell Computers, Starbucks Coffee, one of my many threadbare cardigans, Bud Light, water, oxygen, any number of TLC shows about unconventional families, sleep, public transportation… the list goes on.

And now I am left to view everything I touch, eat and wear with shifty-eyed suspicion. A trip to an allergist this morning should hopefully clear things up, and it if it turns out I’m allergic to anything but ketchup or cable television, I should be able to cope. If anything, this lesson has taught me that scratching will make it worse and that maybe, just maybe, allergies are real – within reason. But next time you accidentally step on a bee hive, Thomas J., don’t come to me for help.

You can't always get what you want.

I had never seen it, but I felt strangely akin to it. I knew enough to know that I would like it, possibly love it, and that it would bring comfort in the way 80s family rooms and Dominos pizza and two-liter bottles of Pepsi bring comfort. Call me crazy or illogically nostalgic, but about three weeks ago, I became determined to watch The Big Chill. So on Friday night, while Lauren browsed the outer aisles of Blockbuster for new releases, I hovered in Drama near the Bs. And when she protested, I reminded her that this has been my lifelong dream for the past three weeks. It was either this or nothing. Truth be told, we ended up drinking and watching Twilight, and The Big Chill was left lonely and unwatched. Until now.

It's actually playing as we speak. So far, my thoughts are as follows: No one drinks glasses of milk in the middle of the night anymore. William Hurt is tall and far more attractive than I had previously thought. Kevin Kline has slender legs. If some unspeakable tragedy brings my college friends together ten years from now, we will all get high and confess, through a series of one-on-one conversations commenced on foggy South Carolina streets and in rainy attic guestrooms, that we have all slept with each other -- and that we are wholly, deeply, achingly unsatisfied with all of it. Everything.

And then the Rolling Stones will swell and we will cry. Because of everything and nothing and the kids waiting at home.

Burying the lead.

(I actually wrote this on Memorial Day and just sort of left it without hitting "publish post")

Keeping up a blog is sort of like adopting a stray cat, in that you do it with good intentions, but if you fail to provide the cat with food, attention and the occasional pat on the head, it could turn on you, or die, or become so poorly behaved that your friends stop coming over. And at the same time, you want to do everything right because it is better to either have an impressive cat or no cat at all (impressive = the occasional trick/litter-box trained/declawed, at least in the front). A mediocre cat makes you nervous. It stares at you when you watch TV and gives you nothing but guilt and one more hassle do deal with when you want to go out of town.

A friend suggested going the narrative route -- just talking about the day to day. I guess I've been doing that to a certain extent already, but it always feel super self-indulgent to simply talk about the goings on in life like everyone should know and everyone should care.

I've been traveling on the weekends fairly frequently, sometimes to other midwestern cities, but usually to St. Louis. This past/current weekend marked a particularly important occasion for travel, since my youngest brother was graduating from high school. Add to that a friend's wedding and Paul's graduation party, and there was no excuse not to come home. My sister had flown in from Honduras the week before, and Joe was to fly in from Chile on Saturday. I came home Thursday night, Matt flew in from Omaha Friday afternoon. I'm so used to experiencing my family in little bits and pieces now, and the idea of all of us at once in one place for one weekend was daunting, and wonderful and now, for all intents and purposes, it is over. On the last day of a long weekend, everyone just mopes around and does laundry.

Today was especially dismal because it rained. Summer rain in St. Louis makes your backyard feel like a jungle and your lungs feel like ziplock bags. Everyone is physically uncomfortable, so there's no point in saying anything about it. We are all in the same sticky-limbed boat. It was planned from the beginning that we would go to the cemetery today. They just put up my dad's marker, and my mom wanted to show it to us. Due to varied post-cemetery destinations, we left in our own, small procession. The marker is unobtrusive and perfectly fitting:

In the evening of life, we shall we judged in love. - St. John of the Cross

I think this quote may be incorrectly attributed to Madeleine L'Engle a lot of the time, but oh well. Better that than, like, Dr. Seuss or Janice Dickenson.

So the day has continued to be a series of releases and temporary goodbyes. We dropped Matt off at the airport, and when we got home, I picked up where I left off on David Foster Wallace's essay, "Consider the Lobster." Mary Clare and I bought Paul a few books for graduation, which I'm trying to get selfish use out of before I leave.

(I ended this post here, probably to go eat something.)

If you have to get through something by chanting, "This is good for me" silently, weakly and with little conviction, it is probably actually bad for you. Exception to this rule: excercise, because it probably really is good for you -- unless you're running through fire or playing snake tennis. Also, taking vitamins and learning a foreign language.

Disjointed thoughts on unrelated topics

bad ideas...
Apparently I can update this blog from my phone now, but it's probably a disaster waiting to happen. If I were to travel down this thorny path, the end result would amount something like, "on bus no i will not give u money. i can CAPITALIZE on my phone? emoticon"

good literature about bad people...
For reasons unknown, I got really into Brett Easton Ellis last year. Selfish, wealthy East- and West-coasters aren't any more fascinating than fabric softener until you add an early 80s backdrop and suddenly the drugs and drinking and occasional instances of death go from tragic to decadent. Anyway, even though the movie's supposed to be kind of crappy, I'd really like to see it. If you'll refer to my last post, this may be a good chance to go it alone.

good wishes to great people...
On a completely unrelated note, congratulations to my youngest brother for deciding on a school. You made the right choice, Paul -- kudos. Also, happy birthday, Matt Kraemer. This is a bit overdue, but I think "better late than never" seems pretty appropriate at this juncture.

Cartoons and forever plans

I fancy myself to be a pretty independent person – I can shop alone, watch TV alone, eat a quiet dinner of broccoli and Easter candy alone... But the true test of this independence comes when those rituals normally reserved for a throng, a gang, a gaggle or at least the company of one other person, are engaged in alone. All winter I endeavored to see a movie alone, but with little success (no success). This wasn’t really out of fear as much as it was out of laziness. But when I saw that Maria Taylor was coming to Schubas, I saw my opportunity to go to a concert alone. It had all the right qualifications for being my baptism into solo-show-going: a smaller venue located close to home, a mellow artist that asked little of her audience, a subsequently mellow audience, no dancing (which I only oppose when alone or on crutches), beer, darkness.

These reasons, combined with the fact I’ve felt akin to Maria Taylor ever since the summer of 2007 when “Clean Getaway” became my unnecessarily dramatic and slightly self-indulgent musical mantra, prompted me to buy a ticket. I didn’t make much of an effort to drag anyone along – I was choosing to go alone, and in the month beforehand, I was proud of my bravery. “This is going to be so sweet,” I thought, licking the ketchup off my fingers and turning the pages of a three-year-old issue of InStyle. “Just me and the music.” I envisioned myself as the mysterious stranger in the corner – the one who knows all the words but only sings them inside her head; the one that ducks out into the night immediately after the encore; the one that doesn’t need the crutch of a friend to have a good time.

I thought I’d planned everything just right – I’d get there minutes before she went on, after the opening band had reassumed their spots in the audience, before the lights when down all the way. In reality, I got there nearly half an hour before the first band even started playing. I nursed a Stella and stared nervously at the Bulls game as it flashed above the bar. The looks of pity from strangers were growing in intensity, and I felt like I had a fever. Crouching behind the sound booth, I began my slow descent into begging. What started as a casual phone call to a friend in another state just to pass the time devolved into a series of regrettable text messages, each one sadder than the last. Pretty soon I was attempting, with thinly veiled casualness, to be rescued from my awkward, awkward loneliness by someone – anyone – who would come meet me… former coworkers, high school acquaintances, creepy people met in bars, 911 operators… I knew it was pathetic, but the house of cards that was my pride had already fallen, and all I wanted was someone to talk to between sets.

As I sent my last text, the lights went down, and we were all equal again. In the dark, I could’ve been there with the person standing next to me, I could’ve sold t-shirts, I could’ve been a confused person who’d wandered in looking for lottery tickets. “We’ll look back on this someday and laugh,” I told my beer. And all nervous thoughts were replaced by the lyrics I was singing in my head. And the show was great, and I survived. But next time, you’re coming with me.

SeeqPod - Playable Search

I'd give the big toe on my right foot for access to HBO on Saturday night.

Bought a sweater for his weimaraner too

I just saw that new Heineken commercial with the walk-in closets, and I dunno... maybe I don't know how to have a good time, call me crazy (or not crazy enough, as the case may be), disagree with me if you will, but I don't think I want to be friends with those people.

If my rich friend took me on a six-hour tour of her new mansion and the final leg involved a glimpse inside her 10-billion-square-foot walk-in closet, complete with a diamond-necklaces-on-pedestals centerpiece...

Oh my God, it's on right now! Bah.

...anyway, while all of my other harpy friends were screaming, I would ask my hostess why she chose to turn the 11th bedroom into a shrine to silk halter tops instead of making it something useful, like a room for watching episodes of Rescue 911, or a room for eating donuts in the dark, or a room filled with Easter grass (much like the room I actually dreamt about when I was four). And I would hope that whoever I'm married to in this commercial (wink wink, nudge nudge Bill Pullman/Paxton) would be doing the same thing simultaneously. As the ex-frat brothers he secretly hates (he joined because his dad made him, and he hates his dad too!) are bumping chests and punching walls over the sight of a giant room filled with fluorescent lights, dry ice and shelves of warm beer, he would be asking where the bathroom is and filling a jewel-encrusted suitcase (stolen from my friend's walk-in closet) with bottles of Heineken.

And then we'd run home to our dark basement studio and wonder aloud, laughing, why we were ever friends with them in the first place.

Free to a good home.

Happy almost-Easter. Here’s the story of a giant rabbit.

I opened my Tuesday by rifling through pictures of Chicago Easters gone by in the Trib and then somehow stumbled upon this picture of a giant rabbit. This man in Germany raises them and sells them to the Koreans for food. Or something. So while giant rabbits might make people in certain cultures think of nachos, they make me think of my childhood. Since my very first pet doesn’t count – her name was Peggy, and she was a cat, and we had to have her put to sleep after only two weeks – I will go ahead and claim a giant rabbit as my first official pet. Hot off of sitting shiva for Peggy, my mom and dad were patronizing the local pharmacy when they noticed a sign on the door that said something to the effect of:

Housebroken rabbit. Free to a good home.

I have this sign memorized because my mom quoted it all the time. So they decided to adopt said housebroken rabbit. His name was Jackie, but my mom thought that name was too white (rabbit) trash and changed it to the much-classier Jamie. Jamie was a Giant Newfoundland that had been abandoned by his previous owners, probably for being too mind boggling. He was the size and shape of a big Rockwellesque Thanksgiving turkey. He had black ears and a black tail and piercing red eyes that meant business. He used a litter box, and his terds looked like cocoa puffs.

Jamie was allowed to roam free – he slept under beds, sunned himself on the back porch and ate from a bowl in the kitchen. Sometimes he would sneak out the back door and hang out on the front porch until my mom let him back inside. When he felt like being an asshole, he’d chew through the washing machine hose and flood the basement. When he felt like being an even bigger asshole, he’d pee on our legs.

Jamie hated being picked up, which made taming him the unspoken goal of all of my friends. Everyone tried to hold him. Everyone was bitten, or scratched or kicked in the chest with powerful giant legs. His teeth were like Bic razors. He existed to confuse – never had anything so cuddly and cartoonish-looking been more intent on eating antiques and murdering you in your sleep.

And yet we loved him.

So much so that we refused to add to our menagerie while Jamie was alive. He spent his days ruling the roost and eating his own poo (I remember my mom informing me that it was due to a vitamin deficiency; for people, it’s Flinstones, for rabbits, it’s feces). I didn’t truly realize the limits of Jamie’s abilities until we moved to a new house with linoleum basement stairs. Jamie slowly became confined to the basement, arthritic and unable to climb such a slippery incline. We got older. Jamie got slower, more isolated and crotchety. We found more exciting ways to occupy ourselves, like eating Pop Tarts and quitting piano lessons, and eventually, we got a cat.

Once in a while, someone would ask about Jamie’s whereabouts, and we’d have to think for a second before answering. Jamie? Jamie! Yes. Good. Basement. Old.

One day, my mom and dad gathered us in the front hallway with sober looks on their faces. Jamie died, they said… We gasped, fumbled with our the drawstrings of our Umbros, wondered what was for dinner.

…a few days ago.

We thanked them for getting around to telling us and asked what was done to dispose of the body. Even though we were a little older, a rabbit of that size still seemed like it would have a corpse rather than a carcass, and we couldn’t recall any body bags passing through the front door in the last day or so.

It turns out my dad had buried him in the backyard one evening, quietly, discreetly - partly out of respect, partly because it was against the law to bury something that large in a city backyard. He led us out to a small mount of dirt near the apartment building that flanked our yard. We stood in silence for a few seconds, the cat making triumphant, youthful circles between our legs; I might’ve pretended to wipe a tear from my eye. We breathed deeply, turned toward the house and went inside for dinner.

And on the third day… just kidding.

There was a moth caught in the soapdish laminated in lye

I’m feeling the signs of a cold coming on, which is probably inevitable, as my office-mate is home sick today and several other folks in my office are fighting their own versions of the plague. One of my coworkers handed me two small syringe-looking… things – small doses of zinc meant to ward off colds. She instructed me to crack one open and dab its contents around my nostrils. So here I sit, staring out the window, stifling the itch in the back of my throat, looking like a dog that just stuck its nose in its own pee.

A recent episode of This American Life detailed stastical changes resulting from the current recession – dentists are reporting more cracked teeth (I think fights, they say teeth grinding), urologists are reporting a rise in vasectomies (I assume casual sex has replaced things like fancy dinners and trips to the mall, they say it’s because people don’t want to pay for more kids), and lastly, the National Shark Council (I made that up) reports the lowest number of shark attacks in five years. And automatically, I’m thinking – wow, what compassionate sharks. They somehow understand that with everything humans are dealing with, from layoffs to foreclosures, the last thing we need are more lost limbs. The NSC went ahead and dashed my dream of human/shark harmony by telling me its because fewer people are taking vacations.

I baked cupcakes for a coworker's birthday last night, and proceeded to make about 50 more than I needed. I ate more than my fair share, unloaded about 12 on Robot vs. Dinosaur cast members, brought 16 into work, left 10 out for my roommates to (hopefully) consume over the course of the day, and stuffed 20 or so in the freezer. Warning: If you’re coming to visit this weekend to see But These Are My Dress Clothes, and you’re staying my house, I will force-feed you cupcakes all weekend long. I will puree them and put them in your toothpaste; I will shove them in your mouth while you are sleeping and make your jaw move like you’re chewing and you will have to swallow or choke. It’s your choice. Oh, and I will wrap what’s left in your socks and put them in your duffel bag. So you have that to look forward to.

Oh, and I am excited to see you.

Have you ever ordered a veggie burrito from a Mexican restaurant and been satisfied with what you’ve received? Because I have not. And yet I continue to try and try and try again. The disappointment is always the same. The hope is always renewed. The cycle is vicious. It came to a head last weekend when Lauren and I hit up a small taqueria on Broadway. This time, the inside of my burrito looked like an overturned grade school cafeteria tray. Pees and green beans and carrots as far as the eye could see. Little peppered potato cubes and day-glo corn. I stared at it for a few minutes in disbelief, not because someone had thought to encase a bag of Jewel-brand frozen vegetable medley in a tortilla, but because I had allowed myself to be duped yet again. And then I proceeded to pick out the peas and dream about what the veggie burrito might be like at the place across the street.