Cilantro is Satan's Basil

Last night as I hoisted my arms up over my head to the beat of "ME GUSTA ZUMBA," I thought about how I had neglected this blog for a month.  

Things just add up and then all of a sudden you're blogging about the trip you took to Guatemala, and the trip Guatemala took to your intestines.  

Guat was amazing.  Really confirmed for me that I need to learn Castellano legitimately.  My next step is investment in the Rosetta Stone program (Is there anybody cheaper out there? Rosotto Rock?  Rizzo Pebble?).  Basically I need to be prepared to explain in Spanish the explosive diarrhea that has killed the rest of my traveling companions, without using my current standby "It is possible that my stomach is bad." 

Incidentally, I'm entering July insured.  With my layoff effective June 30, I was considering paying $400 and my firstborn for a month of COBRA.  (Quick shout out to my home girl Joan at Blue Cross for getting me approved before I head out to Milwaukee with some limb-flailing improvisers next week.)   Hit me with your bike!  Pelt me with your avocado pits!  I'll explain it to the medical professionals in English and pay a reasonable amount of money to get myself repaired!  

She Will Be The Baronness

A sweetfaced woman told me yesterday that she and her friends are going to have a Sound of Music theme party this weekend on a treehouse patio.  If I had been invited, I would have gone as the bowing woman from the music festival.  Not saying a word, just dipping at the waist throughout the entire party.

I'm sick.  I'm saving my voice for elated screams at the end of the school year.

Today must be Inspiring Suggestion Tuesday, since everything in my Google Reader is all kissyface and smooshylovehugs, I thought I should pass some of them along.  My inspiring suggestions would be more along the lines of "frown at strangers for no particular reason" or "instead of donating clothes you no longer wear to charity, cut them up, pile them on top of your bed and roll around in all the wasted opportunity."  

They're Really Just Cotton Boy Shorts

When I wore black underoos, it wasn't because I wanted a compliment from the buzzed lady who accidentally walked into my bathroom stall.

We'll call that a fringe benefit.

More Rewarding than a Bag of Sunchips

It's Cinco de Mayo.

I should already be drunk, but instead I'm dressed like I'm drunk.  I figure it will go a lot further, without inhibiting my ability to drive when I get sent home from work.  

Lunch Fail and Not a Basket of Bread to Show for It

I showed up a month early for lunch with Maria. Which really, by itself, is fine. It was probably the two voicemails and frantic G-chatting her son asking about her whereabouts and safety that took it too far.

Hard to know for sure.

Why are May and April even separate?  I blame Daylight Savings.

Say E-WOW

Our hosts: (Brenton Paul in a silk kimono, naturally.)

This weekend we kicked it like Christian rock stars. 

Brent and Maggie won a suite at the downtown W hotel.  

They put lines of salt on a mirrored table, which we all pretended to snort for photos we then pinky swore not to post on our various internet pages.  Aged cheddar!  Chocolate chunk cookies!  For my part, I danced so hard my back hurt for 36 hours.

Worry not, Gentle Reader: I was able to soothe it with some water aerobics. 

To the Victors Went the Mich Golden Light

Today as I sat in one of those dreaded Monday meetings, I finally raised my point: this sucks so bad.  I am frustrated.  I have no answers for myself and no answers for my students to the question of who will do this job when I leave.

The response I got: Try sitting in my chair for the last two months.

The person who made my job disappear just one-upped me.

This weekend was great.  Even the rain was wonderful.  I logged many hours circling the lake, including a few miles tangled in the leash of a six pound puppy.  Saved some old books from certain death at the hands of my spring cleaning parents.  If any of you want to borrow my college Psychopharmacology book, please let me know.  Opioid antagonists are making the news!  Drugs are relevant. 

Speaking of which, Friday night Drew and Peter, my new Facebook friends (Gross.  I swore I wouldn't.  It's horrifying and addictive and stop it, no, I can't) brought out the the table saws and a plywood board for some friendly beer pong competition.  No record of the night survives, save my memories of incredible defeats Drew and I waged on our hapless victims.  

Music Linkabouts

Matt and I saw Chicago native/violin plucker/whistling virtuoso/musical loopmaker Andrew Bird at the State Theater on Saturday night.  My most pleasant concert experience to date.  

(Why were you dating concerts?)  

(Shut up.)

Every member of his band can play at least two instruments: bass and saxophone, drums and piano, kazoo and tin pan (I'm just saying I could be brought on tour and really add something to the mix.  If they need me.).  As for myself, I sat in the back feeling pretty accomplished about the deal I got on this shirt at Target: $7.98, suckas.  (Also, bring your own undershirt.  Target does not advocate nipple-bearing.)

To round out the First Annual Spring Concert Series of the Weekend and Monday of April 11-13, some of my funtimes girls and I saw Alexi Murdoch at the Varsity Theater last night.  He was so reserved.  Toward the end of the show he made actual sentences.  Behind him they projected a haunting series of home-movie-style clips to accompany the last few tunes.   I wanted to sneak up to the front and whisper to him, but I didn't.  Alexi, I can't hate on the music; you know I love your jams.  But please talk to us.  We are here to see you and soak up your UK lilt.  We can get everything else on the cd.  Also, can I run my fingers through your hair, since I'm standing right here and all?  

The Friendly Skies

Argentina was lovely, but the plane riding was not.  As expected.  

Forgot the first rule of international air travel for economy class: always ask for the pasta.  The chicken it is made of shredded clothespins in spiced gravy.  

Hell to pay.

A few more items before I tuck Argentina in and watch some 30 Rock on Hulu.

• Fact: The beef is cheap and tender.  Their empanadas are dusted with sugar.  Their coffee is worth drinking.  Argentina's food is more addictive than crack cocaine.   
  
• Fact everybody in the city will give you directions to somewhere: I have 100 maps in my purse.  Argentina does not like trees.
  
• Fact: Plane paranoia can be medicated, but if the plane goes down and you've just taken a Lorazepam and you're drooling, nobody is going to let you be the first one down the emergency exit slide. Argentina has no opinion on this matter.  You will already be out of their airspace.

Take a left on Honduras

Full day yesterday: saw an opera AND a homeless dude pooping in a trashcan. Photos of neither event can be found here.
We saw La Traviata from a side balcony, dodging the heads of the people with better views. I did, however, have a clear shot of the Spanish supertitles. Helpful. I successfully interpreted the color progression of her costumes (red to pink to white) and drew on my modern drama class to explain the "courtesan redeems herself in real love but still must die" paradigm.
Today we went to Recoleta Cemetary to find the family plot of Eva Duarte Peron. (It was a quietish day around the mausoleums (dead pun) because the entire city's worth of people was down in the Centro paying respect to former president Alfonsin. (Now the dead pun seems too soon, doesn't it?)) The buildings are impressive, but still creepy like that Ashley Judd movie, Double Jeopardy, where they're chasing each other through the New Orleans cemetary. Hello, cemetaries are scary enough without guns.
Respectfully, respectfully.