I found aspects of this map to be rather shocking. Great Britain, what happened? Finland, WTF? And I know Spain is Catholic, but come on!
Future Posts (as a reminder to myself): the pharmacist, the Christmas letter. (Are you intrigued? Are you?)
I'm spending my evening loading some of my more obscure cds onto iTunes--Jill Sobule, anyone?--and have hit the musical section. I can hardly be expected to upload without sampling as I go along, but oh my god, some of this stuff is so bad that I want to cry.
Jellicles can and jellicles do; jellicles do and jellicles can; jellicles can etc etc.
Awful.
ETA: Okay, Cats may have not held up to fifteen years of social development on my part, but I still kind of enjoy Phantom of the Opera. Even though it, too, sucks. I'm so embarrassed.
After a rather rough day (week, month, what have you) I conned Cirque into letting me come over for "just a small glass of wine." I promised to be out of her hair in time to let her get dinner and call her mom, so we set the limit to an episode of House. (Hugh Laurie + pinot noir = the best I've felt in weeks.)
We split a bottle and downed it over the course of one episode, with the commercials Tivo-ed out. That's not all that long, really, considering the body processes one drink an hour.
The sad part? I feel dead sober. I could drive. I could take a standardized test. I could talk to Inappropriate Sexual Interest without making a single inappropriate comment. That's how sober I am.
I am very, very close to the tolerance I developed senior year of college. Considering The Manhattan Project of second semester, that's a little terrifying. After the Manhattan Project I actually had to stop drinking for a while just to assure myself I didn't need to consume alcohol on a daily basis. (How the hell did I graduate with honors? It's like tootsie pops: the world may never know.)
I don't know how I've developed this tolerance: I haven't gained weight, I haven't been eating obscene amounts, and I actually haven't been drinking that often. Accepting my new tolerance at face value, I consider the primary advantage to be that I am much more likely to effectively pump coworkers for information at informal get togethers and the primary disadvantage to be that I am no longer a cheap drunk.
It's a mixed bag, as you can see.
In an effort to finally unwind after these hellish weeks I'm tempted to have another drink but 1) drinking to solve problems is a bad idea and 2) I only have champagne and liquor in the house. (So decadent!) So instead I'll curl up with a good book, which is like a cocktail but not quite.
Oh Jack. Oh Stephen. You're my anti-drug.
Side Note- The writing has not flowed this easily for months! Maybe a half bottle of wine is my writer's block cure. If so, I'd better stock up and get back to poor John, who's been trying to check his email for, oh, weeks now. Poor John.
In lieu of telling you about the really weird dream I had last night in which I completely unexpectedly had a penis* (I know, right? It was so weird.), I will instead talk about the couch I am about to buy.
People, this couch is so awesome. I mean, yes, I was really excited about the chairs, but I'm beyond excited about the couch. You saw it in an earlier post; aren't you consumed by couch love at first sight? Let me tell you a secret: it's even better in person. The arms, they curl toward you as if to say, "hey baby, stretch out, I'm here for you." The leather, it glints flirtatiously in the light. And the flared back has all the magic of spontaneous jazz hands. Oh yeah.
To be honest, I would have sex with this couch if it were at least two of the following: human, male, and over the age of consent. I'd be all about opening a bottle of wine while turning down the lights and turning up the Barry White.
Ha ha, I bet you are so wishing this post were about the penis dream, aren't you? Seriously, the penis dream is probably less disturbing that my relationship with the couch.
But the couch, the couch. You're going to love it as much as I already do, I just know you are. Get excited: it's coming to a living room near you in six to eight weeks.
* Sorry, was the mere mention of it enough to freak you out? My apologies. Here, have a soothing video of polar bears. Better? Good.
Now that I have chairs on order, I'm rather in the mood to complete the living room. We could have it fully installed for Thanksgiving! Think of it: actual places to sit! Here's my angst, though: 1) I'm moderately improverished and 2) choosing furniture is really stressful.
To couch or not to couch! You tell me:
I would be paying this off until, oh, December or January, given my current budget and my imminent trip to Barcelona. Is it worth it? Eek. I have to buy furniture sometime, right? Right? God, ANGST.
I have a tendency to lean on my left hand while working, reading, or doing anything else that requires seated, stationary behavior. I do it so frequently, in fact, that I have a semi-permanent, barely noticable callus under my chin. Gross, right? Anyway, that's not the point.
Because of the leaning, when I have sleeves pulled over my hands due to Xtreme!air conditioning or general immaturity, I end up with my nose buried in my cuff. As usual, that happened today at work, resulting in the following train of thought:
Hmm, my shirt smells like Morocco.
Well, not Morocco, precisely. More like the laundry detergant I borrowed in Morocco.
That's so weird. I know I've washed it since.
God, Morocco was so awesome.
I wish I could travel more.
I could get a job that involved serious travel.
But I'm awfully happy at my current job.
But being happy is no reason not to change. In fact, it's a terrible reason.
But there's no sense in making myself miserable simply for the sake of change.
Maybe I should do more research on those international job options.
But...happy!
But...smells like Morocco!
And that's when I realized: my shirt smells like existential crisis. God. Life sucks.
Painfully Stupid #1:
What, they didn't break history enough with the first one? *claws at face*
“My gut feeling, and it’s nothing more than that,” he says, “is that there’s a 20 percent chance we’re living in a computer simulation.” My gut feeling is that the odds are better than 20 percent, maybe better than even.
I just received an email in my inbox this morning from my college alumnae association. It began thus:
REUNION PLANNING BEGINSI was suddenly reminded of That Girl who seemed to be taking notes with seventeen different color pens, six different color highlighters, two pencils, and a protractor...in a religion class. Oh, wait, there was at least one of Those Girls in every one of my classes.
Although it is nearly two years away (June 12-14, 2009), the executive board is already thinking about and planning for our five-year reunion.
We are looking for people who want to be involved in the process. We need:Ooh, ooh, pick me, pick me!
*Reunion chair and committee who will oversee the planning for our reunion weekend
*Record book chair and committee who will put together a book about our classmates and their lives over the past five years
*Nominating chair and committee who will help with the election of executive board officers for the next five-year term
I sold my car today. Free at last! It seemed the height of stupidity to continue paying insurance/city passes/etc. and dealing with parking/maintenance/etc. when I live in the city and take the El to work, so the car is gone gone gone.
In anticipation of this thrilling event, I signed up for zipcar, which I am also kind of excited about. I checked out the cars at the garage closest to me (a handy two blocks away), and I should warn you that I will be yuppy-stylin' my way to the grocery store/liquor store* in a BMW. I promise to adjust my driving to "asshole" accordingly.
* These are the only places I ever drive, and more often to the liquor store than the grocery store because, hello, Peapod. Although I hear the liquor store next to Whole Foods delivers, so hey, maybe I never have to leave my apartment for supplies ever again.
PREGNANT: To dream that you are pregnant symbolizes an aspect of yourself or some aspect of your personal life that is growing and developing. You may not be ready to talk about it or act on it. This may also represent the birth of a new idea, direction, project or goal.
TWINS: To see twins in your dream signifies ambivalence, dualities and opposites. It also represents security in business, faithfulness, and contentment with life. It may also mean that you are either in harmony with or in conflict between ideas and decisions.
DRAGON: To see a dragon in your dream signifies that you tend to let yourself get carried away by your passion. This kind of behavior may lead you into trouble. You need to exercise some self-control. In eastern cultures, dragons are seen as spiritual creatures symbolizing good luck and fortune.
Well, at least my subconscious seems to be content with last night's decision making. I think. Couldn't they make this whole dream interpretation thing a more exact science?
1. This article just made it onto the NYT most-emailed list; how many copies of it do you think I will receive in my inbox today? I'm betting at least four.
2. "I tried to find more Nixon." was one of the best lines of last night's movie. More Nixon is the next More Cowbell.
3. SPOILER: despite the name of last night's movie, I don't think they ever actually made it to New Hampshire.
4. Me: So is it more horrifying to you that I really liked the movie Contact and saw it multiple times or that my greatest musical regret is that I never saw Aqua in concert before they broke up?
Friend: *look of utter disgust*
5. Query: is the phrase "meet me on my vast veranda/my sweet untouched Miranda" so unbearably stupid that every time you get to it (in what is otherwise an excellent song) you have to stop whatever you're doing just to marvel at the awfulness? Y/N (circle one)
Friend 1: So do you want to do something tomorrow night?
P & G: I'd like to, but I might be having a dinner party.
Friend 2: Might?
P & G: Well, we had definitely planned on having one sometime, but we could never find a time that worked, and then everyone went on vacation, so I sent an email that I would be eating dinner tomorrow at 7, and if anyone wanted to come they were welcome, but otherwise I'd have my book to keep me company.
Friend 1: It's like Schroedinger's Dinner Party!
Friend 2: You may or may not have dinner guests, but you won't know until you serve dinner!
P & G: ...I knew there was a reason we were friends.
N.B.- Some, but not all, of the guests attended tonight's dinner party. Does that mean the cat is terminally ill?
Last night a wild cocktail party broke out on my porch. It started with, "hey, why don't you stop by for a glass of wine?," progressed to offers to procure illegal drugs, and ended with someone communing with a bathroom floor (his, not mine). If you realize I was the youngest in the room by twelve years and the majority of participants were my parents' age, you have some idea of the humor inherent in the evening.
I thought I was doing pretty well on the whole not-getting-shitfaced front myself, at least in comparison to the other party goers. Sure, I was pretty tipsy, but I had carried a conversation just fine, managed to excuse myself to go to bed without incident, and even managed to begin a new book before going to sleep. The book was my one mistake: I had clearly picked up something very complex and nuanced that deserved my attention once I was sober. Oh well, I'd look at it the next day.
I woke up this morning, puttered around, eschewed breakfast, and picked up the book to see if I had overestimated its difficulty while in my cups.
It turns out it was not so much "complex and nuanced" as "half in French."
Well. Maybe a little more shitfaced than I originally estimated.
I spend a lot of time staring at advertising on my way to and from work, as there's not a whole lot to do on public transit if you're not feeling up to juggling a book or newspaper while desperately trying to hold onto a sheer wall with only your pinky finger. I haven't noticed any fantastic big brand campaigns lately, but I have giggled maniacally at two home-grown campaigns.
1. Enjoy Illinois
Not all of them are quite as funny as the one posted at the bus stop near my office, but they are eye-catching and marvelously creative. The one near my office, however, dissolves me every time:
Okay, I'm not proud that it makes me laugh, but there you go. Stubborn grass stains! The mortal enemy of white squirrels! Come on, that's funny.
2. The Southside Chicago Board of Tourism
This campaign, on the other hand, is hilarious, and if you don't laugh you clearly don't have any sense of humor. "Is the southside in a different time zone? You know, like Michigan is."
Do click around the links at the top of that page to learn the answers to important questions like "What exactly is a parking space?" and "How do I get to the southside?"
I particularly recommend clicking on Refer a Friend and choosing the "I have no friends" option. Very amusing.
Occasionally I get emails from restaurants around town. The restaurants have my email for various reasons, mostly because I told them to email me a confirmation rather than calling me. Inevitably I get put on their news lists, which I generally don't mind, as it reminds me "oh, I haven't been there in a while, and look, a wine tasting..."
I think, however, I may have to unsubscribe from at least one restaurant thanks to following phrase:
A Wine Dinner Event This Monday - June 4th - 7:00 post modern time
No no no no no— it buuuuuuurns.
You shouldn't spring that sort of thing on a girl first thing in the morning; it's just not cricket.
Okay, have you seen Stripes? If you haven't, stop reading this post and go rent it immediately, as no education is complete without watching what is decidedly one of my top three movies of all time.
Assuming you have seen that movie, do you remember that scene at the end? Where Bill Murray, wearing his military uniform with martini glass in hand, staggers out of the jet to thunderous applause by the crowd? He says something along the lines of, "Oh, guys, you shouldn't have, you really shouldn't have. This is ridiculous— okay, everyone's coming back to my place for drinks."
That is exactly what I'm like after a few drinks on an empty stomach.
Earlier this evening I hopped over to a neighboring apartment to return the keys to the roof to my board president. We started talking, her partner offered me a drink, and somehow I found myself still hanging out on her porch drinking an hour and a half later. So obviously I invited them over for cocktails this weekend.
Then I stumbled home to run into my upstairs neighbor, who had been trying to get in touch with me to offer me her extra porch furniture, as she had noticed I didn't have any yet. So sweet! Obviously I invited her and her partner to cocktails as well.
And now I have a full-fledged party going on Sunday evening. ...Oops.
Well. There are worse things. Hurrah for wonderful neighbors. Now what should I serve? Obviously the full bar will be available, but nibbles must be considered carefully. Olives, maybe something a little more substantial? Maybe...something wrapped in bacon? Hmm...
In further irrelevant news, I painted my toenails a really slutty red and liked them so much that I painted my fingernails the same color. I'm pretty sure my nails now scream "SLUT!," which means it's time to bust out the over-sexed red polka-dot skirt. Wahoo.
I have no words for the bizarre dreams I had last night. Seriously, they were just... I really, really am beginning to be disturbed. Let's go with a list:
I'm so tired I can't even pull any ridiculous, navel-gazing bullshit out of my ass to cover today's "yeah, yeah, I'm going to post every day again" obligation. So have a funny picture instead.
Did you laugh? I totally did.
And now I kind of want to hear that song. Curse you, iPod! How is it possible that you do not contain the wonder that is Gin and Juice? A crime against good taste, surely.
Interesting observation: when you're in the mood to listen to Gin and Juice, there is no musical substitute. Gin and Juice is, as Stephen Fry might say, a unique child born of a unique mother.
Indeed.
Last night I found myself caught That Mood. You know the one: you spend a lot of time feeling like you're staring into the void, marveling at the machinations of the universe, idly wondering if your life matters in the grand scheme of things.
The Mood was triggered by an influx of people in my life who have just moved/are about to move to Chicago. How fortunate am I!, I was thinking. My vast network of awesome people is merging into close proximity! And what fun we shall have!
At which point, my brain wandered into being a bit shellshocked that not only do I live in the midwest, I also really like living in the midwest. (Well, Chicago, at least. Let's not get too enthusiastic.) Which of course led to the inevitable reminder that I almost didn't move to Chicago.
I moved to Chicago to go to grad school. University of Chicago, very fancypants, very exciting, except for the part where I had already filled out the acceptance form for Claremont. I believe I even had an addressed envelope, stamped and ready to go. I was this close to mailing it so I could study in sunny California.
But I came here instead.
I tell people that my big, life changing decision was the result of a well-thought-out decision about the class options at both schools. I chose the school with the stronger ethics curriculum because I am all about logical, informed decisions.
Informed decision my ass. Here's why I chose the University of Chicago: no one from my college had been accepted by the Divinity School in over ten years and I'm both vain and extremely competitive. Bragging rights? Yes please.
I could go into all the weird bits that contributed to that attitude, like how my advisor, whom I very much admired, was so excited to hear I had been accepted that he kissed me (awkward!), but I won't. You're probably already sick of all this navel-gazing anyway.
Who knows whether I would have chosen Chicago without those influences. It's very possible I might have: the idea of living so close to L.A. to attend Claremont was rather horrifying. (Not that the south side of Chicago was all that much more appealing.) None of it is important, though, because this is the only thing that matters: I'm happy. And I'm happy because I live in Chicago. The end, c'est tout.
In conclusion, I'm hardly convinced that the universe cares what I'm doing with my puny little life, but I'm awfully grateful for the odd little nudges it's given to get me moving in this direction. Thanks, universe! You have an open invitation to visit me in Chicago any time!
Sorry for the navel-gazing, folks. I promise to get back to daily updates that you might vaguely care about tomorrow. In the interval: yay Bill Richardson! He's my favorite these days.
