i may have mentioned in passing to my blogmate and a vegetarian co-worker that my strategy for convincing mb to like new foods was to describe it in more boy-friendly terms. so, not "potatoes and tofu in yogurt curry", but "potatoes and extra protein with sauce!" not "quiche," but "breakfast pie." etcetera. straight out of the simpsons episode where the woman selling hummus and tahini calls it crunch patties with flavor sauce, i know. a co-worker commented, kindly, that it sounded a little like talking to a child.
but lest i develop any feelings of superiority, mb got me back. in hearing about my blogmate's excitement over her new wireless high-speed internet, i naturally decided i wanted one too. the only problem is that mb has a large spiffy desktop computer which clearly does not need to be moved anywhere, and my laptop is a software-overburdened little machine that makes lots of clicking noises before it decides to do anything and is missing the letter x. but since the weather's been so hot lately, and the only air conditioner is in the bedroom, i thought that was my big chance to sell to mb that if we had a wireless thing-ey, we could surf the internet in air-conditioned comfort.
so i made my pitch, casually, in a conversation about the weather. mb patiently asked lots of questions, none of which i could answer. "how big is the box?" "i don't know." "does it plug into the wall phone jack and then there's a wireless connection from there?" "i don't know." "can the neighbors use it or is it protected?" "i'm not sure. i think maybe you can guard it somehow." "are you sure it's just $80 for the box and there are no additional charges?" "um, that's what [my blogmate] said." "you just want one because [your blogmate] has one, don't you? i was wondering how long it would take before you'd ask..." *insert laughter*
i hang my head in shame.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Saturday, June 25, 2005
spa day gone wrong
once you break the seal and start allowing yourself yuppie indulgences it's all down hill.
my blogmate and are both fairly new to well, having paychecks, and for the most part we plant our feet in firm opposition to fanciness, insisting that we are, in our hearts, low-brow.
but we're starting to crack. first it was the latte. then the storage solutions. sooner or later we were bound to discover pedicures. after weeks of talking about it, we finally decided on a day for the much-anticipated day of foot care to celebrate my having turned 28 and her having run 28 miles (ok, i know that's not quite right, but go with me here). off we went for the post-marathon pedicure at the somewhat shady nail place near her house in hyde park. it was pretty standard stuff. toxic fumes filled the air as the emplyees barked mostly unintelligible orders to us about where to sit and what to do.
the woman who did mine made it clear by her body language that not only was she not interested in helping me achieve pretty feet but that she was pretty gosh-darned resentful at having to deal with me period. how it was my fault that the foot-soak tub-thing was overflowing i couldn't say. i was done with my pedicure and had marginally nicer feet about 6 minutes later.
my blogmate, as it turned out was just getting started. i've given her a decent amount of ribbing in the last few weeks about her desperate need for foot grooming, but really- i was kidding. unfortunately for her (and me, the bored onlooker) she landed on the world's most compulsive manicurist. this guy went at it with the clippers and cuticle pusher and motorized buffer thing for, no joke, 2 hours. it was excrutiating for her (and for me, the bored onlooker). the guy got so carried away that he actually made her big toe bleed. apparently they don't do any kind of first-aid training before they let someone take sharp objects to people's feet, on account of this guy had NO IDEA what to do about the bleeding. eventually my blogmate willed the bleeding to stop and the world's most compulsive manicurist finally got around to actually painting her toenails.
by the time it was all over i'd lost the will to go to they gym and decided that i should just get my traumatized blogmate to a happy place with food and beer.
my blogmate and are both fairly new to well, having paychecks, and for the most part we plant our feet in firm opposition to fanciness, insisting that we are, in our hearts, low-brow.
but we're starting to crack. first it was the latte. then the storage solutions. sooner or later we were bound to discover pedicures. after weeks of talking about it, we finally decided on a day for the much-anticipated day of foot care to celebrate my having turned 28 and her having run 28 miles (ok, i know that's not quite right, but go with me here). off we went for the post-marathon pedicure at the somewhat shady nail place near her house in hyde park. it was pretty standard stuff. toxic fumes filled the air as the emplyees barked mostly unintelligible orders to us about where to sit and what to do.
the woman who did mine made it clear by her body language that not only was she not interested in helping me achieve pretty feet but that she was pretty gosh-darned resentful at having to deal with me period. how it was my fault that the foot-soak tub-thing was overflowing i couldn't say. i was done with my pedicure and had marginally nicer feet about 6 minutes later.
my blogmate, as it turned out was just getting started. i've given her a decent amount of ribbing in the last few weeks about her desperate need for foot grooming, but really- i was kidding. unfortunately for her (and me, the bored onlooker) she landed on the world's most compulsive manicurist. this guy went at it with the clippers and cuticle pusher and motorized buffer thing for, no joke, 2 hours. it was excrutiating for her (and for me, the bored onlooker). the guy got so carried away that he actually made her big toe bleed. apparently they don't do any kind of first-aid training before they let someone take sharp objects to people's feet, on account of this guy had NO IDEA what to do about the bleeding. eventually my blogmate willed the bleeding to stop and the world's most compulsive manicurist finally got around to actually painting her toenails.
by the time it was all over i'd lost the will to go to they gym and decided that i should just get my traumatized blogmate to a happy place with food and beer.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
the end of an era
after months of dragging my feet i've finally done it. i've cut the cord- literally.
dial up, we've had a good run. i'll never forget the time we spent together...but it's time to move on. i'm sorry.
so i've joined the ranks of well, everyone, and gotten myself a high-speed internet connection AND a wireless router.
it's hard for me to put into words how proud of myself i am for getting it set up all by myself, and how giddy i am about being able to rove around my apartment with my laptop, checking my email every 30 seconds, not tripping over the long, twisty phone cord with whom i've developed what i suspect is an inappropriate relationship.
the 25 five foot phone cord and i go way back: back to when i had a big enough apartment to actually need a 25 foot phone cord. its insidious presence in my house, its having had both little clippy ends broken such that it doesn't latch into the phone jack properly, its CONSTANTLY being in my way. i have to say, as i collected it up (unwinding it from the various pieces of furniture under which i attempted {unsuccessfully} to conceal it) i hesitated, wondering if i really had the heart to throw it straight into the trash can. "what if this whole DSL thing is a dream?" i asked myself." without the wherewithal to actually sever all ties, i've decided to let the cord take up temporary residence in the corner, in some kind of internet purgatory while i search for the gumption to send it to phone cord heaven.
what can i say, old habits die hard.
dial up, we've had a good run. i'll never forget the time we spent together...but it's time to move on. i'm sorry.
so i've joined the ranks of well, everyone, and gotten myself a high-speed internet connection AND a wireless router.
it's hard for me to put into words how proud of myself i am for getting it set up all by myself, and how giddy i am about being able to rove around my apartment with my laptop, checking my email every 30 seconds, not tripping over the long, twisty phone cord with whom i've developed what i suspect is an inappropriate relationship.
the 25 five foot phone cord and i go way back: back to when i had a big enough apartment to actually need a 25 foot phone cord. its insidious presence in my house, its having had both little clippy ends broken such that it doesn't latch into the phone jack properly, its CONSTANTLY being in my way. i have to say, as i collected it up (unwinding it from the various pieces of furniture under which i attempted {unsuccessfully} to conceal it) i hesitated, wondering if i really had the heart to throw it straight into the trash can. "what if this whole DSL thing is a dream?" i asked myself." without the wherewithal to actually sever all ties, i've decided to let the cord take up temporary residence in the corner, in some kind of internet purgatory while i search for the gumption to send it to phone cord heaven.
what can i say, old habits die hard.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
little miss vicarious and her very big day
does anyone else remember the mister and little miss books? little white books with characters like little miss know-it-all, mister sleepy, mister busy, etc. what would a little miss vicarious look like? because i need the character for myself, to properly document the size of my smile, knowing that i finally got to not just hear about, but accompany my blogmate on outing #2 with new guy (ng?).
the outing in question was none other than the sorrento cheese pesto pasta vino festival in heart of italy (not little italy, because chicago has to have three or four separate italian neighborhoods in the city proper) on 24th and oakley. i was excited because 1) i love neighborhood festivals, 2) i love heart of italy and have gone there for lunch on every family vacation since age ten. sometimes i think my dad actually drove through chicago even when it was clearly out of the way, just for lunch at the now-defunct villa marconi. the neighborhood is a teeny bit shady, but that never mattered at villa marconi since all of the cops ate there, handguns and kevlar hanging casually on the backs of their chairs. long way to go for a $5 plate of tripe, though. and 3) i got to meet ng.
ng is a nice guy (uh-oh, also ng... nng?), who won early points by buying beers for the group. i would comment more on the level of his suitability for my blogmate, but what matters to me is where he fits into my life as friend-of-blogmate. he laughed at my jokes, whatever they were, was willing to tolerate a silly street festival, and seemed to enjoy people-watching. since my blogmate's boy-barometer includes "would this guy go to an indoor water-park with me?" as an up-front deal-breaker, these all seem like good signs.
i should also add that the people-watching at this festival was fantastic. ng told me on arrival that i had to go watch the world's pizza dough tossing champion, which was a good call; think stereotypically-italian-slicked-back-hair and black man-baby-tee break-dancing with dough, all with a very serious facial expression that clearly showed his boredom with performing this feat on the hour every hour for four solid days of festival, all accompanied by bad italian techno-pop. the one-and-only frankie avalon sang his many many hits. and many many large women wearing low-cut black shirts with badly tapered tight jeans and an average of 4 gold chains on their artificially tanned necks wandered around bellowing out for their partners in curiously east-coast accents for a midwestern town: "joooooeee? joe, there's a seat over heeeere! joooooeee?"
i call it a good day when i can spy on my blogmate's latest gossip-in-progress while munching on a stick of fried gnocchi.
the outing in question was none other than the sorrento cheese pesto pasta vino festival in heart of italy (not little italy, because chicago has to have three or four separate italian neighborhoods in the city proper) on 24th and oakley. i was excited because 1) i love neighborhood festivals, 2) i love heart of italy and have gone there for lunch on every family vacation since age ten. sometimes i think my dad actually drove through chicago even when it was clearly out of the way, just for lunch at the now-defunct villa marconi. the neighborhood is a teeny bit shady, but that never mattered at villa marconi since all of the cops ate there, handguns and kevlar hanging casually on the backs of their chairs. long way to go for a $5 plate of tripe, though. and 3) i got to meet ng.
ng is a nice guy (uh-oh, also ng... nng?), who won early points by buying beers for the group. i would comment more on the level of his suitability for my blogmate, but what matters to me is where he fits into my life as friend-of-blogmate. he laughed at my jokes, whatever they were, was willing to tolerate a silly street festival, and seemed to enjoy people-watching. since my blogmate's boy-barometer includes "would this guy go to an indoor water-park with me?" as an up-front deal-breaker, these all seem like good signs.
i should also add that the people-watching at this festival was fantastic. ng told me on arrival that i had to go watch the world's pizza dough tossing champion, which was a good call; think stereotypically-italian-slicked-back-hair and black man-baby-tee break-dancing with dough, all with a very serious facial expression that clearly showed his boredom with performing this feat on the hour every hour for four solid days of festival, all accompanied by bad italian techno-pop. the one-and-only frankie avalon sang his many many hits. and many many large women wearing low-cut black shirts with badly tapered tight jeans and an average of 4 gold chains on their artificially tanned necks wandered around bellowing out for their partners in curiously east-coast accents for a midwestern town: "joooooeee? joe, there's a seat over heeeere! joooooeee?"
i call it a good day when i can spy on my blogmate's latest gossip-in-progress while munching on a stick of fried gnocchi.
Monday, June 20, 2005
all the good ideas are already taken
yesterday was the long-awaited final phase of the integration of mb and my blogmate's stuff. in anticipation of this day, i had emotionally prepared myself for a solid day of lugging heavy, awkward pieces of furniture up many flights of stairs (i'm not that good a friend, by the way- there was a heavily subsidized mattress upgrade in it for me). as it turned out, there wasn't really that much lugging to be done, but boy was there a lot of driving! my day went something like: lakeview to hyde park to little village to wicker park to hyde park to lakeview to wicker park to hyde park to lakeview.
between one of the stops i sat in front of my house, daydreaming (ok, sleeping) in a borrowed pick-up truck with my hazards on and was jarred back into reality by a phone call from mb. "is your apartment on fire?" he asked, without the slightest bit of irony. i looked up at my building, and back into space, and back up at my building, wondering if 1) i wasn't actually in front of my building or 2) if mb was making some sort of joke referencing something that i didn't get. what i didn't manage to do, as i surveyed my surroundings, was look directly behind me at the billowing smoke pouring out of what turned out to be the dominick's (local grocery store) down the street.
first of all, good riddance. it was a crappy grocery store and kind of an eye-sore and i'm not sorry to see it go. now that space is free to become a nice (but not too nice), laid-back bar with a big patio and nightly drink specials that include $3 bloody mary's (maries?) at least twice a week.
unable to resist the urge to rubber-neck, i made a point to walk past the wreckage on my way to the gym today (what possessed me to make my debut back at the gym after a two week hiatus the day after moving furniture i couldn't say). apparently when dominick's goes out, it goes out in style... i heard something on the news this morning about a giant fire ball, and from charred carcass of what was once a building, i believe it.
more astonishing than the actual rubble was the crowd of people that were shameless stopped on the street watching the demolition crews go at it. i felt compelled to keep walking, contenting myself with a limited view, but everyone else just gawked. i don't why i was so impressed by the throng of onlookers- as far as i know it's not rude to stare at a building...
but as i forced myself to look in the other direction i noticed that the bar across the street had its patio full of people who sat there with their pitchers of beer, watching the wrecking ball with a zeal i thought was only reserved for cubs games and american idol.
so while i think it's a little tacky to stand there on the street and stare at a burned-down grocery store, my only objection to the organized tailgating that's going on is that i didn't think of it first.
between one of the stops i sat in front of my house, daydreaming (ok, sleeping) in a borrowed pick-up truck with my hazards on and was jarred back into reality by a phone call from mb. "is your apartment on fire?" he asked, without the slightest bit of irony. i looked up at my building, and back into space, and back up at my building, wondering if 1) i wasn't actually in front of my building or 2) if mb was making some sort of joke referencing something that i didn't get. what i didn't manage to do, as i surveyed my surroundings, was look directly behind me at the billowing smoke pouring out of what turned out to be the dominick's (local grocery store) down the street.
first of all, good riddance. it was a crappy grocery store and kind of an eye-sore and i'm not sorry to see it go. now that space is free to become a nice (but not too nice), laid-back bar with a big patio and nightly drink specials that include $3 bloody mary's (maries?) at least twice a week.
unable to resist the urge to rubber-neck, i made a point to walk past the wreckage on my way to the gym today (what possessed me to make my debut back at the gym after a two week hiatus the day after moving furniture i couldn't say). apparently when dominick's goes out, it goes out in style... i heard something on the news this morning about a giant fire ball, and from charred carcass of what was once a building, i believe it.
more astonishing than the actual rubble was the crowd of people that were shameless stopped on the street watching the demolition crews go at it. i felt compelled to keep walking, contenting myself with a limited view, but everyone else just gawked. i don't why i was so impressed by the throng of onlookers- as far as i know it's not rude to stare at a building...
but as i forced myself to look in the other direction i noticed that the bar across the street had its patio full of people who sat there with their pitchers of beer, watching the wrecking ball with a zeal i thought was only reserved for cubs games and american idol.
so while i think it's a little tacky to stand there on the street and stare at a burned-down grocery store, my only objection to the organized tailgating that's going on is that i didn't think of it first.
Monday, June 13, 2005
striking while the iron's hot
i made the astonishing realization the other day that i seem to become a bit of a boy-magnet in the summer. i really don't get it. what i do know is that combining this weird summer phenomenon with mgfwba and her amazing wing-man-ness makes for trouble. i'm a little overwhelmed.
my blogmate, on the other hand, is ecstatic. while all these blind-ish dates have been fairly excruciating for me (both in their immediate painfulness and in their standing as a symbol of my comically sad state of romantic affairs), i think she views them as a spectator sport. not only is she willing to indulge all of my "oh my god what should i wear," angst, but she actively schemes to put herself right in the middle of everything so that she can get a better view.
unfortunately for her (and for me, as it turns out), in spite of her elaborately hatched plots to spy on my dates, she hasn't been very successful... until now.
meet new guy. new guy has tolerated not one but two dates to which i insisted on coming with entourage. not only that, but the second was to the chicago italian food festival, complete with a world pizza champion, frankie avalon, and a large man carrying a small chihuahua wearing a pink t-shirt (the dog, not the man). so my good blogmate came along, acruing what i can only imagine is a ton of blog-worthy material about going to the festival and being inserted into the middle of my date.
her approval, i suspect, is similar to mine, and goes something like, "i'll bet this guy will go to an indoor water park!"
my blogmate, on the other hand, is ecstatic. while all these blind-ish dates have been fairly excruciating for me (both in their immediate painfulness and in their standing as a symbol of my comically sad state of romantic affairs), i think she views them as a spectator sport. not only is she willing to indulge all of my "oh my god what should i wear," angst, but she actively schemes to put herself right in the middle of everything so that she can get a better view.
unfortunately for her (and for me, as it turns out), in spite of her elaborately hatched plots to spy on my dates, she hasn't been very successful... until now.
meet new guy. new guy has tolerated not one but two dates to which i insisted on coming with entourage. not only that, but the second was to the chicago italian food festival, complete with a world pizza champion, frankie avalon, and a large man carrying a small chihuahua wearing a pink t-shirt (the dog, not the man). so my good blogmate came along, acruing what i can only imagine is a ton of blog-worthy material about going to the festival and being inserted into the middle of my date.
her approval, i suspect, is similar to mine, and goes something like, "i'll bet this guy will go to an indoor water park!"
Thursday, June 09, 2005
more prada man-purse than you can shake a stick at...
my life is full of contradictions.
for the last few weeks i've been keeping track of funny things that happen in boystown.
don't get me wrong- i love living in boystown. it's fun, safe, well-landscaped, has plenty of attractive young eye-candy (that can be blatantly stared at because it ain't lookin' at me), and has countless cute little boutiques, restaurants, and candy stores.
but first there was the shiny silver convertible blaring techno-remixed madonna, driven by guy in man-slides all of 20 feet before he parked in front of caribou to buy a latte. then there was the shiny gold jaguar convertible, blasting rick astley, driven by an older version of mr. non-conservation. finally there was the day i had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a veritable gaggle of men (okay, there were 3 of them), all wearing man-capris.
travel 8 blocks south and 8 hours later and you get a totally different view of lakeview. driving home from one of my birthday outings (here's a tip- if you want two parties just plan the first one on a night that you half of your friends are busy) dwtacc decided that she was hungry and that this was the perfect time to introduce me to the time-honored late night tradition that is the wiener circle.
the wiener circle, it turns out, is a shack on clark street where terrifying people sell what i consider to be terrifying meat products (what in god's name is a double red hot?) to drunk, banana-republic clad lincoln park types and all-leather clad kawasaki motorcycle types.
dwtacc and i walked in right as the tiny angry woman behind the window lost her cool at a large angry woman (i'm not sure she wasn't a man) and let out a litany of cuss words that left feeling me a little embarrassed and alot like i needed to get the hell out of there. an equally horrified male customer caught my eye as this was going on and decided that "what the %$*& is going on???" was a good a pick-up line as any other... then i actually had to order something just to break the eye contact.
dwtacc and i decided to make our exit just as the next brawl was erupting between angry behind the counter woman and belligerent customer #2.
so what's weirder- casual drag queens in line at walgreens, or slumming rich kids in line at the wiener circle?
for the last few weeks i've been keeping track of funny things that happen in boystown.
don't get me wrong- i love living in boystown. it's fun, safe, well-landscaped, has plenty of attractive young eye-candy (that can be blatantly stared at because it ain't lookin' at me), and has countless cute little boutiques, restaurants, and candy stores.
but first there was the shiny silver convertible blaring techno-remixed madonna, driven by guy in man-slides all of 20 feet before he parked in front of caribou to buy a latte. then there was the shiny gold jaguar convertible, blasting rick astley, driven by an older version of mr. non-conservation. finally there was the day i had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a veritable gaggle of men (okay, there were 3 of them), all wearing man-capris.
travel 8 blocks south and 8 hours later and you get a totally different view of lakeview. driving home from one of my birthday outings (here's a tip- if you want two parties just plan the first one on a night that you half of your friends are busy) dwtacc decided that she was hungry and that this was the perfect time to introduce me to the time-honored late night tradition that is the wiener circle.
the wiener circle, it turns out, is a shack on clark street where terrifying people sell what i consider to be terrifying meat products (what in god's name is a double red hot?) to drunk, banana-republic clad lincoln park types and all-leather clad kawasaki motorcycle types.
dwtacc and i walked in right as the tiny angry woman behind the window lost her cool at a large angry woman (i'm not sure she wasn't a man) and let out a litany of cuss words that left feeling me a little embarrassed and alot like i needed to get the hell out of there. an equally horrified male customer caught my eye as this was going on and decided that "what the %$*& is going on???" was a good a pick-up line as any other... then i actually had to order something just to break the eye contact.
dwtacc and i decided to make our exit just as the next brawl was erupting between angry behind the counter woman and belligerent customer #2.
so what's weirder- casual drag queens in line at walgreens, or slumming rich kids in line at the wiener circle?
service with a smile
i met my blogmate in the west loop last night to celebrate her belated birthday and my belated completion of the marathon, and also to exchange the gossip we'd accumulated in *gasp* 4-5 whole days of not talking to each other. i have no clever unifying theme for the following series of events; really, i think everyone working last night was just plain funny.
i stopped at the relatively new chicago chocolate company on randolph to try to find a last-minute gift to accompany the cute green running socks i'd found while in san diego. on being asked "can i help you find something?" by the guy behind the counter, i hesitated while trying to explain my dilemma, then blurted out, "i'm trying to finish a gift for a friend, and all i have for her is socks. they're cute running socks, but that's not an adequate gift. can you suggest a chocolate to accompany socks?" to give the guy credit, he first demanded to see the socks, then asked whether they were the kind with separate toes. on learning that they were not the separate-toe kind, he suggested that i purchase fudge.
socks and fudge in hand, i then walked across the street to meet my blogmate for sushi. i think it says something about my lack of class that i intentionally pick menu items based on their funny names. at the greek restaurant with twinset and her husband it was the saganaki flaming cheese. tonight it was poochi-poochi sparkling sake, served to us with great flourish by the very affected waiter (who, as my blogmate puts it, "must live in [her] neighborhood (boys' town)." is it really necessary to sip and approve a drink with bubbles that has a picture of a dog holding a blanket on it? but give me credit: i exercised some restraint and did not insist on ordering the fuji apple fu for dessert, mostly because another option involved green tea cheesecake on a brownie crust with fresh raspberries. mmm...
after dinner i dragged my blogmate to the south loop to pick up a gift certificate for our boss from the chicago firehouse, which is a beautiful rehabbed building with fancy american food. i walked into the main lobby where a whiny assistant-manager type was berating two bored staff about how they recognize restaurant regulars via their fancy computer system. this must have been riveting, because i stood there for quite awhile before they even looked at me, and even then nobody offered help. eventually i singled out bored staff #1, a tired blond career-waiter-looking guy, and asked him for a gift certificate. he suddenly realized that if he helped me, he would not have to be berated by whiny assistant-manager, and left to procure the certificate. meanwhile, another customer came to the front to ask for a cab home, where he too was promptly ignored for a few minutes. feeling bad for the guy, i whispered in his ear that if he was actually in a hurry he might want to consider interrupting their conversation. eventually he got his cab from them, but not before he decided that he should start a very poor attempt at hitting on me, complete with "so are you new in town?," "i'm in town for a conference... yeah, it's full of nerds," and "i'm actually running this whole circus" followed by a description of the trade show booth this very important man was in charge of. but i have to give the guy credit: his attempts were bad enough that they drew the attention of bored staff woman #2, because when he left she finally stopped her argument with whiny assistant-manager type long enough to laugh and reassure me that he must be tanked, seeing as his dinner partner was passed out on the table.
apparently all the fun happens on wednesday nights. who knew?
i stopped at the relatively new chicago chocolate company on randolph to try to find a last-minute gift to accompany the cute green running socks i'd found while in san diego. on being asked "can i help you find something?" by the guy behind the counter, i hesitated while trying to explain my dilemma, then blurted out, "i'm trying to finish a gift for a friend, and all i have for her is socks. they're cute running socks, but that's not an adequate gift. can you suggest a chocolate to accompany socks?" to give the guy credit, he first demanded to see the socks, then asked whether they were the kind with separate toes. on learning that they were not the separate-toe kind, he suggested that i purchase fudge.
socks and fudge in hand, i then walked across the street to meet my blogmate for sushi. i think it says something about my lack of class that i intentionally pick menu items based on their funny names. at the greek restaurant with twinset and her husband it was the saganaki flaming cheese. tonight it was poochi-poochi sparkling sake, served to us with great flourish by the very affected waiter (who, as my blogmate puts it, "must live in [her] neighborhood (boys' town)." is it really necessary to sip and approve a drink with bubbles that has a picture of a dog holding a blanket on it? but give me credit: i exercised some restraint and did not insist on ordering the fuji apple fu for dessert, mostly because another option involved green tea cheesecake on a brownie crust with fresh raspberries. mmm...
after dinner i dragged my blogmate to the south loop to pick up a gift certificate for our boss from the chicago firehouse, which is a beautiful rehabbed building with fancy american food. i walked into the main lobby where a whiny assistant-manager type was berating two bored staff about how they recognize restaurant regulars via their fancy computer system. this must have been riveting, because i stood there for quite awhile before they even looked at me, and even then nobody offered help. eventually i singled out bored staff #1, a tired blond career-waiter-looking guy, and asked him for a gift certificate. he suddenly realized that if he helped me, he would not have to be berated by whiny assistant-manager, and left to procure the certificate. meanwhile, another customer came to the front to ask for a cab home, where he too was promptly ignored for a few minutes. feeling bad for the guy, i whispered in his ear that if he was actually in a hurry he might want to consider interrupting their conversation. eventually he got his cab from them, but not before he decided that he should start a very poor attempt at hitting on me, complete with "so are you new in town?," "i'm in town for a conference... yeah, it's full of nerds," and "i'm actually running this whole circus" followed by a description of the trade show booth this very important man was in charge of. but i have to give the guy credit: his attempts were bad enough that they drew the attention of bored staff woman #2, because when he left she finally stopped her argument with whiny assistant-manager type long enough to laugh and reassure me that he must be tanked, seeing as his dinner partner was passed out on the table.
apparently all the fun happens on wednesday nights. who knew?
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
bringing grown men to their knees
this weekend i was in san diego with mb and my running partner (who refuses to read this blog despite her love of gossip) running the rock 'n' roll marathon. it was a fun race overall, with local bands every mile for entertainment, and i felt less terrible at mile 22 than i have in the past, plus it was a good excuse to spend the weekend lounging around a hotel pool and eating everything in sight. mb did an amazing job, finishing an hour ahead of my partner and me, but in running faster, he missed the quirks that happen at the back of the pack. so rather than a sporty blow-by-blow description of each mile, i offer the following list of observations:
1. every sport seems to have its own collection of personalities, and distance runners seem to either be 1) young type-a's 2) 50-year-old men experiencing fitness rebirths, or 3) fundamentalist christians running for jesus.
2. it's fun to warn 50-year-old men experiencing fitness rebirths that two type-a running partners naturally have developed a strategy for finishing the race, but that it involves distracting ourselves by telling the girliest gossipiest stories we know. nothing makes a man look humble quite as fast as the prospect of four solid hours spent stuck with "and then he said... and i was like... can you imagine?"
3. don't sell them short: 50-year-old men experiencing fitness rebirths can be fun running partners for young women type-a runners with semi-scandalous stories. in fact, they might even contribute some tame but entertaining stories of their own about their grown children's adventures.
4. but you have to be careful: just because a man is 50 and experiencing a fitness rebirth does not exclude the fact that he might also be a fundamentalist christian running for jesus. in that case, the young type-a runners should specifically avoid any overt discussion of sex while retelling their scandalous boy stories to prevent unwanted discussions regarding the status of their souls.
5. the young type-a's can then resume the best parts of their stories after the 50-year-old man experiencing a fitness rebirth who also might be a fundamentalist christian running for jesus has lost them by stopping in the race to talk on his cell phone to his buddy larry, thus 1) saving the best stories for the end of the race and 2) prompting an additional theory that the 50-year-old man experiencing a fitness rebirth who might also be a fundamentalist christian might also be a closeted homosexual.
6. a finish line located on a military base makes for a very, umm, secure-feeling exit from the festival grounds, complete with men in uniform pointing guns at the weary finishers who are, in all likelihood, much too tired to even contemplate violating national security.
7. exiting the shuttle back to the hotel is a herculean feat, since it involves a line of post-marathoners trying to bend their knees enough to descend the shuttle-bus steps. never have i seen so many grown men whimper on exiting a simple little bus.
and most importantly:
8. a pre-race day that includes three hours spent lounging at an outdoor buffet breakfast, followed by shopping with a quick break for smoothies, followed by napping by the pool with a quick break for dairy queen, followed by a multi-course pasta dinner, is officially my idea of a good day. i would run a marathon again just to have that pre-race day back.
1. every sport seems to have its own collection of personalities, and distance runners seem to either be 1) young type-a's 2) 50-year-old men experiencing fitness rebirths, or 3) fundamentalist christians running for jesus.
2. it's fun to warn 50-year-old men experiencing fitness rebirths that two type-a running partners naturally have developed a strategy for finishing the race, but that it involves distracting ourselves by telling the girliest gossipiest stories we know. nothing makes a man look humble quite as fast as the prospect of four solid hours spent stuck with "and then he said... and i was like... can you imagine?"
3. don't sell them short: 50-year-old men experiencing fitness rebirths can be fun running partners for young women type-a runners with semi-scandalous stories. in fact, they might even contribute some tame but entertaining stories of their own about their grown children's adventures.
4. but you have to be careful: just because a man is 50 and experiencing a fitness rebirth does not exclude the fact that he might also be a fundamentalist christian running for jesus. in that case, the young type-a runners should specifically avoid any overt discussion of sex while retelling their scandalous boy stories to prevent unwanted discussions regarding the status of their souls.
5. the young type-a's can then resume the best parts of their stories after the 50-year-old man experiencing a fitness rebirth who also might be a fundamentalist christian running for jesus has lost them by stopping in the race to talk on his cell phone to his buddy larry, thus 1) saving the best stories for the end of the race and 2) prompting an additional theory that the 50-year-old man experiencing a fitness rebirth who might also be a fundamentalist christian might also be a closeted homosexual.
6. a finish line located on a military base makes for a very, umm, secure-feeling exit from the festival grounds, complete with men in uniform pointing guns at the weary finishers who are, in all likelihood, much too tired to even contemplate violating national security.
7. exiting the shuttle back to the hotel is a herculean feat, since it involves a line of post-marathoners trying to bend their knees enough to descend the shuttle-bus steps. never have i seen so many grown men whimper on exiting a simple little bus.
and most importantly:
8. a pre-race day that includes three hours spent lounging at an outdoor buffet breakfast, followed by shopping with a quick break for smoothies, followed by napping by the pool with a quick break for dairy queen, followed by a multi-course pasta dinner, is officially my idea of a good day. i would run a marathon again just to have that pre-race day back.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
far, far, faaaaaaaar off broadway
a cautionary tale for anyone thinking of pursuing a theater major:
you may remember my previous story about the guys next door filming some likely class project, in which they mostly stood around for three hours giggling at themselves, with ten minutes' worth of taping their climbing through a window dressed as cops, chefs, villains, etc.
over memorial day weekend i was innocently grilling with mb, n and my blogmate when the building on the other side of ours burst into song. turns out my *other* neighbors were hosting a full-on musical in the back courtyard, complete with men singing and speaking in bad british accents, an electric keyboard for accompaniment, and an audience of ten-ish.
now, i have held lame parties before, including iron chef themed dinner parties, entire parties just because i bought a box of cake mix and wanted to share my cake or had a new vhs tape, halloween parties where everyone dressed as members of a swat team from the centers for disease control and went running around downtown pretending to shut down local restaurants. but this tops any of my dorky ideas. during intermission (yes, they had intermission) my blogmate and i did the only reasonable thing two amused girls drinking too many g&ts would do: poured ourselves another drink and walked downstairs to check out their stage. the weirdest thing was that both the audience and cast completely ignored us standing in the middle of their crowd pointing at stuff - they were all too busy with each other re-hashing the previous scenes. nobody seemed to think it was lame. and they weren't even drinking.
the point of my story is not that a theater major will not land you a job, or that you will spend your life waiting tables waiting for your big break unless you decide to can it and go to law school. my point is that you may be at risk of a collective sense of humor which is not normal, and no sense of irony.
you may remember my previous story about the guys next door filming some likely class project, in which they mostly stood around for three hours giggling at themselves, with ten minutes' worth of taping their climbing through a window dressed as cops, chefs, villains, etc.
over memorial day weekend i was innocently grilling with mb, n and my blogmate when the building on the other side of ours burst into song. turns out my *other* neighbors were hosting a full-on musical in the back courtyard, complete with men singing and speaking in bad british accents, an electric keyboard for accompaniment, and an audience of ten-ish.
now, i have held lame parties before, including iron chef themed dinner parties, entire parties just because i bought a box of cake mix and wanted to share my cake or had a new vhs tape, halloween parties where everyone dressed as members of a swat team from the centers for disease control and went running around downtown pretending to shut down local restaurants. but this tops any of my dorky ideas. during intermission (yes, they had intermission) my blogmate and i did the only reasonable thing two amused girls drinking too many g&ts would do: poured ourselves another drink and walked downstairs to check out their stage. the weirdest thing was that both the audience and cast completely ignored us standing in the middle of their crowd pointing at stuff - they were all too busy with each other re-hashing the previous scenes. nobody seemed to think it was lame. and they weren't even drinking.
the point of my story is not that a theater major will not land you a job, or that you will spend your life waiting tables waiting for your big break unless you decide to can it and go to law school. my point is that you may be at risk of a collective sense of humor which is not normal, and no sense of irony.
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