High-Five

So I threw my back out this weekend. (Because I'm 80 apparently?) And since I am the opposite of having my shit together when it's ninety in my house, it's the one time I decide to forget Advil exists. Normally I down that stuff like its M&Ms if I think I might get a headache, you know, someday. I once gave Gige a dose of what I take during a (sorry boy readers - or reader - hey Nels!) special lady week and she looked at me like I was trying to help her with some sort of friendly, way-too-early, Euthanasia.

Anyway, I made my way to 7-11 to get some Ibuprofen and when I walked in my neighbors were standing there chatting with the guy who runs the place, and who you have to scream at over the radio if Guns 'N Roses comes on because he turns it up so loud the wine bottles rattle and sometimes knock the milk cartons over.

"HEY! EMILY!" he shouted. "YOU LIKE NOVEMBER RAIN?!"
"I used to!" I screamed.
"WHAT?!"
"I love it!"
One of my neighbors walked up to us at the counter and high-fived me. I think. The second I slapped her hand I realized she was probably just waving hi.
"YOUR NAME ISN'T EMILY!" she yelled.
"It is when I get free ice cream from them."
"WHAT?"
"Nope it's totally not!"
When the song ended the volume got turned down but everyone was still semi-screaming, like when you leave a concert and are walking back to your car and you can hear some guy yell clear across the parking lot, "I DON'T CARE THAT YOU PUKED A LITTLE IN MY MOUTH. WHO HASN'T?"

I paid for my Advil and flaming hot cheetos, and waved to my neighbors and the 7-11 guy - waved like a little kid, up and down, something I haven't done since I was four - because I didn't want to have the same high-five/wave mix up again, which really just made me feel even more weird than if I'd just tongue kissed everyone goodbye. Just as I was backing out into the safety of oncoming traffic the guy said, "Emily! You stand up so straight!"
"Oh, yeah I tweaked my back a tiny bit, it's fine."
"You look so tall."
"It's probably just these pants."
"No, really. You stand up like that and you get a nice man."
"Uh. . . "
"Maybe you hurt your back, but you should keep doing it."
"I don't really think. . . "
"Yup. Nice man."

Thanks 7-11. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go lift a couch without bending my knees in case Ryan Reynolds walks by.


Also, have I mentioned Gige is gonna have a baby in like two days?!?! Ok, like two weeks, but that sucker is gonna fly by. She had her baby shower a few weeks ago and sent me some photos from it, her favorite being this one I like to call - "Amy in the background, discovers there's another pitcher of Sangria, and this one IS NOT getting spilled on the white carpet."




So excited for it I answer the phone, "Are you in labor?" every time she calls, and when she says no I hang up. Because maybe if she feels offended it'll speed things up.

Some Days We Talk About Politics And The Meaning of Life, All The Others - Not So Much

People always ask me if it's hard to be so far away from my sister (ok, people don't ask me that, maybe *a* person has asked me, and it's fairly likely that person was my sister herself, but still...) and I always tell them, No. Not so much. Not because I don't love that little sucker, but because I talk to her more now than I did when we lived in the same city. We usually talk at least once a day, but today was one of the ones where we talked five - oh yeah that's right, FIVE - times. Nothing thrilling happened, there was no major catastrophe or something exciting going on in our family that we just had to talk about (even that day we found out our older sister went off and eloped - for the third time - even that day we only talked once, and I'm pretty sure the rushed wedding came as filler in between talking about the latest episode of Weeds and me making her listen to James meow).

And from the following conversations it's pretty safe to assume the two of us decided talking to each other about nothing is actually making us dumber, just like when we read Twilight. Melon-sized scoops out of the brain.

Me: Hey what's up?
Bub: MYCABLEWON'TWORKIDON'TKNOWWHATTODO!
Me: What?!
Bub: MYCABLEWON'TWORKIDON'KNOWWHATTODO!
Me: Unplug it.
Bub: I don't know where the outlet is.
Me: Unplug it from the box.
Bub: Oh.
Me: Did you do it?
Bub: Yeah. But, I just ate dinner staring at the blue screen because I didn't know how to fix it.
Me: Seriously?
Bub: When I eat dinner I'm supposed to be sitting here staring at something on tv.
Me: . . .
Bub: That's really sad. Isn't it?
Me: A little.


And then, later on. . .

Bub: What are you doing?
Me: Nothing. What are you doing?
Bub: Nothing.
Me: I'm lying.
Bub: You're doing something aren't you?
Me: James and I are playing with my magnet pen.
Bub: Oh, Jesus. . .
Me: It's so fu. . . he's so cu. . . you should see how he jumps . . .
Bub: . . .
Me: Shut up.
Bub: I didn't say anything.
Me: I hear you making fun of me.
Bub: You're playing with a magnet!
Me: You watched the error signal!


Tomorrow we talk about Michelle Obama's muscles and how to get melted peanut butter out of your favorite pajama pants - you know, the important stuff.

Bigger IS Better

Oh my gosh I've got a lot of catching up to do. I've got about eight posts started that I just haven't finished because a) I'm training for a marathon again which makes me constantly sleepy; b) I'm stupid - see a; c) There's four seasons of Felicity out there and since I have a terrible memory re-watching it is like watching a whole new show, except I do have the same distinct feeling of anxiety waiting for her hair to grow out again; and d) How exactly does one start a post about how one's mother told her she doesn't know where her underwear comes from - it just appears in her drawers looking the way one's mother's boyfriend wants them to look?

Anyway, I know no one wants to hear about James and the shower and blah, blah, blah, but he's stopped doing it. He now just sits dutifully on the toilet (lid up or down, doesn't matter, that's where he sits) (and consequently, that's where he falls into at least once a week). Except! Except today he decided to try it out again, climbed right on in and (here's where it gets good) proceed to bat at/attack the bubbles from my soapy runoff. Like he was pouncing all over the tub, so much so that I had to back away for a while so he could get a pesky bubble that was floating away from him. CUTEST DAMN THING EVER. I swear to god, my unborn children have a lot of f-ing cute to live up to.

Here's a photo from Catalina just to let you know what sort of things I'll be posting in the upcoming week. I call it, "But they got bigger too! Why shouldn't we test them out?"

I Should Just Let It Air Dry Anyway

So, I have this hair dryer that I got about ten years ago, right before I moved to Arizona. It's all duct taped together because I lent it to someone in 2001 and they broke the heck out of the plastic but I still needed to use it and it survived all this time. Until, you know this morning when I was blow drying my hair and the thing caught on fire about three inches from my head.

(I didn't have a camera with me, but this is pretty much what it looked like)


It took me a solid five seconds to realize what was happening as I kept the sucker running and just looked around me like, what the heck is that smell? Then I caught a reflection of the flames and smoke in the mirror, dropped it into the sink, and luckily had the good sense not to turn the faucet on to put out my plugged in electrical appliance.

(Again, this is exactly what it looked like)


Yesterday I literally said to it, "You're the best blow dryer ever. You'll never die." And there are two things I learned from that, a) apparently saying that is like saying, "Wow we're making great time, we haven't hit any traffic at all!" and then you get stuck on the 405 for like ninety million hours, and b) I need to start hanging out with people more if I'm talking to my appliances.

I just tried it again to see if it would catch on fire again. It did. In other news, I should not be allowed to operate heavy, or semi-delicate machinery, or maybe even babysit if I'm trying to see if things will burst into flames again.

Not Just All Night Long, But An Entire 24 Hours Of Loving

Last night just after I'd gotten off the train at the Thorndale stop (someone peed on the train so I got off a stop early to avoid it rolling toward me - I don't wanna hear it brown line riders!) a guy, and what I'm imagining was his crew, stepped in front of me and said, "Hey baby you need some hot loving tonight?" I did, but declined with a polite "No thanks" because I already knew it would never work between us - he had glittery pants. "Hot loving? I will hold you for 24 hours." Which I thought was really nice of him - to specify the amount of time. 23 hours, too little. 25 hours, forget it I'm bored already. But 24 hours of being held by someone who I just noticed also had glittery shoes, well that would be the perfect amount of holding. But again I declined because, well because he was most likely a drug dealer, b) I don't just let anyone hold me, c) the glittery pants and shoes, and d) I had the sinking feeling the crew would want to hang around.

So I walked around them and started on my way home with the crew muttering, "Damn" and "That's some shit", and then just before I was out of earshot glitter pants said, "Just the holding then?" and I turned the corner totally giggling, and totally glad I live off the red line - you just don't get propositioned like that off the other lines. You don't get that, and you don't get pee on your trains so I guess we both sort of win.

Are We There Yet?

Seriously. Where else is it ok for the police to ride around in a golf cart chasing down people high on meth and then pepper spraying half the crowd while trying to wrastle said meth guy into the cart, then the pepper sprayed crowd decides the ice cream place is more interesting and leaves to wait in line for something gigantic and covered in whip cream and caramel, only to wash it down with margaritas half an hour later.
Catalina: where stomachs go to die.

New Habits

Did I ever tell you guys about the time I went on a road trip to my grandma's wedding and on that road trip is when I discovered my mom's arms were broken? No, I didn't? Well, it's true. That's the only explanation for why she never carried her own bags, opened her own car doors, or cut her own meat. (Ok, she doesn't eat meat. But if she did she wouldn't have cut it herself I can tell you that much.) Lucky for her, she's got a boyfriend who can do all that stuff for her, otherwise she'd just be stuck in that car forever.

Upon arrival to the hotel Bub and I walked up to the doors behind our mom and then slammed into one another when she stopped suddenly at the glass doors. Once I pried my nose out of Bub's back, and she disengaged from the weird mother-daughter sandwich we had just made, we turned to look at our mom who was just sort of eying the door suspiciously, like it was some alien life form she'd never seen before. I half expected her to start sniffing it to see what it was made of.

"What's going on?" I asked. "Why aren't you opening the door?"

"Oh my god," Becky said. "She doesn't do things for herself."

"Excuse me?"

"I had to carry all her luggage in the airport."

"Why?"

"She doesn't carry things anymore."

"Shut up."

"Yeaup."

We carried on like this for a while, talking about our mother like she wasn't standing right there with her arms crossed, smiling at us, amused we were noticing her new weird habits. I don't know why exactly but somehow she's decided Eduardo being chivalrous and opening doors and stuff for her has turned into something her daughters have to do too. Suddenly my tough, jeans-only wearing, here-let-me-carry-that-you-big-baby, dirt-digging mother has turned into a pretty little princess. There's nothing wrong with guys doing nice things, I'm pro everyone doing nice things for each other, but there's opening doors and then there's turning my mom into someone who will stand at a door waiting for someone to open it for her, even though her boyfriend is halfway across the parking lot still. Like a maniac.

"Eduardo likes to do those things for me," my mom said starting to laugh (I hope) because she realized how crazy she was sounding. "Isn't that right baby!" she called, and Bub and I turned to see Eduardo still at the car, piling himself with duffel bags, and trying to figure out how to balance one on his head while he walked.

"I know that's right!" he called back.

She laughed and then he started to laugh. At least I think he was laughing, it was too hard to tell with that strap in his mouth. Bub and I just stared at her shaking our heads.

"I miss normal," I said opening the door and letting Bub in.

"No you don't," my mom said. "Normal would mean I'd have my chore list out by now."

"We're in a hotel!"

"Your point?"

"You don't get to come in this door after me. You can open it yourself," I said pulling the door shut behind me.

"That's fine," she called through the glass. "Eduardo will be here just as soon as he picks up those bags!"

And so went the trip. Becky and I got everywhere five minutes faster than my mom because we can open doors for ourselves, but she couldn't care less. And she's right. If she's so happy she's not making me use the dust buster she brought along with her to vacuum the hotel room floor, then who am I to judge. I should just let her be spoiled and live in the peace that comes with a giggly, happy mom - it's totally worth all the crazy.

Two Pitchers of Sangria

I sort of drunk dialed my mom last night. Which was weird. She didn't seem to mind and/or notice so that's good. Chances are she was a few drinks in herself and was trying to hold her shit together while I tried to hold my shit together. Technically I wasn't really drunk, I was more like very happily tipsy, but still it was enough to loosen me up so that I'm pretty sure I said:

"That Star Trek movie rocked my fucking socks off. I want all the seasons of Star Trek for my birthday asap!"

She then informed me my birthday was ten months away.

To which I replied, "You think I'm gonna stop loving it?"

Yes, she did.

"Never!"

Turns out I woke up this morning and I'm suddenly re-thinking my position on the whole Star Trek love thing. She might be right. I liked it, but I didn't like it that much. Not enough that I was willing to commit myself to it for long enough that we'd get to the point where we would have to start talking about where this was going, and whether or not we wanted to move in together. The Sangria on the other hand . . . that stuff I will love forever.

Doing It

James just ate something crawly. Apparently whatever it was is incredibly tasty because he keeps licking his lips and scanning the walls for more of them. The good thing about having a cat is I always know there's a spider in the house before it's crawling on me. He's like a guard dog for all things under three inches. So, watch out tiny, little murdering men! My cat will most likely bat you around for a while and then get bored and eat you right before he decides it's time to give my shin a good licking.

So, my grandma got married this weekend! Yay! My mom, Bub, and Eduardo all flew out to Chicago first and hung out for a night before we rented a car and drove to Battle Creek, Michigan for the ceremony and so many meals consisting of 90% cheese I might be producing milk soon.

Battle Creek is where the Kellogg plant is, and from the looks of the town that's pretty much the only thing there aside from a few heavily bearded dudes offering my sister and me pitchers of their "special brew". We took a chance and they didn't end up to be roofied so that was good. Plus we drank it and then left immediately so we figured - well, if we're drugged at least we'll be drugged alone in our hotel room, the only bad thing about that is if one of us doesn't have the strength to turn off The Hills we're definitely leaving stupider than we arrived.

The cool thing about the town though is that the air smells sweet from all the cereal making going on. Like, you walk outside and it smells like waffles and syrup, and the people smell like powdered sugar. Ok, the people don't smell like that, but you'd think some of it would sink in after a while. It makes normal air smell real boring.

The lake we had a picnic at was really pretty.


For some reason (lots of beers) I didn't end up taking many pictures (except of my mom drunk), but we had a really good time (lots of rum punch), and the ceremony was really sweet and love-filled (except for the awkward getting communion my sister and I were planning on skipping but then somehow ended up in the line and got the bread but missed the dang wine!), and my grandma seemed so, so, so happy and that's what's important! Plus she probably did it! At 83 she's doing it! I hope I'm doing it at 83. I hope we all are.

Tacky

I got a cork board yesterday to hang above my desk, and as I was checking out the seventeen year old girl scanning my stuff said, "Oh I just got one of these for my desk!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I tacked up pictures of the cast of The Wire."

"The Wire? You watch that?"

"Yeah! Omar is my favorite."

"The gay gangster?"

(long pause as she stares at me in shock) "He's gay?"

"Shouldn't you have pictures of Zac Efron up? Cause that's what's going on mine."

"He's really gay . . . wait, Zac Efron? How old are you?"

"That's not important."

"You're like twenty years older than him right?"

(**complete silence as I stare her down willing myself not to scream I AM NOT IN MY FORTIES!**)

"Omar is gay and you're too young to watch that show."

"You're too old to like Zac Efron."

"You're too sassy to be a register girl."

"We're called cashiers!"

"I'm called 29!"



I actually liked her a lot after that. She was sassy, but she was fun. And we have the same cork board, so there's that.

Getting the cork board up by myself - not so fun. Turns out it's a lot harder than it seems, and I was pretty sure it was going to take all of two minutes and then I could start tacking things with wild abandon. Not so much. I documented the process to keep from crying every time it fell.

First attempt:



The sucker swung like that for a good five minutes, knocking everything off my desk, breaking a picture frame, but apparently not fazing James in the least.

Second attempt:
It fell on my toes and I have no photo of that as I was probably cursing more than my mom at a holiday party.

Third attempt:


At least this time it fell straight down and took nothing with it except a chunk of my wall.

Finally! Many hours later, I got the thing up and had a (much needed) glass of wine to celebrate! (That glow in the corner isn't a lamp, it's God shining on my handiwork with pride.)

Disposable Razors Worked Just Fine

Walking back from the lake today I saw three (yeah - THREE) used condoms, strewn all out and about. Apparently summer is here and Chicagoans are taking advantage of the warmth and doing it. Outside.

Once at home, I settled in with a nice cup of hot tea. Just as good as doing it in the street - and by 'just as good' I mean, a stupid idea. It's 80 degrees outside! And probably hotter in what I'm now calling The Apartment That Hates Sheltering Me From Weather Or Letting Me Go A Single Night Without Hearing Mariah Carey Blasting From The Rehab Center Next Door. Anyway, tea was not my smartest move. Ice cubing my feet however, very smart. So, as I was leaning over to ice, I glanced at my arm and saw this long black hair, like way too long to be an arm hair on me, a man - yes, a monkey - sure, me when I was in sixth grade - absolutely (I had long dark hair until high school for some reason, it did not make my childhood any more pleasant I can tell you that, but it did lead to an odd period of shaving my arms, and then being grounded for several months because I refused to stop shaving my hairy monkey arms).

I freaked out for a minute until I realized I live with a cat and it had to be one of his hairs. But then I pulled at it and it didn't just come with me because it was stuck in my arm! It wasn't a cat hair, it was my hair and so I freaked out some more and followed it down to my skin, because I clearly I needed to see where this sucker was coming from. - I tried to remember if I used shaving cream when I shaved my arms, because clearly I was going to have to start it up again. I know for sure I once used shampoo and conditioner.

Anyway, I find that the thing is coming out of what looks like a mole! What?! GROSS. I deserve to be made fun of. You know who has stuff growing out of moles? Witches. And seventy year old men that smell like Old Spice. But then suddenly the mole came off in my hand and I'm like, "Oh great! Now my skin is just coming off in chunks and I am like a leper, or a G.I. Joe where you can detach things if you just manage to snap the rubber band that holds his legs on to his pelvis." But I look closer (because I'm still holding the thing for some reason) and I realize (thank god), it's not a mole . . . it's a piece of melted chocolate and one of James' hairs stuck to it! Yay! No arm shaving necessary! Freak out can stop!

However, I will be watching myself more closely when I eat because I'm pretty sure I had showered in between eating the chocolate and finding the hair thing. Unless James was eating it, in which case, I'm gonna have to find a new hiding spot.

I Took It Right Back Out Of The Trash Though - It's Really Good Tea

It turns out you can't boil water if there's no water in your pot. It also turns out I do not function very well without a nap. Apparently I'm like a very tall, very talkative three year-old.

Once I got the water in the pot I was standing near the stove reading the tea box and the fourth step in how to brew a cup of tea is "Steep for 5 minutes while contemplating your favorite internal mysteries." and I was like - well that's different. My internal mysteries. What's going on inside there. What is going on in there? Clearly my heart is beating, that's a good thing. Blood pumping, I'm pretty sure my muscles are mostly at rest, I'm a little hungry. I wonder what my pancreas is doing right now? But then I realized that seemed way too medical for a tea box, they must have meant internal mysteries like - who am I, really? On the inside. But that made me just want to throw the box in the trash because I do not need that kind of pressure from my warm drinks.

I gave the thing one last glance before chucking it and saw that it was not favorite internal, but was in fact, "contemplate you favorite eternal mysteries". Which I guess sorta makes more sense, sorta, but not enough. And I don't have any favorite eternal mysteries so I threw it away anyway for being weird.

Not Ever

I'm getting over a cold right now, and that mixing with the new spring time is making my sinuses hurt like a sonofabitch. This was my Mom's medical advice:


M: Get yourself a neti pot.
A: What?
M: A neti pot.
A: You get yourself a neti pot.
M: It works, you'll thank me.
A: What is it?
M: It a thing. . . it sort of looks like Aladdin's lantern
A: Keep talking.
M: Or sometimes it looks like a tea pot.
A: Ok, not as good but go on
M: And you put water in it with this little packet of salt. Or maybe its minerals. I'm not sure. It's a white packet of stuff with water. Mix it up, then you tilt your head to the side and pour it in one nostril-
A: What? No.
M: Then it comes out the other-
A: No, no, no.
M: Nostril. It clears everything-
A: No way.
M: Out and makes you feel-
A: No no no no no no no.
M: So much better.
A: . . .
M: . . .
A: I don't think so.
M: Trust me.
A: No, there's no way. . . I don't like it.
M: But don't forget to put the packet in other wise it hurts. It's a world of hurt. I was screaming so loud Eduardo thought I fell in the shower.
A: You have to do it in the shower?
M: It was like a sharp burning-
A: What is the packet again?
M: White stuff. Salt maybe? Like I said, I don't know.
A: Cocaine?
M: No honey.
A: Do you think that's why you didn't hurt? Because you're too high to notice?
M: No way, I saw someone doing it on TV.
A: If you saw someone jump off on a building on TV would you do that too?
M: You're ridiculous.
A: You're pouring stuff in and out of your nostrils!
M: BECAUSE IT HELPS!
A: . . .
M: Sometimes I do it even when I'm not having sinus trouble.
A: Ok. . .
M: I do.
A: I don't doubt it.



I just looked it up. And now I especially don't like it!

http://www.himalayaninstitute.org/NetiPot/NetiPotInstructions.aspx


(the woman in the video looks like a robot. or a hostage. whatever it is, she does not make the whole process seem fun that's for sure.)

Almost Mastered

I just turned in my thesis.

There was no explosion of banners swaying, or confetti falling, or brass band blowout like I had expected (in my head the band is the band from the 1962 movie The Music Man, and everyone is sort of sherbet orange-looking the way technicolor makes people in movies look like oompa loompas). The girl we're supposed to hand them in to wasn't there so I just dropped it in her box and then looked around smiling, hoping I could at least high five someone, but no one was around, and I kinda felt like when teachers used to post grades outside of their doors and you would go with your friend to check and you stand there surrounded by people running your finger down til you find your name, and then scan over to see it's not just a B, it's a B+, and you thought for sure you were going to get a D, and you turn around already mid-scream, "Chels, I got a B mother fucking plus!" and realize your friend is gone and you're screaming your grade right into the face of your professor who is waiting for you to move so he can unlock his room and get in there for office hours; and then you get all mad at your friend and say something irrational like, "Don't walk away from me when my back is turned to you", or something and she's all, "Uh, I told you I was gonna go stand by the vending machine", and then you're all, "Whatever," because you were embarrassed but you don't really want to ruin the good feelings you just had about passing so you ignore the fact she just made you look like a fool, and decide not telling her she has a leaf and part of a spider web in her hair will make things even, and you say, "I got a B+! Whoo!" and she high fives you and you're happy again.

Anyway, that's how I was feeling standing there with my thesis all turned in and no one around me. I turned back and stared at it for a moment, almost as if I was waiting for it to burst into flames. Or start to glitter. Something, anything, and then I would say, "Ah, this is it. This is what I've been waiting for. Two years of hard work, and sixty thousand dollars of debt, this thing better glow in the dark too."

After a while I realized nothing was really going to happen, so I gave my thesis a little love tap and walked down the hall. On the way out I passed by a man who was carrying a bucket of something and said, "I just turned in my thesis." Nothing. "For my master's."

Without stopping he said, "Oh well, I got a bucket of cream cheese I'm taking to the second floor."

"Well, congratulations!"

He did not like me.

At least he has a job. I just have lots of debt. Well, lots of debt and a thesis. And pretty soon I'm going to have a burger and a few pitchers of beer and that, THAT, is going to make it seem totally worth it.

He'd Be So Cute In Scrubs Too!

So I went to bed feeling a little under the weather and woke up with a sore throat and an achy feeling. I didn't think much of it until I remembered I just saw a friend of mine who saw a friend of his who has relatives who know where Mexico is and suddenly my throat started to swell up and I was sneezing all over the place. I'm not one to freak out about worldwide sickness panic, but then I also realized I had just eaten some bacon recently and I'm not an expert on how things travel, like if there's a blood brain barrier it has to cross over or something, but I didn't want to risk it. I called my mom to double check and just reassure me everything was going to be ok (which looking back on it was kinda stupid on my part considering this is a woman who would scream, "Do NOT get blood on my carpet!" at her children.)

"Hi honey."
"Hi Mom."
"Why do you sound like you've been drinking?"
"I think I have the swine flu."
"You do not have the swine flu."
"How do you know?"
"You don't even sound sick."
"You just said I sounding as if I'd been drinking."
"That's fun honey. Not sick. But you shouldn't be drinking so early."
"I'm not drinking I haven't even had breakfast. . . Do you think I should get a medical mask for James?"
"Oh no. If he's got it he's already a goner."
"Mom!"
"Is there something you wanted to talk about, I'm late for my nail appointment."
"Nope. Just my impending doom."
"Ok, bye."


After that I did what I always do when I'm unsatisfied with her motherliness and called my sister.

"Yo."
"Hey Bub. I woke up sick. I think I have the swine flu."
"I'm sick too."
"Well, don't call mom for sympathy. She's getting her nails done."
"Why would you call mom for sympathy?!"
"I know."
"And she's not getting her nails done. I'm on the other line with her."
"What?!"
"I'm on the other-"
"Oh I heard you."
"Mom for sympathy **probably shaking her head at me**, that's rich."
"Sonofabitch, she's not getting her nail done?"
"No."
"Do you think I should get a medical mask for James?"
"Come on . . . if he's got it he's already a goner."
"Did she tell you to say that!"
"No, but she did tell me to see if you sounded drunk."
"I'm not drinking. I'm sick!"
"You sound swollen."
"What? What does that even . . . who sounds swollen?"
"Uh oh. Mom got cut off and now she's calling me back. I gotta take this."
"Fine. Tell her she can just hang up with me. She doesn't need to lie."
"Ok."
"You're not going to tell her are you?"
"Not on your life."


I called a few more people and no one thinks I have the swine flu, though a few people were kind enough to suggest the Avian flu and/or SARS. (Thanks Dad and Grandma!) I think I should still get some sort of protective gear for James just in case. I mean, I know he falls into my toilet a few times a week, and he's currently pouncing around in the parts of my wall that have fallen off on the floor, but still - you can never be to careful.

Horrorscope

The other day my horoscope told me it was a good day to buy a computer.
Uh . . . what? I know horoscopes are not specific to me, that they encompass all of the Aries category (or just all of any category. Any category at all. Baseball gloves if they must.) but I usually like to pretend they only apply to me - as if some psychic is out there channeling what my day is going to be like and then sending me an email every day to let me know I should be grateful for someone close to me, or try to take things easy, or be brave with my new venture. (And I am. I'm always brave with my new ventures. The other day I got my burger cooked medium instead of medium-well and I was brave about it. It turned out awesome.) And I'm actually really happy with these vague descriptions because I can morph them into my life and a part of me starts thinking the thing is actually, totally talking to me. Directly.

But it has it's downside too because if I read my horoscope in the morning and it says something like, "Things won't go your way today", I get totally devastated. I'm not really sure I was going to leave the house at all, so how could things not go my way, but somehow I'm sure I'll be devastated nonetheless and it ruins my morning.

But. . . But! If the horoscope is gonna get all specific on me, and out of the blue say something like, "You should buy a computer today", then I Have No Idea What To Do With Myself! I can't trust that. That can't be morphed into anything resembling my life! Clearly I'm not going to go out and buy a computer, and I can't even pretend computer meant ice cream Snickers bar (though if it did it would have been dead on). So now my faith in those suckers are completely gone until they start getting vague again. So vague it could possibly even apply to my cat if I want it to.

In other news my walls are melting off due to an insane amount of water damage.

When I mentioned it to my manager she just sighed and said, "I know. I'm sorry," and walked away. As if her horoscope had said, Someone will tell you their apartment is falling apart today - there's nothing you can do about it so relax and take some time for yourself. A bubblebath maybe.

Mystery Bulb

This weekend I went to a party at my friend's house where we were all supposed to dress like we were in Jr. High. Since I couldn't find my head gear or suddenly contract a crippling case of acne and self-consciousness about being two feet taller than all my teachers, not to mention the boys (my jr high boyfriend once stood on a chair to dance with me at our spring fling - very hot), I ended up wearing a jean vest with capped sleeves and a DARE button. The weird part was when I was traveling to my friend's house, no one seemed to notice the vest. Like not even a second glance, and I was prepared to start defending myself all over the place, but it was as if the denim vest was perfectly normal outer wear. I think this means I can wear it again, like for real.

My other favorites were one of my friends had actual pumps - those shoes with the little basketball on them that you squeeze and it fills some sort of air chamber with power. She'd be in the kitchen mixing drinks and stop suddenly to say, "Wait. I need to pump up."
Then my two other friends who showed up as goth (I miss that look) and a dude with a tight necklace, and a visor. It was awesome, especially because I don't think guys can get away with necklaces anymore unless they're Italian. Or Gabi's boyfriend.

When I went to make my final drink of the evening I started pouring and all of a sudden a lightbulb popped up along with my ice cubes. The cup had never left my hand so it's not like someone could have dropped it in there as a joke, and I looked around shocked, as if it had fallen from the ceiling, or like maybe I had just won something. But it hadn't fallen, and I didn't seem to be getting any sort of prize so I did the next logical thing and checked the 2 liter Sprite bottle. There wasn't anything lightbulb-like in there, and I tried fitting the thing back into the bottle to see if it could have even squeezed out of there but it couldn't. I found goth and necklace guy on the balcony and after just a few moments of thinking about it, it was decided that the surprise lightbulb fell out of the ice dispenser on the refrigerator. Sure enough, that's what it was. Thank god for them, because I was certainly never going to figure that out. I would have gone through a whole weird leprechaun scenario before I got to something logical like it coming from the fridge.

And that's probably why I never made it on the debate team in Jr. High - because "Maybe it was magic?" just doesn't hold up when you're trying to win an argument, no matter how tall or awkward you are.

I'm Taking The Stairs From Now On

I got stuck in my elevator last night with a guy who was delivering food to someone in the building. At the first slight shifting of the little cabin we were in, I reassured the delivery guy this always happens and he shouldn't worry about it, we'll be fine. He nodded and occupied himself by reading the writing carved into the elevator door, whispering the words to himself as he scanned down, "Dear Coont?"

"Oh," I said correcting him. "It's cunt. Dear cunt face."

"Dear cunt face," he continued. "Fuck you." I nodded and shrugged like, What are you gonna do? Elevators, am I right! But before he could laugh along with me the elevator started shaking and knocking back and forth. We weren't just stuck, we were stuck and now the elevator felt like it was having a seizure. I reassured him again that this was totally normal, there's no need to panic, it does this all the time. But he was getting sweaty and I was getting nervous and the thing would not stop rattling it's ass off, and after about a solid minute the dude hunched into a little ball in the corner and covered his head with his hands.

"I don't know if that's really going to help anything," I said. He ignored me and just stayed hunched, and after a moment, so as not to feel rude, I crouched in the other corner next to him. The shaking stopped and after a few minutes he decided it was safe to take his arms down from around his head and look around - Yep, still in the elevator. He told me we could always eat the food he was supposed to be delivering if we were in here for too long and then before I could answer, he proceeded to rip open the plastic bag and devour an entire egg roll in a single bite.

"Yeah, I don't think we're gonna be in here that long. . ." I started, but he was digging into the fried rice with such wild abandon that suddenly I started to get nervous. What if we were trapped in here for a long time? This guy was eating all of our rations! How was I supposed to survive? "Slow down," I said. "Maybe you should save some." He stopped and looked down at the food.

"But it'll get cold."

The man had a point.

Plus, if I didn't start eating, he was going to eat it all and then later I'd be forced to eat him because I'd be more hungry than him, and he'll be all plump and full of won tons, and I'd be tearing into human flesh for my own survival and peeing in the corner and none of that sounded fun at all so I grabbed a container and started eating the chow mein with my fingers, and he nodded at me like, this is how we're gonna make it.

That's when the rattling started up again and he began wildly shoveling rice into his mouth as if it would pad the blow when we hit eight floors of cement below us. But we weren't plummeting. The rattling this time was just the doors being pried open by my landlord and her husband who stood there staring at the two of us, hunched together in a corner, our mouths full of Chinese food, and our fingers covered in soy sauce.

"We were trapped in here for a while and got hungry," I tried to explain.

"You were in there for five minutes."

"Well, he freaked me out," I said standing up and made my way out of the elevator. "It felt longer."

The delivery guy got up and stepped out of the elevator. We both stood there awkwardly as if we should hug goodbye or something. Instead he just handed me the menu and walked away. I almost yelled out, "I'll always remember you!" but I didn't because my landlord was still standing there (judging me). And because I'm pretty sure I'll get stuck again, and if I'm lucky maybe the next guy will have pizza.

You Know How I Know I've Been Watching Too Much Alias?

Not because I've seen the first three seasons in the past week (that thesis is coming along swimmingly, thanks), but because I've been waking up every night at 4am and momentarily questioning James's identity. I freak out and gasp when I see him sitting on top of me, convinced he's a spy in a very good disguise, until I wake up a little and realize he really is a cat, a cat with claws in my stomach, and then I spend a moment whispering my thoughts to him about how I can probably make it to the bathroom without being in the cross hairs of some sniper rifles if I just duck and roll through the hallway past the open windows. I'm usually too sleepy to roll, so I just shuffle really fast and hope they're thrown off by the state of my hair to actually fire on time.
"I've got a shot, I'll take it on thre-what the crap is on her head?"

I know Lent is over this weekend, but I didn't give anything up, so I'm extending it this year and giving up Alias for a month, quick before I start demanding an eye scan on my friends to prove they are who they say they are. I thought about asking them personal details like, "What did we do on Monday?" Ate and drank. "Oh yeah. Well, what did we do on Friday?" Ate and drank. "You're good. You're real good." - but clearly that won't work, so no Alias it is. No more for a month.

After I finish just this one more episode.

Cookie Time (*sung to the tune of the song 'cookie time' from the 1989 hit Troop Beverly Hills)

I had a birthday recently - a birthday in which both my parents asked me how old I was going to be.
Uh. . . you birthed me. You made me (thanks again for getting that vasectomy reversed Dad!) and then I was born 7 months later, you of all people should remember how old I am! Then they both went into some weird laughing thing and my mom said:
"Oh honey, you expect me to remember something from thirty years ago? I can't even remember what I had for breakfast."
"Twenty-nine! You can't remember something from twenty-nine years ago you mean."
"I'll love you no matter how old you are."

Like that makes it better. She's always giving me love. How about some money? Or some Girl Scout cookies? I told Bub that all I wanted for my birthday was some Girl Scout cookies shipped out to me because for some reason I cannot find a Girl Scout here to save my life. I've even internetted where they would be selling them, but then snow storms hit and apparently it's not "safe" to set up a booth in such "dangerous" weather. Can't they get a badge for selling in the elements?

Anyway, Bub's response to my birthday request was, "Why don't you get your own?"

Oh. Well, happy birthday to you too.

"Didn't you just ask what I wanted?"
"I'm not getting you that. Go to the store and find some little girls in green."
"DON'T YOU THINK I'VE TRIED THAT?"
"Whatever. Mom and I are going to the movies, think about what you want and call me later."
"Fine, have fun. I'll talk to you la-"
"I love you."
"Aw, I love you t-"
*click*
"-oo."

She hardly ever says I love you first. Not because she doesn't, but because I'm much more of the gooey sister. Sometimes I'll say it if I know she's at work because she'll always say it back, but doesn't like to have anyone hear her so she'll just sort of mumble it really fast then remind me later not to make her display affection when other people are around.

So, I didn't get any Girl Scout cookies, and I still haven't caught up with those elusive little suckers, but when I do I'm gonna buy every box they have, I'm gonna tell them they deserve extra patches for being so wonderful, and then I'm going to ship a box to my mom and my sister, but not until I've taken the biggest, fattest sharpie I can find and written, in really big letters all over the box, I LOVE YOU TOO.

A Lady Cop Friend Told Me If I Blogged Again She'd Have Anyone I Wanted Arrested. The List Is Shorter Than I Thought.

James has decided my chair is now his chair, and my food is now his food. He has been sitting in my favorite chair the past few days. A chair I had been trying to teach him the wonders of for the previous eight months, but he would have none of it! Not when there's a cupboard under the sink to be sleeping in! But now . . . now, that it's cold (Again. Cold again. We'd been having a really nice warm spell [the high 40s people!] and then Sunday I woke up and the land was covered with snow. Before I was could register what I was looking at my brain was like, "Oh shit. Someone moved the island, we're back in time to Christmas." But then I looked around and realized that lump under my covers wasn't Richard Alpert, it was my printer and some buckets of pencils I'd stashed there in the middle of the night because James wouldn't stop playing with them and the only way to make him think they've disappeared is to cover them with a blanket.)

Anyway, it's cold out and he discovered the chair is poised perfectly close to the heater so he won't let me sit in it. Screw the cupboard, he's got cushions instead of plastic bags to lay on now.

And it doesn't stop at the chair. My food is now his. He stole the chicken breast I made for dinner the other night, stole it right from under my nose! He practically shouted, "Look over there!" picked it up in his mouth and trotted off with it so he could eat it in his cozy new chair! He's cute, and I burned the chicken so it's ok. For now.

In other news, 7-11 has gotten mighty used to me showing up at all hours of the night demanding to know where the coffee filters are, and if they have and drano (for the morning) in a very flattering combo of over sized men's flannel pj bottoms (Thanks to Gige having a if-we-go-to-Target-we-buy-half-the-store rule. Best rule ever. Aside from if-I-give-you-a-look-don't-ask-me-what-I'm-trying-to-say-to-you-
with-my-eyes-just-assume-I'm-talking-about-whomever-we're-sitting-with-and-I'll-
tell-you-later-about-how-I'm-pretty-sure-I-just-saw-her-nipple rule), a t-shirt I stole from my brother that has Luc Robatille on it, a paint-splattered hoodie from 1998, and Uggs. I know they're getting used to it because when I showed up this morning to buy a bottle of wine I expected a "It's 9am, why are you buying wine?" but instead I got:
"Oh my gosh, Emily?"
"Yes?" they all think my name is Emily no matter how many times they check my id or I say, You know, it's actually Amy.
"Emily, you look so . . . nice? Wow. Look at your hair, see Roger, I told you she's not balding."
"All I did was take a shower and put on some mascara guys."
"Well let me tell you something Emily, you do that more ok? You do that, I'll see if my son will go out with you."

That's nice. His sixteen year old son.

I slunk home slightly depressed. Not because the 7-11 guys think I can only get a sixteen year old, but because when I was laughing about it in my head thinking about how I would tell them I can't date him I'm like fiv. . . no ten . . . no . . . oh god. I'm old enough to be his mother. His very young, High School dropout, we like to hang out at the same bars mom - but still. Old enough to be his mom.

From now on, I'm shopping at CVS in the middle of the night. They never offer me dates there.

Walking Home Past The Rehab Center...

I am frequently talked to, or more appropriately talked at. I sometimes talk back, but they don't really listen or care, and actually get a little freaked out when I say, "I'm just fine, how are you?" There's some stuttering and looking at me questioningly like - listen lady, our job is to shout out the crazy, yours is just to give me a dollar and keep walking.

Last night after coming home from some $2 burgers (with bw and tb and popcorn while you wait! yeah that's right. . . popcorn! while you wait!) I was walking past my favorite rehab center when these two people started a conversation that I'm used to, until it took an unexpected turn I'm definitely not used to.

"Do you see that girl?"
"Yeah, she's..."
"She's tall!"
"Yeah, she's..."
"She's basketball player tall!"
"Yeah!"
"You don't usually see girls that tall."
"No, well not like her. She's..."
"She's really tall for a white girl."
"I didn't know they made white girls like that."
"Hmmm...tall white girls. That's something."
"Maybe she's not white."
"Huh?"
"Maybe she's not really white."
"But we were just looking at her. I think she's white."
"You sure?"
"Well, now I don't know. Maybe she's not white."
"Maybe she's black."
"A tall black girl...that makes more sense."
"She's probably black."
"Now that you mention it..."
"Right?"
"That wasn't a tall white girl, I think that was a tall black girl."
"What girl?"


So, there's that. All this time I could be a tall black girl.

I love where I live.

Inaugurating

It's really softly sunny out, like a nice warm glow of orange . . . and for fun it's also snowing. But really pretty snowing, like big flakes, taking their time, checking things out, looking in my window before they land. (Yes, snowflakes, I have clothes on , move along.) Anyway, this weather combo is making me feel a little sentimental and gooey inside, well that and the fact that today is new president day! I actually had a dream last night that my sister called me up this morning and said, "I'm gonna inaugurate. I'm gonna inaugurate my ass off!" Not sure what she meant, but we were both excited about it, and then she turned into a turtle and waddled away.

So, I'm feeling all happy, watching the snow and sun mixture, kinda wishing my sister was a cute little turtle (not you Bub), when I go to take a shower and discover that not only is there no hot water, but there's actually no water. No water at all. Which is fine because I don't like washing my hands after I go to the bathroom anyway.

When I called my landlady to tell her about it she just sighed and said, "Did you turn it on?"
Uh, what now? Yes I turned it on that's how I knew I didn't have any.
"Oh yeah," she sighed again. "We don't have any water either. My husband will fix it."
You don't have any water either but you just asked me if I had actually turned it on?
"Ok, we'll fix it. Make sure you pull the knob out all the way to turn it on."
Does she think I usually just walk in there and look at my shower head, eyeing it into turning on? Is that how hers works, because if so, I might want that.

Get To My Crib And Do That Night Thang

I can't remember exactly what we were talking about, it was probably about what we should do for dinner, but while we were visiting Gige in Fresno, Bub, Gabi and I started a conversation that I (unintentionally) ended abruptly when I said:

"Well, that's ok because I'm in love with a stripper." **insert record scratching noise and both girls stopping to stare me down here**
"What the hell are you talking about?" Gabi said flipping the page of the magazine she was reading without looking at the page. (this is for a different blog, but I love, LOVE, that sometimes when Gabi says she's got to 'catch up on her reading' she means US Weekly and InTouch with Jennifer Aniston on the cover)
"I'm in love with a stripper," I repeated a little more sing song-y.
"No, no," she interrupted. "We heard you. What the hell are you talking about?"
"Oh lord," Bub groaned. "Do you have some secret stripper lover we don't know about? Is it that guy from Gige's bachelorette party?"
"I wish."
"Gige's bachelorette party was like six years ago," Gabi said dismissing Bub's question. "If she was still sleeping with that guy we would know."
"Still?!"
"I never slept with that stripper!"
"Which stripper did you sleep with?!" Bub yelled.
"None of them! I've never slept with a stripper," I said yelled back.
"You're just in love with one?" Gabi asked. "Wait is this a joke? By stripper did you mean me, because you found those pictures on your own, I never meant for you to see them!"
"First . . . ew," I said pointing. "And no, I didn't mean you."
"I would like to see those," Bub said. "So I can follow along with the conversation!"
"I'm in love with a stripper," I sang again. "It's a song."
Blank stares.
"It's a hip hop song," I prompted.
More stares.
"How in the world can I know this song and you guys don't?"
"What because I like strippers?" Gabi asked.
"No, because all you listen to is hip hop!"
"That's not true!" she protested.
"Yeah," Bub said coming to her defense. "She also listens to bad country music."
"Yeah. . . hey!"
"It's a song, and I can't believe I know it and we just spent like ten minutes of weird on it."
"I can't believe I spent ten minutes of weird on you."
"What?"
"Yeah you heard me!"
And then it was decided we all needed to get some dinner because clearly clarity had left the room.

And it is a song:

Oh 1984, How I Miss You!

So, it’s currently -7 and the expected high of today is -1. Yeah you didn’t read that wrong, that’s not the ‘low of negative one if you piss god off’, no no no. . . that’s a high of -1. If you’re lucky it’ll be negative one. Otherwise you’re looking at temps so low your snot will freeze, and you can forget about hard nipples cause those suckers are freezing up for a second and then just falling right off when your shirt brushes up against them. Weather so cold it turns you into Barbie.

Anyway, I was telling various members of my family (yes Gige, you’re included in that) about the slight dip in weather and all of them. . . all of them. . . responded with, “Oh well it’s like 80 degrees here! It’s so gorgeous, I might get a head start on my base tan.” Not a single one of them thought, “Hey, maybe rubbing in Amy’s face that it’s tropically warm would be wrong right now. I mean, after she gets home from walking to the store it takes a good ten minutes before she can feel her legs again, that can’t be good. I’m gonna hold off on mentioning that I’m running barefoot through a warm summer meadow, the cool grass under my toes, bright sun rays warming my barely clothed body while Jake Gyllenhall runs along side me confessing he loves me, not Reese, but me, and that Tina Fey called and she wants to be my best friend.”

But that’s ok. I’m not upset they keep reminding me it’s beach weather where they are, because I would probably do the same thing. I mean, when that call from Antarctica comes in today I will definitely be dropping into the conversation that we’re having a high of -1, and then will sit back and wait for the groan of jealousy to wash over them.

Plus I have this little piece of magic to keep me happy. This picture brings me so much joy it’s ridiculous. Everyone in my family will probably disown me for posting it, but I’m willing take that chance. It’s the worst family photo we’ve ever taken and it is the only record we have that my mom dyed her hair brown that one year, or that my dad had hair at all. (Normally she’s blond and he’s bald. Becky, on the other hand. . . she still gets frowny like that.) Anyway, enjoy!

He's Just Putting Up A Front, He Loves That Show Just As Much As I Do

So, I arrived back in Chicago on Monday to dry streets, and weather warmer than Fresno. (By the way, the new thing in Fresno is to make your friends watch movies where old men are touching 13 year old girls. Yes, I said movies. Plural. We're gonna be talking about that by the way Gige.) There was not a drop of snow anywhere and apparently the weather had been fairly nice since I left. But as a little welcome back present Chicago snowed it's ass off that first night I was home and has not stopped. Thanks winter!
So, now I'm back to my old routine - wearing lots of layers of men's pajamas, and talking out loud to no one about how wonderful Jack Bauer is. Ok, so he tortures people, but he's saving lives dang it! Children's lives! James just rolled his eyes at me and trotted off to call his friends in the next room to talk about me.

It's Just A Matter Of Time

I'm this close to talking my boss into paying me to go home and bake. THIS CLOSE PEOPLE! She complained when I didn't bring anything in this mornings and I casually mentioned that was because after working 11 hours yesterday I was too exhausted to do anything and crawled into bed at 7, with my arms wrapped tightly around a wine bottle and my little sister softly singing Beyonce in my ear. (Ok, I crawled into bed but then I got back out to have dinner with friends but still! 11 hours is too long!) Anyway, she said she'd think about it, then handed me a mountain of files and shut the door on me. You don't know her, but I do. And that's as positive as it gets.

Meanwhile, I got all settled in working hard at my desk (looking up recipes online), organizing, and just generally being important (eating my mom's cereal), when my boss calls me and tells me she wants to discuss the project I'm working on (Crap, what was I supposed to be working on?) and that I should follow her so we could walk and talk. I was thrilled because it's totally glorious outside, it's warm and sunny, and colorful, and I was pretty sure I could turn our walk-and-talk into a quick jaunt along the beach and some lunch on the Pier, the waves crashing nearby, the sun increasing my chances of getting melanoma again, maybe some volleyball players would ask me to join because I look the part, and once I get going they'll realize what a fatal mistake they've made but it'll be too late because I'll already be in the rotation, stripped of my pants and just wearing a tank top and Bubby's underwear (Bub, I borrowed your underwear!), wildly waving my arms toward the ball and hoping it'll hit in a direction, any direction, and my boss will be on the sidelines cheering me on, and soon the team will decide they didn't make a fatal mistake because at least I give it some effort and this makes them happy with me, plus they love that my boss is my grandma and that she's blind and is cheering in the wrong direction, but at least she's giving it some effort too, and then we'll say goodbye to the volleyballers, we've got some serious accounting to do, and we'll grab some ice cream cones, and let them melt as we eat and talk, and finally after a few hours, get back to the office and she'll give everyone the day off to enjoy what we just enjoyed and I'll make my way back to the beach, this time in a proper bathing suit, and will take a long nap in the sand.

Unfortunately, that's not what she had in mind. No, instead of walking outside like I had presumed, she meant walk her to the bathroom. On all kinds of levels - not the same thing. So, we walked to the bathroom and talked about the project I was supposed to be doing, because that's my job. To talk about work through a stall door. On our walk back to the office I mentioned it was beautiful outside, and that the tupperware I bring stuff in is still empty but she didn't exactly bite. She just put on a bigger coat and told me to go buy some ding dongs.

I think I'm wearing her down.

What Christmas Is Like At My House

Although Christmas is not my favorite holiday, it's a ton of fun to watch my brother get all excited and happy. He even just hears talk of presents and his smile turns into a double smile because he gets these extra creases in his face when he's really excited about something. And he doesn't know how to fake it, so when he's smiling it's for real. On the other hand, when he's chasing Bub around the house trying to bite her, he's not faking that either.

Anyway, it was just a typical Christmas. Michael woke up and the second he was given the ok proceeded to rip through his presents, then rip through everyone else's in a matter of seconds so that we were left to struggle through the wreckage and try to sort out what was what.

Amy-"I think I found one for you, oh wait, that's just a box of tissues."
Mom-"This is yours I think."
Bub-"Who got toothbrushes?"
Amy-"We both did."
Bub-"What? Who would give us toothbrushes."
Mom-"Me."
Bub-"Oh . . . thanks?"
Mom-"You're welcome. Oh did you girls get me this bottle of wine? Thank you! I love this wine!"
Bub-"No, I think that was Eduardo's."
Amy-"No, we got Eduardo this one."
Mom-"Well then whose wine is this?"
Amy-"You just pulled that off the wine rack Mom."
Mom-"Oh ha ha ha, you're right. This was already mine. Well maybe we should have some?"
Bub-"It's 9am. Hey, I think Michael is trying to put on my new pink sweater."
Ed-"Who cares if it's 9am, lets take Tequila shots, I just got this Tequila from Panama I want you guys to try."
Mom-"I'm just going to have a glass of this."
Ed-"I'll get some shot glasses."
Bub-"Does anyone care that it's 9am?"
Amy-"I can't get my Reese's peanut butter cup open!"
Mom-"I think this camera is for you sweetie."
Amy-"It's been stepped on."
Mom-"Well don't look at me, I think it was your sister."
Ed-"Here you go, shot for you, and shot for you."
Amy-"Bub!"
Bub-"I did not step on it. And Mom, you said you were getting me a camera."
Mom-"Oh that's right. Amy give that back to your sister."
Amy-"So I get toothbrushes?"
Mom-"And reese's."
Ed-"Who wants to make the toast?"
Bub-"This is gonna be a long day."
Ed-"That's not a good toast."
Amy-"Mom, you just dribbled wine all over Michael's new sweater."
Bub-"That's my new sweater!"
Mom-"Oh it'll wash out."
Amy-"Toast!"
Bub-"Merry Christmas then?"
Mom-"Merry Christmas family! Oops, I'm all out of wine."
Ed-"I'll get you some more baby."
Amy-"Merry Christmas!"
Bub-"Merry gah-blah@#$! That is some strong tequila!"
Ed-"I know that's right!"
Mom-"Merry Christmas!"
Everyone-"Merry Christmas!"
(moment of quiet while we look around at the mess we're standing in.)
Amy-"Hey, where's Michael?"
Mom-"Oh he's right. . . "
Bub-"Uh oh."
Mom-"Shoot, he's so sneaky."
Bub-"Oh no, she's giggling already."
Ed-"I'll check the neighbors."
Amy-"The neighbors?"
Ed-"He likes to go up there and lay on their couch with his pants off."
Amy-"Of course he does."
Bub-"Merry Christmas to them!"


And that was all before breakfast. As it turned out the tequila shot was not that bad of an idea. The bloody mary's and beer that followed, that we may need to rethink for next year.

I Never Really Liked Being Able To Feel My Toes Anyway

So I woke up this morning and couldn't see out my windows. This is not that odd, since it's so cold out it usually fogs up the windows when the heat comes on. So I start the coffee, put some pants on, and go to wipe the window so I can see what sort of day God brought the good people of Chicago when suddenly we've got a problem. I can't wipe down my windows. I can't wipe down my windows because it's not fog, the suckers are iced over ON THE INSIDE.

Well that's weird, I think and go to check the temperature on what has now become my home page, weather.com. Ok, apparently the coffee hasn't kicked in yet because that just looked like it said -5, feels like -30. That can't be right. What the hell is -30? That's like baby killing weather.

But it was. I waited until it warmed up to -3 feels like -29 before going to the grocery store because I needed toilet paper (and alcohol. for warmth), but for a second I thought, "I can do without wine and I do have coffee filters I could use as..." but then I suited up and went out. Because, coffee filters . . . really? This isn't college.

Why I Love My Grad Program #75

Because my novel workshop professor sent me this, due to a discussion we had in class that got a little off topic. (And she wonders why I haven't finished yet.)

Birthday Season

My mom called the other day to remind me that my brother's birthday was coming up. My brother who happens to be a twin with my sister, which usually denotes a shared birthday.

"Oh good," I said. "Are we giving up on Becky? Finally. I always wanted to be the only girl."
"Well, that would be a disappointment," she said.
Hmmmm.
"Because I like having lots of girls," she continued, obviously trying to cover.
"You only have two."
"That's lots when it's you two, trust me."

I left it at that and moved on to ask why she was only talking about Michael's birthday and not Becky's to which she replied, "Oh it's just too long to say both their names." And then she hung up on me without saying goodbye because that would be sucking up her talking space as well.


Speaking of birthdays, it's CJP's birthday today and she's the best neighbor ever! And now that I have new neighbors who play Kanye West NON STOP, I have an even deeper appreciation for someone who will come let me into my own house at 2am because I can't find my own keys even though they're in my pocket. Happy Birthday lady!

16 Degrees, Feels Like 3

The whole reason I run the minute I wake up is because I won't do it if I'm thinking about it. If I waited til the afternoon I would just talk myself out of it because clearly, CLEARLY, that UK Office Christmas special isn't going to watch itself. For the sixth time.

So I get up and go, waking up about halfway through when I reach the Vietnamese part of town and I kind of look around going, "What in the . . . where the hell am I? Why am I dressed like this?" But then I finish and don't feel as guilty eating Cold Stone for the fourth night in a row.

But now that the weather has gotten winter-y, running while sleeping, is a little more dangerous than usual. I had the sense to check the weather before I went out this morning because I couldn't see out my windows due to sheets of ice that had formed on them. 16 feels like 3? Sure, lets do this! So, I left and ran, and it really wasn't too bad except for the part where there's black ice everywhere and every other block I went slipping from side to side, varying between looking like I was trying to straddle the sidewalk, or work on my splits. It was kind of like doing yoga and running at the same time. Two workouts in one!

As much fun as that was I think I'm going to have to start doing my Jazzercise videos in the comfort of my living room soon. Either that, or turn on some Eurotrip and try to figure out which blanket is the warmest.

You Like What You See Mr. Salinger? How 'Bout You Ann Patchett, You Wanna Get With This?

Last night I caught James exposing himself to my bookshelf. Personally, I like to expose myself to the refrigerator, or my neighbors, but whatever, we all have our things.

Pretty Much. . .

...Thanksgiving is awesome. All day eating and sitting and telling everyone how much you love them. It just turns into a really love-y time whether you mean it to or not. It's like being happily drunk where you just run around the bar telling strangers you're so glad you met them because they're really beautiful people (you can tell because you can see their souls through their eyes). It's like that. Sort of. Just without the drunken making out and 3am burrito run.

I spent all day on the couch by the fire, reading with my cousins, and chatting a bit about their schooling until I put a ban on that kind of talk when I was reminded once again even the 12 year old is way smarter than me. (Fluent in French? Well that's just great. At 12 I was fluent in Full House, so that's kinda the same.)

When it came time to eat dinner my Aunt and I sat together at one end of the table and pretty much shoveled the food in with both hands, pausing only when our plates were clean. When we looked up from out empty plates the entire rest of the table was staring at us in shock, their mouths wide open, my eldest cousin shaking her head at us. My Uncle cleared his throat, "Mind if we say grace so the rest of us can start eating?" Mind? Heck no, we didn't mind. That would give us time to let the food settle before we went in for seconds.



I hope everyone else had a really great Thanksgiving! And I'm still sort of in the holiday afterglow so if you want me to shower you with compliments and love just give me a call, I'll be doling it out til the leftover turkey runs out. Well, that or until I realize I've had The Starter Wife marathon on half the day - that cannot be good for me.

Down To One

I kept putting it off and putting it off and then today, while I was reading Twilight in the twilight (stop judging me), all the light went out and I was in the dark. I had some warning, a few seconds anyway, to know it was coming. A gentle pop and fizz, like an old fashioned picture being taken with gun powder, and then black. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled to the bathroom where I knew the light bulb was still in working order. I felt around for awhile until I found the light fixture and took the working light bulb with me to the living room. So, now I’m walking around from room to room unscrewing, and screwing a single light bulb so I can have light wherever I go. It’s not so bad except when you’re sitting in the living room and decide you need some crackers so you unscrew, screw, go to the kitchen, then get settled back onto the couch, unscrew, screw, when you realize the crackers you got were the stale ones you never threw out just left next to the box of new ones even though you said, If I leave these here I’m gonna forget which ones are new and which ones are stale, and then promptly closed the cupboard on them, so you get back up, unscrew, screw, get the new crackers, unscrew, screw, decide you really want some cheese with them, unscrew, screw, decide you have to go to the bathroom, unscrew, screw, go back to the living room, unscrew, screw, realize you left the crackers in the kitchen, unscrew, screw, nope you left them in the bathroom, gross, unscrew, screw, living room, unscrew, screw, realize you got these crackers from the stale box again instead of the new box, unscrew, screw, think about how your mom would breast feed one out of the two twins repeatedly on accident because she was so tired she couldn’t remember which baby she’d already fed, unscrew, screw, did you forget something, oh the crackers, unscrew, screw, and you wonder how in the world she could have mixed up her babies, or forgotten which one she’d fed for Christ’s sake, unscrew, screw, dang it, the crackers, unscrew, screw, they’re babies, and they weren’t even identical babies, unscrew, screw, now you’re thirsty, wine goes with cheese and crackers, unscrew, screw, pour yourself some wine and think about how when you first started drinking wine it was with your mom and it was from a box and that was nice, unscrew, screw, get comfy back on the couch and decide to forgive your mom for only feeding one of her children, most likely Bubby, that’s why she turned out so chubby as a child, and decide to call her to tell her you love her then realize your phone is in the bedroom, unscrew, screw, after several minutes of increasingly frantic searching find your phone tucked away into a pillowcase on the bed, along with a stapler, a Reese’s peanut butter cup, and seven hair ties all carefully hidden from your cat at various bed times throughout the week, unscrew, screw, eat the Reese’s peanut butter cup, forget why you’re holding your phone, wash down the chocolate with all of your wine, decide you need more, unscrew, screw, all out of wine, but have some Jim Beam and that will certainly do, unscrew, screw, remember you were going to call your mom but now you might be a little tipsy and last time you drunk dialed her you ended up singing and she recorded it, unscrew, screw, not really sure why you took the light bulb out this time, screw, get really tired of all the unscrewing and screwing and decide that there is nothing, nothing else you will ever need from any of the other parts of the house until morning and you will no longer be leaving the couch now that you have Mr. Beam and Mr. James to keep you company, so you pull the blanket up over you, turn on some old Lost episodes in anticipation of January, and decide that tomorrow – tomorrow you are definitely going to start keeping a grocery list.

At Least She Was Smaller Than Me

Walking to school there's always a lot of people around because it's downtown, so I'm used to passing workmen asking me if I play basketball, art-y kids asking me for a cigarette, or homeless people asking me for change. Yes professionally, No I wish, and Yes as long as I have enough leftover for a Snickers ice cream bar. But yesterday I'm walking past the Corner Bakery trying to will a brownie to come floating out the door at me, when this older homeless woman charged right at me, like some sort of sidewalk linebacker protecting her path and the path of those around her, and elbowed me as hard as she could in the side, while screaming at the top of her lungs, "YOU BITCH!" and then calmly carried on down the street. I stood stunned for second, my mouth wide open in shock, with two other women who had been crossing the street at the same time as me. The three of us stared at each other, then down the block at the woman who hit me, then back at each other. One of the women said, "I think you just got molested", and that was it. I lost my shit. The three of us burst into uncontrollable laughter and couldn't stop, even when the cop pulled over and told us if we didn't get out of the way of traffic he was going to have to move us himself. "I'd like that officer," the other woman said, but we moved out of the road and then in a rare moment of touchy-feely-ness the three of us did this weird group hug and then left each other, continuing on down the street in three different directions. If I had had some sort of magical traveling pants I would have given it to them just then. And then made Alfre Woodard play me in the movie version.

I'm still not sure what is was that made me the bitch to hit, but if I ever see her again I'm gonna find out. I'll be wearing some sort of protective gear though, just in case.

Putting My Head In My Oven, And Not Because I Wanna Die, But Because It's Warm Up In There

So, I don't know what kind of system my heater is on, but it's obviously the rebellious teenager of heater systems. It yells at it's mom, skips class, steals it's aunt's cigarettes only to find out they're Kools, wears all black, and has sex with her Spanish teacher.

It doesn't come on is what I'm saying. Until it does come on and then it's on full blast for two straight days, so that I have to walk around in shorts and a bikini, because there's no way I'm opening the windows. I know that soon, horribly soon, the heat will stop, go on a strike with pickets and signs, for weeks, and I'm gonna keep what little heat there was trapped as long as I possibly can.

Anyway, I'm in one of those no heat phases right now, and this is what I have to wear to stay warm, two sweatshirts, gloves and all:




Even James is curled under a blanket:



Hellllllo lover.


At about 6 today I had had enough so I went to the grocery store to warm up. I didn't even need to buy anything, I just wanted to go somewhere with people and heat, so I just walked around picking things up, looking at the ounces in them thoughtfully, putting them back and then moving on to examine all the different kinds of lightbulbs.

Oh who am I kidding, I do that even when it's not cold. I love being around food.

Sometimes I Don't Even Want To Take My Coat Off To Shower

I just checked the temperature and it pretty much said:

Weather:
Really Cold
Feels:
Even Colder

Luckily I have a very strange body heat thing when I run, so even though it was 30 degrees this morning (feels like 19) when I decided to brave it and get out there, I started sweating and getting so hot I wished I'd worn shorts. Could be because I was wearing three layers of pants, but whatever.

Then, I just went to make myself some eggs and bacon and when I went to crack the egg it wouldn't crack open, like there was something solid inside. I stood there for a second thinking, "Oh my god, did I hard boil these eggs and forget about it?" No, no I did not. Apparently my refrigerator is so cold it froze my eggs. It was the weirdest thing I've ever seen in my life. Like, some chicken mama had come over and decided she wasn't ready for chicks so she had her eggs frozen for use at a later time, you know, when she's settled into a career and whatnot.

It looked like a bouncy ball that just happened to look like an egg, and I was half tempted to throw it to James to see if he wanted to play with it. I called my mom and she said she thinks it'll be ok, and that she's heard of people freezing eggs, and that no I'm not going to get any sort of poisoning. So, I'm letting them un-gel for a while, and then I'm gonna see if they still work. For some reason defrosting chicken - not that weird. Defrosting eggs - nuh uh. It's like telling me you're going to have to bake me some licorice.

Anyway, I'm gonna go turn down my refrigerator because I just discovered my milk is also solid. That I'm just throwing away.

Spacca Napoli

Last weekend my friend Gabi came out to Chicago to visit me, and for the entire month prior to her arrival I got at least three texts a day discussing where she wanted to eat. By the time she got here the list was so long we figured we were going to have to eat 17 full meals a day for three days, with bakery breaks in between. Instead, we ended up going to the same pizza restaurant three nights in a row. There's this place that makes these thin Italian style pizzas that are so good it's like they have all your hopes and dreams baked into them. Apparently the owner only uses Italian wood burning ovens, and Italian flour he has shipped out from his grandma's farm in Italy where she culls the wheat herself, and then knits a quilt to wrap around each package of flour so it'll stay warm for the flight. Or something like that.

So, Gabi gets off the plane and she's hungry so we hop in a cab and go straight to the restaurant complete with luggage, and enormously oversized pillow she refuses to travel without. (except! for the time we visited Bub in Italy and Gabi decided to leave her pillow there so that she could fit Special K with strawberries cereal boxes into her suitcase, because she was convinced they wouldn't have them in the U.S. "But I can just buy a new pillow!" she screamed. This may be a whole other story for a different blog.) We get there and they ask us if we're moving in. Kind of, we say. It's not until the end of the weekend, when we're walking in and high-fiving the bus boys, that they realize we weren't kidding.

Anyway, we were so excited that first night to be eating pizza together that we got two bottles of wine. That's one bottle a piece too many it turns out. Stuffed and hammered, we decided to get a cab home but for some reason couldn't find one, so we just started walking and wheeling Gabi's suitcase down a major street, in the rain. For some reason we decide the clicking of the wheels on her bag down the sidewalk is making an amazing beat so I start doing a little butt-shaking dance, which then led to Gabi dropping her bag and running to the flag pole in front of the hospital we'd been walking past to do an impromptu pole dance, which was really just her swinging around once and then falling to the ground while I screamed, "You stopped my beat!"

Luckily, a cab pulled over at this point. We jumped in and I pointed dead ahead, proclaiming, "To Home!", Gabi high-fived me and we buckled up while the driver continued to stare at us as we giggled and high-fived for a good 2 minutes before he said, "Where do you live?" Slightly embarrassed, I gave him my address and two blocks later we were there.

Once at home Gabi and I immediately changed into our pjs, and then I stood in my kitchen drinking water while watching her stumble back and forth between the couch and the chair like a cat, until she found a comfy spot and fell asleep.

The next night we chose to just have a glass of wine each, no bottles, definitely not two bottles, and the pizza was just as amazing as it was the night before. And while the rest of her trip involved no more pole dancing, and no more cab rides, it did involve lots of napping and movie watching, and that was just as fun.

R Is For Reading

So I spent a good part of yesterday calling up my family members and screaming, "I NEED TO READ TO YOU FOR TEN MINUTES!" Most of them asked me what the hell I was talking about but my mom was just really pleased I was so passionate about literacy.
"I knew reading those Sue Grafton novels to you every night wasn't a waste!" she said, and then I pictured her propping her elbows up on the table and resting her chin in her hands, ready for whatever I was gonna give her. (Sue Grafton novels as childhood bedtime reading by the way - this could explain a lot.) I was doing a reading with a bunch of other super talented ladies last night, and the only constraint was that it had to be five minutes or less, so I was reading two separate pieces aloud and timing myself. They whistle you off if you go over and I was already so nervous I thought I was going to pee my pants, I didn't need a sharp, loud sound to scare it out of me.
My mom actually picked the story I ended up reading as her favorite, because she said it sounded like it really happened. When I reminded her they both really did happen (the story I read was about someone peeing on my front door, and the story I didn't read was about my first boyfriend in 6th grade) she said, "Oh honey, he was your boyfriend? Didn't you just do his math homework for him?" Yes I did, but that wasn't the point. The point was he really was my boyfriend, for two whole weeks of awkward avoiding each other in the hallways until we broke up via his dad's answering machine, and she should respect that. Today, when I called her to thank her for her help, and let her know how the whole thing went she said it was no problem, she loved me, and she knew that one day . . . one day, after all my hard work, I might be as good as Sue Grafton.

Here's hoping.

I Love When Beer And Politics Come Together, It's Like Getting To Have Christmas And Chanukah!

So tomorrow's a pretty important day, and I just found this little side by side video thing for ya'll to watch when no one is looking at work.

The first one is from 8 years ago (or two elections ago, I think I'm gonna start talking about time in terms of elections. How old are you? Why I'm 7 elections thank you very much). The second video is the exact same actors, just in the present. I love that they were all available to do that again. Now if only someone could talk the My So-Called Life People into it, I'd be set.

At Least I Didn't Think It Was My Dad

This morning I went to take a picture of the postcard-sized bruise on my thigh so I could send it to Bub and TB, but decided against it because my legs have abandoned summerhood and have now taken on their winter form.

So, I'm getting ready to shut my phone (because that's my fancy camera) and I see this picture of a woman on the screen and I was like "I didn't know I had pictures of my mom on here!" That's because I don't. "Oh wait a minute. . ." Yeah that's right. "I just got this phone, how could I have pictures of...?" Get there. "No." Oh yes. "that's because I don't." Yeah, that's right - I don't.

It wasn't my mom, it was me. The camera was still on and I was looking at myself NOT my mom. "Take that back!" I shouted at the phone, as if it could undo it, because surely I don't look so much like her I can't even recognize myself. "You take that back this instant!"

The phone did no such thing, and now consequentially, it is floating, face down in my coffee.

I hope it suffered.

Are You Two Boyfriend-Girlfriend? Steady Dates? Lovers?

So, I have a new love for a one Miss Molly Ringwald. I've never disliked her, in fact I'm a huge fan of everything she's ever done, including The Pick-up Artist and the fairly awful 1996 show Townies. But she was never my favorite brat-packer by any means. (note: some guy sitting behind me just said, "yeah but was she your favorite fudge-packer?" aaaah coffee shops near Loyola filled with 18 year old boys.) My favorite was Andrew McCarthy. No, Judd Nelson. No, Rob Lowe. No, Anthony Michael Hall!

Anyway, she was still better than that scratchy-voiced Demi Moore locking herself in an oddly windy room waiting for some attention, although this does not mean she was the smartest. She turned down the Julia Roberts role in Pretty Woman, and the Demi Moore role in Ghost (a part named for her for Christ's sake!), but did take the role of Miss Banks in Teaching Mrs. Tingle, so there's that.

But the point is not to judge her career choices, the point is, I came across this little video yesterday and was a little proud of Molly. It's not an amazing commercial by any means, and I do not like to discuss politics, religion, or abortion - unless I'm drinking - but come on California. Come. On. If this passes I won't be able to give a speech at my sister's wedding and I already figured out how I'm going to work Justin Timberlake lyrics into it!!!

Cooking Sternly

I was told I wasn't allowed to tell anyone about this story, so in order to honor that yet still get this little tid-bit out there I'm going to be very discreet and just say that one of my sisters called and had this conversation with me. I'm not gonna say which one, and I'm not even gonna use a fake name ok, so don't ask.

So, I got this phone call from a sister asking me if I knew anything about spaghetti.
"The food or the straps?"
"The food."
"What don't I know?"
"I don't know, that's why I'm calling."
"What's there to know? It's pasta. It tastes good with sauce. All kinds of sauce. Except soy sauce, cause then it's not spaghetti, then it's chow mein."
"What? I don't like Chinese food you know that."
"Yes you do. You like orange chicken."
"That's from Panda Express."
"I'm pretty sure Panda Express qualifies itself as Chinese food."
"Anything you can only find in a food court isn't real Chinese food."
"I'm pretty sure it's the only food in a food court."
"Amy!"
"What?"
"Where are you?"
"Coffee shop. I'm trying to work, what do you need?"
"Is there anyone there you're going to repeat to what I'm about to say?"
"No. Well, there's a priest here. Like an acutal priest, with the little white collar thing and all, but he looks Jewish."
"Ok, you can tell him but no one else."
"Deal." (Opens internet and starts blogging as she's speaking)
"So this spaghetti thing. . ."
"Yeah?"
"How do you . . . I mean, when you're cooking it. . . do you put the noodles in before the water or after the water? And if it's after the water do you wait for it to boil first or just plop it in cold?"
". . ."
"Aim?"
"Dude. . ."
"Stop! I hear you about to make fun of me."
"We ate spaghetti almost three times a week when we were growing up, and then we ate it three times a week when we were in college and living in the same house."
"Yeah but you or mom always made it."
"I'm pretty sure Michael could make it at this point."
"C'mon!"
"Fine. I'm sorry. Just boil some water and throw the pasta in for 8-10 minutes."
"Oh. . .ok. That's what I thought."
"If you throw a piece against the wall and it sticks it's done."
"Oh, if I throw it on Beth and it sticks does that also mean it's done?"
"Absolutely."

Later I mentioned that she made macaroni and cheese all the time and didn't it ever occur to her that it was pretty much the same thing. "No," she said. "Macaroni and cheese has neon stuff that gets mixed into it and spaghetti is just plain old red. I didn't know what to do without the powder pack."


And that's why I love her.