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.