Domestic As Hell

Getting crafty up in herrrrrre.  And I'm not talking about hatching evil plans.  (This time.)
Projects:
BAM: makin aprons
BAM: wearin aprons with a smug ass look on my face

BAM: makin cookies
BAM:  eatin cookies.

(I know that it looks like I'm missing the point of the fancy cake stand. I just want you to know that I'm not.)
Like I said: BAM!
Felt Balls:

Felt Balls in action:

I even bought some felt and fucking bakers twine, you guys, and I used them both on an ornament. (See below.  I bet you can find it.)
Also, we don't have a tree.  So I put the ornaments in a giant pasta bowl. 

Got together with a bunch of ladies last week to decorate cupcakes.  Fondant is expensive.  Don't mess with that shit.  Pro tip: lay down a base of regular-person frosting and use your crack pinky to scrape off the parts where you want to have a design of polka dots or stripes or pandas or whatever.  Anybody who complains about missing frosting gets a stomach ache care of your fist.
BAM.

So I've Entered Him Into a Remedial Program for Catholic Adults

I take words pretty seriously. 
They're powerful, so I try to know a lot in case I need to look smart (which happens to be all the time--I keep very critical company).
In 2007, during an episode of The Office, they used the phrase "Pro-Am" and I laughed out loud. "HA.  That's hilarious. Pro-Am. No one even knows what that means!"
Matt seized on this opportunity, this rare and precious gift of my making a word-based mistake: "It means Professionals and Amateurs compete together."
So tonight, he's listening to some Christian light rock (Obviously. It's our pre-bar warm-up on Thursdays) and hears, "We'll beat our swords into plowshares...." He quietly muses, "What does that even mean?"
EXCUSE ME, EVERYONE. STEP ASIDE. I WILL HANDLE THIS.
"It means making your weapons into tools for farming that will benefit the whole."
"Ok, Pro-Am."

Even an Apple Could Get the Job Done

I am in the throes of an Earworm Plague.
Please, God. Send me a melody that my head cannot play on repeat.
Marginally related: does every reggae song last so long that you think you might've already heard it AND another song AND that same first song again? Maybe reggae is the cure to the Earworm Plague.

(Cue descent into madness.)

Oh, hi. Brief year-long blog break.
Back now. Been microblogging on Twitter, but apparently SOME people think Twitter is for the tech-savvy-self-absorbed. To which I say, "Where did I put my first-draft memoirs? No, that's my typewritten autobiography with my CD of covers including vocal warm-ups. What do you think of my ironic dragon tattoo?"

(Just kidding. I don't have a tattoo.)

Speaking of personal information: Over the last week Matt twice thought that we might need a gun for protection at the studio.
Incident 1: Psychotic boyfriend fretting over old photos of current girlfriend. "Take them down and I won't have to babysit you." Yes, sir. Enjoy that thing where you die alone.
Incident 2: Jimmy John's sandwich delivery person getting a little too friendly with talk of mutiny.
I assured Matt that psycho boyfriend and the Jimmy John's guy would come back at the same time and just cancel each other out. I've seen it happen in comic books. Alternatively, let us not underestimate a well-timed unripened pear to the manparts.

Like A Fine Wine

Before we get into all the year-end items...
Completely unrelated to Alec Baldwin's new film about aging with grace or complications or whatever the hell, I peed on my skinny jeans last week. At the home of my future Grandma-in-law. Why are these toilet seat supplemental tops so complicated? There is a layer of leak potential between the toilet topper and the toilet proper! Come on! I doubt that age brings more peeing skill. More pants to wet. Hello, Future! Can't wait to meet you.
I've created a chart showing the Accuracy of Urination over Time.

I'd do some kind of best-of-the-decade thing, but I can barely remember whether I added cheese to the sloppy joes I had at lunch. And now, per nobody's request, a visual wrap-up of 2009.

2009, Overall Grade: A-
The minus for the shitty layoff and the months of lame-ducking. The A for everything else.

Nothing Cashmere. Obviously.

Gah.
Went to Chicago for work.
Went to Germany for work.
Went to Castaway for Jesus.
Miss all of your faces. Really. Seriously.
All you need to know is that I've spent most of my savings in cardigan sweaters and skinny patent belts. GODDAMN THE J. CREW CATALOGS AND THEIR RELENTLESS APPEAL. (Except for those socks. What. The. Hell.)
The pups is sleeping behind me on the chair, snorting every hour or so. I googled "sleep apnea chihuahua" and got this guy:



So the snoring is probably nothing because my dog has black fur.

Time for a Victory Lap

I got a haircut. It was a mistake. In a month that is soggy and hot, I have forgotten to heed my two most basic life tenets: Keep your expectations low and (2) Keep your ends split and your hair stringy.
Rather than make a complaint at the salon (AWKWARD! HELLO! HER FRIGGING NAME WAS JAMES. SHE WAS ADORABLE AND I DON'T WANT HER TO HATE ME!) I came home and made a complaint at the Customer Service Desk of Trusted Friends: "My head looks like a penis."

Here's my basic outline for problem solving:
If you meet resistance,
1. Make a non-verbal sound of defeat.
2. Back away.
2.5. Give up.
3. Yell a little.
4. Cry a little.
5. Take a nap.

These pictures were taken shortly before my progression through steps 1, 2.5, and 5. AND THIS IS A SHOWER DAY. There is no excuse.





Non-sequitur dog photo:

What is...?

Today is the 10th Anniversary of the First Date I ever went on with Matt.
Today is also the day that Matt asked me to marry him.

I was certain I was getting a bike; he was certain that I was certain I was getting a bike.
So he walked me to the front window with my hands over my eyes and told me to open. I looked out and said "I can't see it...Where is it?"
He said, "Turn around."
And that's when he said, "Marry me."
"Really?"

The rest of the dialogue is non-essential. Just trust me when I say that I am most happy because it changes nothing about the way I feel for this man. He is good. We are good.

Now it's time for Jeopardy, which is also good. Please excuse me.

And Absorbent Hotel Towels

I am so far from being organized enough to read my New Yorker. I am pretending the subscription is for my neighbors. WHO PUT THIS IN MY MAILBOX?

I need an assistant.

I Craigslisted my damned mattress/boxspring combo package and the idiot who stopped by to buy it didn't bring transportation. So that was awesome.
It's in my room, if anybody wants it.
Also, I'm moving in with Matt.
Also, I just got back from New York.

Sun Country Airlines was a total letdown, except for the fact that we got to NYC and home again. So, in the most basic sense, the plane did its job. In the least basic sense: don't ever book a ticket with them if you have somewhere you need to be. They have no pull in the overall scheme of airport politics.

I was so distressed by our air travel that on Friday night, I got into a bar fight. The bar fight was with an old mustachioed man who grabbed at my arm on the way out. There were words and windmilling arms to contend with, but he would have hit me if he had had the opportunity. Thank goodness I had friends with their own windmilling arms and words. I have a bruise and a little cut from his fingernail. Does anybody sell an at-home hepatitis test?

Evidence taken moments ago:





We went back to the hotel where I sleep-peed in the closet during the wee hours. WEE HOURS. Get it?! The realization occurred with these three things:

1. Courtney peeks around the corner to ask if everything is ok. (It was not.)
2. I put my hand left to find the toilet paper roll. (There was none. It was a closet.)
3. My feet are wet. (Because I peed between the slats of the luggage rack.)

I am extra thankful it was a tile floor.
Don't worry, Matty. Your closet isn't carpeted.

Wearing Name Badges in the Historic Third Ward

I loved my trip to Milwaukee.  It's so rare to find a group of grown-ups so committed to play* that for the first three days, nobody even admits to having a day job.  Had a chance to work on my extemporaneous rap skillz and learn about how to not die while auditioning at The Second City. (Bring a friend who will carry your defibrillator.) 

Got a lot of $2 Coors Lights bought for me by a few dudes, all so desperate for a piece of Tourney Tail that they used their best material.

Hm. Where have I been all your life? Um, checking the temperature in hell.  To see if it froze over.  Because then I'd go out with you.  Get it?  ZING AGAIN.

Except that really I just turned around and said awkwardly, Woah. I think you maybe have the wrong impression.  RITA!  Come to the bathroom with me.

This is the stage at ComedySportz Milwaukee where we did some cleaving and some winning and some representing of the ComedySportz Twin Cities.   

 

For the most part, we just had a lot of beer.  

We're all drunk in this picture, which I stole from Nate's Twitter at 2:38 pm.  With a full battery and all bars.  

Bars.

Ha.

Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

*outside the Hedonism circles.  Though I suppose Comedy is its own kind of pleasure cruise. Zing.

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.

Sweating in South America

It's 8 pm in Buenos Aires and I'm putting off a shower, since it'll be two or three hours before we go out to our beefy wine-y dinner. Portenos know how to eat, but I'm not sure they can teach me how to stay awake long enough to digest.
Our hotel is lovely wonderful. In a bit, we will sit on the rooftop, drink a bottle of Malbec, and chat about the 50 stray cats in the park today.
If you come back as a cat, move to the Botanical Gardens. Those mini tigers are treated like kings.
Er.
Whatever.