Attack of the Face Eaters

There is a time for killing.
Or at least spearing.
We get together on Monday nights, when the kids return to their homework and we need a little fellowship (see also: beer) to unwind. Justin and Dustin (the Ustins, hetero-lifepartners) had most of a keg left after their Halloween party, so we sat in their basement drinking, admiring the fake spiders and mice.
Mice?
Wait.
That one runs.
Why is it running if it is not--ohmyGodthat'sarealmouse! Aeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
It's in the laundry room.
What the hell? Oh, yeah. The window we left open all night. It gets so hot down here.
The next 45 minutes were a discussion, during which the mouse would emerge and be shrieked back, about how to eradicate The Rodent Issue.
Justin laid a foundation of duct tape beneath the door and the mouse came out, irritated but no less determined.
Finally we watched in silence while he ran across the floor and in seconds we had him cornered. Justin pushed away some decorative wall Zombies and fake cobwebs while the others crouched low with their weapons: duct tape ball, water bottle, metal siding, size small sombrero.
A hit! A palpable hit!
The mouse let out a horrifying scream and disappeared into a crack in the woodwork.
Have you heard a mouse scream? It chills the blood.
We slunk back into our chairs, certain that it would not come back. Me, with my feet off the floor.
It's really hot in here. We should open a window.

That Guy's Flag Says "Pace." Like the Salsa? Dude, I'm Hungry. Let's Go.

All we wanted to do was sit down for a minute. I mean, it's not like I enjoy the war. Obviously. Obviously, I don't.
And Barack, right?
[waiting for response]
Ok, fine. I left that purposefully open-ended so you would tell me whether he was a totally inspirational speaker, plus did you see that amazing tie; or he didn't even show up, that Ass.
We woke up, bundled up and rode the El all the way to an outlying suburb so that we could take the El back, un-bundle, shop, and trade in our sign for an Us Weekly. What?! It's important hotel-reading material.
When two of our three alarms mis-fired the next morning (Daylight savings time? Really? Phone, you are supposed to know these things. Do not ask for input), I set my sweatshirt over a lamp to diffuse the harsh glare.
I packed quickly. My stomach had finally calmed down from the deep dish and brownies and I was...Yum, what is that marshmallow-y smell?
Dammit. What is my favorite sweatshirt doing making a marshmallow-y smell?

Muffin and I just want to thank our sponsors (SL, TG, the City of Chicago and 60-watt bulbs) for making this trip possible.
We're home, Minneapolis. Where is your bean?

Wear It Like a Vest

Speculums are funny.
Nervous Doctors are not so much.
I'm not afraid of needles or getting weighed or being honest about how much I exercise ("define 'exercise...'"), but when it comes to the paper gown, well. How comfortable should you be? None. None comfortable unless you are the physician. Your job is to put me at ease with your professionalism while my ladyfeet are in the stirrups. That means laughing at my jokes, Jerk.
Int. room #9:
Doc: So, have you been getting your yearly pap?
Me: Mhmm.
Doc: Yes? Because it's really important.
Me: Yes. I like to make sure I get one really awkward check-up in this office every year. Wouldn't miss it for the world.
Doc: Oh. Um. Haha.
Me: In fact, you should really just follow me around....
Doc: ...
Me: Er...
Doc: ...

Jesus Loves the Little Children

Long weekend of JesusCamp is complete. My face is white and wrinkled like a mime with pillow marks.
Tired.
So tired.
And sick.
But mostly tired.
Castaway was a huge success. The rain stopped on day 2, the high schoolers were well-behaved, the two-person suit came together quite nicely. What more could you ask for? A gorilla costume. Even Mark's first-grade daughter laughed until she heard there were some gorillas outside the cabin. Screaming. Crying. Shhhhing. Calming.
"Gorillas are just big monkeys."
"Yeah, monkeys that tackle people."

Does Your Airline Allow Stowaways?

It was a delectable treat to attend David Sedaris' show last night at the State Theater. Big thanks to Muffin (Crumb Bomb) for securing the tickets. Sedaris read from some old work and some new work, correcting as he went. We were close enough to see the pencil. (I KNOW!)
When they turned on the house lights, he looked at the crowd expectantly and I could think of nothing nothing to ask of this lovably awkward little author.
In the car as we drove home I thought, why did I not just raise my hand?
Hi, Mr. Sedaris. Say, how long does it take you to go from having an experience to writing about it? Do you type or write initial drafts by hand? Are there certain topics you refuse to address in your writing, and why?
Hi, Mr. Sedaris. May I call you David? Dave? D?
Hi, Mr. Sedaris. The last time I read one of your essays, I choked on some black bean hummus. You're funny.
Hi, Mr. Sedaris. Does Hugh travel with you? Does he take up all your leftover leg room on the plane like my boyfriend?
I don't do well with celebrity encounters. My surviving memory of meeting poet Seamus Heaney is a photo I will try to find for you: I sweated and smiled so hard, the veins popped out of my blotchy red neck.
Last night I wore a scarf and kept my distance.

The Lazzo of the Leaking Radiator

The Landlord's last name is Doom, did I ever mention that?
(She is, in fact, non-threatening. Unless you happen to be a cigarette, in which case, look out. Seriously, run for your life. Not even the paper will be left!)
(And by that I mean her hair smells like smoke.)
Sometimes she stops by check in; verify that our windows still don't have screens--story for another day: how to get a pigeon into and out of your kitchen--and whatnot. Last night she came to turn on the heat.
In anticipation of cold weather, I've been preparing the radiators in my apartment with preptalks and friendly pats. I even bled them a little. Newb.
Later I mistook the sound of spritzing pipes for clicking pipes. "The heat is on!" I declared. Nicki and I went on with America's Next Top Model while a small lake formed in the divot of our dining room. Meanwhile, about five minutes after that began, a peeing fountain started from the radiator in the bathroom.
I step out of the room during a commercial...."Oh! Wow! Woooh! Shit! Shit! What the hell is that shit!?!"
"Aaack! Give me the key! The key!"
"Righty tighty? Am I turning right or left? I need to stand on the other side of this! Ahh! It's purple! What the hell!?!"
Nicki's dad and Google confirmed that's normal if you bleed your radiators before there's any steam built up. Noted.
Three towels and two pairs of socks later we returned to the couch. A knock at the door: Madame Doom, in the building to bleed the radiators.

Our Invite Must've Gotten Lost in the Mail

Matt and I stayed at The President Hilton in Kansas City, which was nice and fancy. Sometimes other famous people stay there. Like, oh, I don't know; Hillary Clinton? No joke. Friday afternoon she made a presentation of somethingblahblah. The Secret Service took up two floors. And Matt correctly identified public figure Rev. Al Sharpton, sitting in the lobby.
We drove across town for some shopping and tried to find her the appropriate "Hey, we think you're neat but we're not terrorists and this probably won't even get to you or anywhere in your vicinity" gift. I stumbled on several silver-glitter-covered table ornaments shaped like reindeer. I know you don't believe me. Witness: you may click on the picture which will take you to the website where you can see what they charge for something such as this.

Now, if that doesn't say, "Be my Democratic Nominee," I don't know what does.
America, home of the Free and the Craftbarns.

Solid Chocolate Center

Dudes,
Homies,
Bitches,
October is a busy month around here. Here being the Milky Way.
Mmilky way. Mmcandy.
I've already eaten my weight in Fun-Size Snickers (no, not the little bite size. I'm talking Fun-Sized. "Sized for the fun of buying new jeans for your big ass" Fun.) while around the corner lurks a bridesmaid dress. All of which yielded the highlight of this past weekend: Fitness Yoga.
Harder and faster and with less helpful instruction. I couldn't do any of the half-moon-into-triangle business. Which was fine, but where was all the farting I was promised?
It's just as well because I was too sore to laugh until today.
Other non-laughing notables:
-One of my students stole a car.
-I've been recently fearing that our plaster clawfoot bathtub might fall through the ceiling onto the apartment downstairs.
-Matt and I leave tomorrow to photograph a wedding in Kansas City. I hear it is wonderful, but nobody is specific about why. If it is nougat-based, I might not come back.