Why did the maestro pound the piano keys? Because he wanted them to b-flat.

NPR had a neat little story on Morning Edition this morning. It was all about the weird, cosmic effect that b-flat has on the universe. Like that it makes alligators go batshit and black holes hum it for skillions of years. You can read all about it here.

Interesting story, but they missed probably the greatest use of b-flat of all time.

And that is, of course . . .as the super secret super spy secret password from JUMPIN' JACK FLASH!!!!
Jumpin' Jack Flash! It's not even Jumping, it's JUMPIN"!!!!! What a great movie. Whoopi! With her giant toothbrush! The mannish German woman doing calesthenics on her computer! The trick chair in the office! A slutty Carole Kane! A not-dead Phil Hartman! Lady Sarah, in her little pink sheets in her little pink room! Shitty breadsticks! Jack, you sheeeet!

Clearly I own this movie on DVD.

I think I'm going to watch it tonight.

ps. I totally just made up that joke in the post title. Be honest, it was kinda good.

Yipperdee skipperdee doo

Yay! The reunion tour for The Police was announced today! I'm very excited, even though ATL dates have not been announced. Surely they couldn't resist the chance to make even more money by skipping over our fair city. Chicago, I note, is already on the line-up, so shizz. . . I MAY BE COMING UP, CLAIRE!!!!

Whenever I think of the Police, I'm reminded of the story of one of the Fowler girls, pulling up next to Sting's limo in the early 80s in Holland and he flipped them off. Good times.

I was reading about the concert announcement on cnn.com, and I got to the bottom and noticed this ABSOLUTE BOMBSHELL:

"Additionally, the Australian-New Zealand band Crowded House plans to end a 10-year hiatus once a replacement is found for late drummer Paul Hester."

HOLY CRAP!

Now that's news! v v v v v v v excited to see Crowded Hizzouse. Did you notice in the above pic that they misspelled Neil Finn's name? After all, he is only THE LEAD SINGER.

In other news, Phil Collins is rejoining Genesis and David Lee Roth is touring with Van Halen. SNOOOOOOORE!!!

STREET FIGHT!!!

So last Wednesday I got into a bit of a verbal altercation. With a complete stranger. Over a parking spot. Allow me to explain.

I was hurring to the downtown campus for my Corporate Finance midterm. I resolutely ABHOR paying for parking at that time of day, so I had my eyeballs peeled for a street spot. A street spot! I spied one, signalled, and began reversing into the spot.

To my surprise, the car behind me had someone still in it who moved up as I was backing up into the spot. I slammed on the brakes and honked my horn. He honked his. We sat there, silent. I put the car in reverse again. He honked his horn again. I still needed about a foot and a half to go. I got out to have a look. We were almost 2 feet apart and he had about FOUR FEET between his car and the curb behind him. The curb, even! Not another car! The curb! Below is a visual for your complete understanding of the situation:

Okay, before we continue, I have to point out an error in my graphic above--I was still jutting out into the entrance of a parking garage, so I still needed to back up about a foot. I apologise to my readers for submitting what is clearly an inadequate visual aid.

Anyway, I say to the guy:

Me: Hey, will you move back about another foot? I'm still in the road and I need to back up a little more.

Jackass: Naw. If I move back, you're gonna block me in and I won't be about to get out.

Me: (mind boggling at his terrible sense of spatial depth perception) Sir, I promise you will still have plenty of room to get out if you just back up a little more--you have plenty of room!

Jackass: (snorts in semi-positive way)

So I get back in the car, start to back up very slowly, and he puts his car in gear, and . . . CREEPS FORWARD and taps me! I leap out of the car and look at our bumpers. No damage. Now he has his window rolled up and is pretending to be on the phone.

Me: Sir! SIR! You have plenty of room! I am not going to block you in! You still have FOUR FEET behind you. Do not hit my motherfucking car you motherfucking asshole!

I did not say this last sentence out loud. Instead, I backed up a couple more inches so I was juuuuuust inside the curb, got out, took a picture of the distance between our cars (cameraphone), then took a picture of his license plate.

As I was doing this, he rolled down his window and said something like:

Jackass: Okay, I'm going to follow (photo?) your car one day.

Me: What does that even mean?

Jackass: (silence)

Keep in mind that I am trying to make it to class for an exam. So I heave my bag and get going. And instantly regret this stand of defiance. For the next 2.5 hours I fret and worry and squirm about three main scenarios:

1. Windows smashed
2. Entire body keyed
3. Car completely gone

What did I learn? This was not a battle worth picking. I felt like I aged 9 years during that class. Afterwards, I spotted my car up the block with immense relief. Then I saw his car still parked behind mine. Was he lying in wait for me? Armed, I'm sure? Would this be the end? I waited until a big, tall guy walked by and then I walked next to him back to my car. He wasn't in the car at all. My car wasn't touched.

Pussy.

Well blow me down! Um, actually don't please.

So guess what?

After all my pissing and moaning and whinging and wining and carrying on and huffing and puffing and grousing and griping and cursing and complaining, guess what?

I got a promotion.

Ha ah ah aha ha ah ah aha hah ha haha ha ha but it's true. My boss told me this morning. So I'm feeling pretty good right about now. Not-so-coincidentally, my frustration level today is fairly low. And I've noticed that I've been slightly nicer to people. Looks like this kind of shit actually works!

In sad-but-true news: you're the first person I'm telling. Rang Rob and he was having some kind of construction crisis and had to go before I could tell him. Rang my parentals and had to leave a message. How dare they be out at a moment like this. Anyway, yay for me?

Get ready for lameness!

Still in foul mood. Need to get some coffee (CAFFEINE!!!), but I'm hold with a vendor right now. And I need them to give me something, so I'm just going to wait.

Today's frustration level: pretty high. People are morons and I am kicking myself for not bringing my textbook for class tonight with me. Because we never use it. Except for tonight! Which I just realised approx 20 minutes ago. Grr. But people are still morons.

Ah! Time has passed. I got off the phone, got my coffee, and got spat on. By the creamer. We have the single-serv mini-cups (in four delicious flavours, no less) and they always burp out like that when you open them. A couple of precious supersweet drops on your hand or thumb. Once a supersweet superdrop actually made it on to my forearm. That one had heart.

This post is officially ridiculous. Fuck it, my favourite kind is hazelnut.

Well, helloooo there!

Check, please.

God diggity damn, am I in a bad mood today.

What? You want to hear all about it? OKAY!!!

Here goes: the number one reason is that it is annual compensation planning time at my company right now. You say, anna what? The time of year where the managers evaluate performance and allot raises accordingly, etc. Except. They don't. I'm seeing such crappy, piss-poor decision-making going on right now and it's all happening like a veeeery slow car crash that won't actually end for another couple of weeks. I'm taking about a skillion calls and emails because people don't read instructions, don't care about instructions, or don't realise there are instructions. I've got HR managers who aren't doing their jobs and thus failing their responsibilities. I've got a company trying to throw money at a situation instead of dealing with its problems. Which is creating huge problems since we are in year 3 of serious underperformance and that money hasn't been earned. But no one is being held accountable and the finger-pointing is rampant. And it just sucks. And it makes me not want to work here. And it makes my brief delight at being rated exceptional this year rapidly dissipate, since an asshole I work with who is excellent at jackshit just fooled his boss into getting the same rating.

And I think: What does it all mean? Who am I? What am I doing here?

And I remember: Ah yes, my company is paying for my MBA degree. It is my mantra. My beacon in a vast and stormy sea of shit. It's what keeps me going sometimes. But not today. Today I think it is going to require a little rebellion. An uprising of sorts. A veritable nose-thumbing at it all. Translation: I'm going to drink heavily. Hopefully soon. My liver must pay the price that my brain can no longer afford! Hurrah!

Self-destruction, here I come!

Add to list: Composer

So I made up this song late last year called You're Driving Me Nuts. I composed it in the late morning hours of 2 December 2006. How do I remember with such startling accuracy the precise moment of its genesis, you ask? Well, it was the morning that I was running around the house desperately trying to get my things together for a week-long business trip up to freezing motherfucking ass Chicago. And while I am tearing around, lugging my broken suitcase from basement, finding matching socks, cramming 3 oz toiletries into clear bag for bloody security compliance, et cetera et al, my parents. Let's just stop right there for a second.

My parents. Let me just make a really long story really short and say that at this point, my parents had been living with me in the house for three months. Day and night. Sleeping in the next room. My father either rooted in front of the laptop or hovering 3 feet away from me AT ALL TIMES. My mother, either blessedly sleeping, running me down in the hallway with her wheelchair, or getting me to fetch her water or tissues. Three months. So I was already a little tense.

So I'm packing like a madman but at every step, with every pair of undies packed, with every precious minute ticking by, an interruption. Like my dad, with the always-classic, I'm looking for something that I left right in this exact spot in the study three years ago and now somebody's bloody moved it! Have you seen it? No. Keep packing. My mother's voice, warbling from her room. Eleanor, come here for a second. I go. She throws 25 lbs* of drapery at me to pack in suitcase to give to Claire. Throw them on the pile. Keep packing. Go to kitchen for Ziploc bags. Dad scares the hell out of me by popping out of the basement door and asks me to help him hold the ladder while he trims a tree in the front lawn. I bellow I DON'T HAVE TIME and he shoots me wounded, betrayed look and nicks off.

At this moment is when the song begins to form. I write in in my head for the rest of the day and perform it for Claire when I land at Midway. And here it goes:

Chorus:
You're driving me nuts!
You're driving me nuts!
You're driving me driving me driving me driving me driving me driving me nuts!
REPEAT

Verse 1:
It's easy, it's simple
It's elemental
You're making me crazy!
You're making me mental!
Because. . .

Repeat Chorus

And that was the end of it for a while. But lately I have been working on Verse 2. I premiered a version of it yesterday afternoon to Claire over the phone. She listened and delivered the verdict: too many syllables. So I retooled it and came up with this:

Verse 2:
O how I've tried
to make it plain
I'm going loopy!
Completely insane!
That. . .

Repeat Chorus

Please let me know how much you enjoy it. Detractors not welcome.

*not an exaggeration, I had to pay excess baggage at the airport.

I just don't know what to do with myself

Yikesy. The lovely Elbo added me as a link to her fabulous blog, Discombombulation Station. See? I'm right down under the blogs-she-reads-everyday header. On the left. Lower. Keep scrolling. Below the pics, keep going. Lower. Right below the recently-updated-weblogs area. There! See? PRIME REAL ESTATE!

The point is, this puts the heat on me to update this thing. Regularly. Which I think was ALL PART OF HER EVIL PLAN IN THE FIRST PLACE! And it's totally working. I mean, I can eaaaaasily let down my dearest friends and family members, but vaguely disappoint an anonymous blog surfer? UNACCEPTABLE!

I'm yelling a lot in this post. Clearly I have a lot of pent-up anger. CLEARLY.

On a complete-180-utterly-non-sequitur-non-sequitur, I'm leaving the office now to go to a funeral. For reals. R.I.P., Ralphie. He was a good man.

This blog is a no-gay zone.

Know how I know you're gay? I don't. Know how I know my sisters are gay? See below.

As you know by now, I blogged for the first time in 932 years the other day. Upon preparing myself for another post, I happened to notice that I received 4 comments on the original-932-year-etc one. And I thought, well how very neat. Until I read them. Witness the gayness for yourself with my bonus real-time reactions in italics!

4 Comments:
At 12:32 PM, M&P's Favorite*I immediately knew this was Claire said...
i, too, longed daily for a new entry to appear...months of waiting and unquenched thirst for minutiae. and now, at long last, rewarded with a scintillating expose on the harsh reality of donning natural fibers. poetry. sheer poetry. excuse me while i put on a anne murray record and weep into my brandy snifter. *pretty damn gay, but kind of sweet
At 12:30 PM, Anonymous said...
This was indeed worth waiting for. I can't wait for the next entry, due around July, *shurrup. in which you excoriate*I immediately knew this was Leah a Birkenstock for being clunky. You've been railing about raw silk smell since I dared wear it around you in about 1992.*That's fucking right, biz! Nasty shit! Get over it or get rid of it. Better still, give it to me! *Fast becoming her stock response in fervent attempts to usurp my wardrobe. Believe me, she is weeeeelcome to this sweater.
At 4:41 PM, M & P's Favorite said...
A) leah, don't even bother being "anonymous" b/c only you would reply to a blog using 'excoriate'*Totally nailed it, nice one.
B) if el does decide to blog about her birkenstocks, it will include descriptions of pong akin to a thousand raw silk sweaters left soaking in vinegar and recently unearthed from a sulfur pit *I can't argue with this, really. The first rule created by my freshman year roommate was that the Birks had to go immediately into the closet once they were off my feet.
At 8:30 AM, Prolix*Again, dead giveaway for Leah said...
Hmmm... thought I had to be anonymous if I didn't have a Google account. Evidently not. I revel in my new assumed identity! *aaaand, gay.

But, I hear you ask, who are these people, really? Well, my sister Claire:

Ha haha ha ha ha h ah ah ha ha h aha haaa I had to have a reason to post that picture again. This, as you will recall, this is actually the friend of an old workmate of mine. I just had to put this picture up again. It fills me with such delight. Evil, evil delight!

To play fair, here is one of my favourite pictures of Leah, juuuuust realising that the writing was done in chalk. Pesky, very transferable chalk. Bwah ha ha ha!

And, scene.

O Happy Day!!!!

Holy shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, I'm posting!

I'm really just doing this for my sister Leah, who mentioned a few days ago that she STILL CHECKS MY SITE FOR UPDATES. This despite the fact that I have not updated since AUGUST OF 2006. Her loyalty and dedication to my blog brought a tiny tear to my eye. Just the tiniest of tinies.

So a new year. And, yet, the same old fucking problems. Case in point: the sweater I am wearing right now. It is a gold silk lovely from Banana Republic that I bought a couple of years ago. I love it. It looks really good. I can't bring myself to get rid of it. But. it. fucking. stinks. And I'm not talking the sickly-sweet-nasty-ass-raw-silk-smell that I do truly despise and almost gag when I get a whiff, I'm talking about. . . a more. . . . organic pong.

I noticed this problem around this time last year, when I was sitting in my MicroEcon class. Naturally, I spent the entire class shooting poison eyes at everyone around me. . . until I realised that I was the pong originator. Horrified, I banished the sweater to the laundry room, where it sat for most of 2006 until I decided what to do with it. Finally, off to Avondale Cleaners where I asked the guy to do anything and everything to get the pong out. He immediately replied that he could make no guarantees. I said, well just try. And he said, no promises. And I said, OKAY, just see what you can do. And he said, pick it up Thursday.

This was a few weeks ago. And I am wearing it today. And the guy was right: he could make no guarantees or promises. Because the funk is still there. I have been walking around with my arms stiff at my sides like an android all day. Now I know you think I am being ridiculous and thinking oh just get rid of it already but if you saw it. . . I just looked down and realised that there are drops of my Thai noodle I had for lunch all over it. I don't know how many people have seen (and smelt) me today.

It's fucking out of here.

To be fair

K hasn't posted since 13 July. FACE!

Madly straightening up the place

I have the feeling like when a friend/acquaintance/rogue Spanish lover is on your way over to your house unexpectedly and you spend frantic minutes picking up clothes and papers and used tissues and whatnot just to get things somewhat presentable for your guest. As to offer a great departure to the rathole you normally live in. Why? Because Elbo might be reading this blog now! And I don't want her to see the crappy post that has been sitting here for OVER ONE MONTH NOW.

So basically that's a big screw-off to all (read: two) my faithful COP readers who have gotten dick-all for their patience.

As a consolation, would you like to be my rogue Spanish lover?

No?

Would you like me to tell you that I am very sorry and it meant nothing to me and it was only because I was obliteratedly hopelesslytatedly schnookered and I promise baby baby I'll never slap you around again and just to show you how serious I am here are some flowers that I bought just special for you with a little teddy bear with them because I know how much you like teddy bears huh baby huh?

No?

Well, I just don't know how to please you anymore.

Stories I Forgot to Tell You, Volume 1, Issue 1

Lo, this is the actual Dunkin Donuts that appears so prominently in the story below. I took a picture of it while driving by one morning and nearly got in a wreck.
When my parents first arrived in mid-APRIL for what-would-become-the-neverending-of-2006-visit, I did not yet know then what I know now. Sure, I expected my father to spend 2 solid days sorting through the 900 Christian magazines/newsletters/catalogues/solicitations he has received at the house since his last visit. And I knew that he would quickly monopolise my laptop at all hours of the day, cursing at his inability to manipulate the mousepad which is naturally the computer's fault, not his. I was not surprised to see my mother rapidly descend into her habit of remaining seated in the same spot on the couch for days at a time and the wholesale consumption of anything remotely sweet in the house. The subsequent dusting of the entire house with tissues, half-completed crossword puzzles, and glasses of water was almost comforting to me, a loving reminder that I was once again. living. with. my parents. But never.

Never did I suspect that attempted murder was afoot.

Scene: We arrive home one night from a lovely dinner out. I am fully sated, a little tipsy, and more than ready to throw on my pajamas and hop into bed. I come in the front door with my mother following behind and, as I am crossing the room, I glance over at the Chinese coffee table where I notice that there is something underneath the table, like shredded-up paper napkins or something. This is Tallulah's not-so-secret hideout, where she is likely to bring and destroy something she has gotten ahold of that is not supposed to. So I say to my mother as I am headed towards my room, "Hey, it looks like Lu got into something," and I'm a little irritated, thinking that it is a discarded paper towel or something that my mother has left around, and I don't like Lu misbehaving. I reach my room and hear my mother say, "Oh no," in a way that lets me know: fuck shit.

Flash to me on my hands and knees picking up dog-chewed remnants of my mother's PRESCRIPTION MOTION SICKNESS MEDICATION blister pack that is almost entirely empty to the tune of about 13 or 14 pills. I look at Lu and she doesn't seem out of the ordinary, just maybe a little mellow. Like she is a little high. And a little tired. I look at my mother and she is looks at me as if to say, "What? I don't have pets. I never even think about this kind of stuff." So I call the animal poison control centre and finally they tell me that they have only had two cases of this kind of medicine ingestion ever and in one it was way less and the dog was fine and in the other the dog, uh, DIED.

So I'm driving to the 24-hour animal hospital at fucking 1am with the dog in the back, who seems a little like she is just catching on that we are probably not going to the park. My mother was like I'm coming with you and I hissed NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! because my only consolation with the situation was that I could chain-smoke all the way there and all the way home. I see the vet, we talk, she pokes and prods Lu, I leave Lu there and drive home. I do, however, wake my mother up 5 hours later to go with me to pick the dog back up by 7am, lest they start charging a skillion dollars a minute in morning charges.

(Side story: when my mother was getting dressed, my father awoke briefly and said, "What's going on?" My mother explained that she and I were going to pick up the dog. He thought about this and then said why so early and my mother replied that they charge exponentially for additional time past 7am. And my father was quiet for a while and then my mother heard his voice rising from the pillow: "Worth every penny.")

Mum and I pick up Lu--apparently the only excitement is that she threw up once around 5am, a reaction to the charcoal pills administered to her to quell the effects of the poison. She's pretty out of it, though, so I get her into the back seat and start to drive us home. And my mother says, "Oh let's stop and get something to eat first." And I say, "Uh, well, I guess we can maybe do a drive-through or something, but clearly the priority is to get this animal home and settled." Which actually came out more like, "Um, ok."

So I point out a McDonald's that is across the street and my mother acts like I just suggested that she eat a piece of poo. So then she volunteers IHOP and I tell her there is no way that we are sitting in a restaurant when my just-pulled-back-from-teetering-on-the-brink-of-death dog is lying in the back seat of my car. And my mother rolls her eyes and says "Hunh!" all breathy, which means that I am being a total square and I really need to relax, man. Keep in mind that she has just paid approximately $300 for the hospital visit as punishment for almost killing my dog.

So we end up driving for a couple miles looking for something, and I'm just about to turn around when my mother bellows, "DUNKIN DONUTS!!!" And then proceeds to give me an order so extensive that I have to find a piece of paper to write it all down. The man working behind the counter actually has to help me carry it all to the car. So I get in and my mother is like, "Oh, let's just sit here and eat for a bit." And I am hungry, but I look at Lu and she is laying down and slowly looks up at me with watery, doleful eyes as if to say, is it almost over yet? So I take a swig of coffee and a bite of my croissant and begin to drive us out of the parking lot. And for the second time in less than twelve hours, I hear my mother say, "Oh no."

I stop the car and look back and Tallulah has vomited all over the back seat. And because she had been fed charcoal, the vomit is jet black and slimy. I nearly threw up. It was almost a Stand By Me-esque vomit extravaganza. My mother? Completely and utterly unfazed, continued to nibble on her doughnut and drink her juice. So I get Lu out of the car, clean up the back seat (sorry Big Lots parking lot), get towels back there--by this time, Lu is weak and leeeeaning against me for support, so I have to lift her back in the car. My mother? Eating, drinking. Ho hum.

I pull out of the lot and up to a traffic light and I hear the noise. The huck-huck-huck in the throat that lets me know that this is juuuuuuuuust before Lu is about to lose it again. So, with one foot on the brake and with one hand on the wheel, I grab a Dunkin Donuts bag and swivel around and god bless it if this dog doesn't spew every drop of black vomity goodness into that bag. I mean, not a spilled drop. Not one. Then the light turns green, and I turn towards home. I hand my Mum the bag and say, "Sorry about your fritter." And she says, "What?" And I say, "Oh, sorry about your bear claw." And my mother, who has shown NOT ONE IOTA of emotion, caring, empathy, or concern up to this point, howls:

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"

As if she is starring in Sophie's Choice. As if portions of her body are being extracted out of her by force. As if falling down an interminable well of shame and regret.

When I point this out to her, she is quiet and seems a little embarassed. NOT, however, too embarrased to mention more than a few times before arriving home that (in a small voice), "It had just been so long since I had had one," and "I only got to have one bite."

I don't want to hear your shit.

And that's exactly the kind of attitude that keeps my readers coming back. Yeeeees.

I don't even know if you are going to be able to read the below IM convo I just had with K, but it was funny. A little slice of life, if you will. And you will. OH YOU WILL!

Anyway, I know you have missed me terribly. But I've had lots of shit to do. Like loll around in my bed on the weekends and surf the internet at work. Here are the highlights of the recent lowlights:

• more than 3/4 through Business Law course
• work has been eh but picking up
• parental drama with my mother's knee dying down*
• going to Chicago to see Claire and attend Lollapalooza in 2 weeks
• juuuuust started dating a boy so yay fun
• been flossing much more regularly
• planning my late birthday party for 26 August, mark your cals
• it's so hot, even I have been using my air conditioner
• putting one leg on the wagon (0 drinks this week so far, about to change tonight though)

Hope this satisfies you for a while. I'm probably going to have to start slow.

love, me.

*this reminds me that I have a story I have to tell you later.

A Lazy Sunday parody, how novel.

I know, I know: I'm officially the lamest. But Special K (with strawberries) and soy milk is so good that I don't care! I don't! I have been having this for breakfast for about two months straight now, and it never fails to please. And you can't toy with the recipe: I tried cow milk last week and just about threw up. A near-spew. Narrowly avoided. One slight variation that is barely permissible is the light soy milk--but it's just not the sweet, fatty goodness of the regular soy.

But to each her/his own. I won't judge you.

What? Yeah, I know. Shut up.

You know what's a good album? This one, over here to the right. Yes, the tiny picture. It's It Still Moves by My Morning Jacket. I don't know when it was released, it's not brand-new, that's for sure. I bought it because it has a song on it that my sister Claire put on a mix for me that I really like called Golden. But now I think my favourite one on the whole album is track number nine. I don't know what it is called. Shit I really need to get on this. Okay, hang on.

Got it: album was released in 2003. And the song is called Rollin' Back. I hope you are happy.

In other news, I have class now on Fridays. AWESOME!!! It's only through the first week of June, but AWESOME!!! Tomorrow Kat and I are having Spa Day hurrah. And Sunday I will probably just be doing homework shizz. Off to DC to see Gin next weekend and parentals will be here for most of June. I got an A in Global Econ. The digital camera my sisters and I bought for my dad's surprise birthday pressie arrived yesterday. Don't worry, he doesn't even know about this blog. So I can ramble on about all the RAMPANT SEXUAL DEVIANT ACTS I AM PERFORMING if I wanted to. This presumes that I am actually having sex. Which as of late, I am not. But on a good note, I don't have cancer. I'm not being facetious, the report from my biopsy came back all clear the other day. The office was very lassez-faire about it--I hadn't heard anything after a few weeks, so I rang and they were like "what? oh, ok, hang on. *wait* "ok, uh no, nothing, you're clear." *click*

Well, this post took a left turn. Eh, what do you expect after such an absence?

I want a refund on my crappy weekend.

This weekend I resolved to drink little and be very productive. I succeeded on completely inverse levels. At least the drinking was isolated to Friday night only, but nonetheless, it was bad. And by bad I mean that I fell out of the cab at my house. Recovered pretty quickly, but have a lovely blue and bloody knee to show for it. Also found my calculator and tissues that spilled out of my purse on the driveway the next afternoon.

So I didn't go out for the rest of the weekend, but it didn't matter--the weekend was already cursed. I wake up at 2am the next night to the progressively louder and consistent noise of a helicopter hovering over my neighborhood. I think oh well it's in the area nearby, but NO it is shining the spotlight ON MY STREET looking for god knows who. The scene was replete with policemen on foot walking around with flashlights, poking into bushes and whatnot. I watched for about a hour peeking out from my bathroom blinds while sitting on the toilet. Eventually everyone went away, so I watched an old SNL until 4am. It was a rare 95-96 season one with Jim Carrey. Probably would have been funnier at any other time than 4am.

The coup de grace? Last night's dream, in which I dreamt that the man I was probably supposed to marry showed up into town with his girlfriend and I had to host them for the whole weekend, taking them around to tourist spots and bars and shit. The whole time I kept thinking, "I can't BELIEVE I am doing this!" while seething with bitter jealousy.

Even my dreams hate me. Weekend, I want my money back.

Moon River, wiiiiider than a mile. . .

I'm crossing you in style some daaaaaaay. . .

My friends are all class. Well, one in particular.

INTERNATIONAL DAY OF LEAH!!!!!!

So I think I work pretty hard. I busted my hump all weekend, writing papers, reading case studies, conducting analyses, and researching business theory. And just for kicks, I picked up my OTHER sister from the airport, washed the dog, cleaned off the back porch, and did my taxes. I did a lot of stuff, and I still have a lot of stuff to do in the near future and a lot of people to do that stuff with--which I am cool with, it just means that I have to keep organised and focused and make sure I get everything done when I need it done.

So this morning I check my email, and there's one from Leah entitled: "feeling overlooked." Which refers to the fact that when I blogged about being busy I FAILED TO MENTION that, in addition, my sister Leah will be visiting in early May. So. Here goes.

MY SISTER LEAH WILL BE VISITING IN EARLY MAY AND I AM JUST WETTING MY PANTALOOOOOONS IN ANTICIPATORY EXCITEMENT JUST THINKING ABOUT IT. REALLY! I JUST WET MY PANTS! WET THEM STRAIGHT THROUGH!!!

As an visual ode to the occasion, I have created a collage of Leah, a veritable Leah melange of goodness. Behold:

LEAH!!! LEAH!!! LEAH!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!

Okay, that's quite enough of that. To bring us back down, here is a picture of Leah when she realised that the rock she had been leaning against was covered in chalk:



I love that one. See ya soon, Sis. Mwah!

Post titles? We don't need no stinking post titles!

The tension has been palatable. From the brownstones to townhomes to the farmhouses and palatial estates all over this great land of ours, one question has been on the people's minds: and it is: here it comes:

Will. Eleanor. Ever. Post. Again?

I know, I know, it's been rough. Every day checking the blog in ever-decreasing degrees of hope, wishing, PRAYING, that it would be the day that El would update.

Well, today is that day.

What have I got to say for myself? Let's see if I can nutshell it. I turn 30 in 9 days, the same day of the resurrection of Christ (oh that crazy Christ! but seriously, the competition is so fierce this year), but BEFORE then: my sister comes into town, then my parents, and then I get a piece of my cervix taken out. The latter for which they prescribed me exactly two valiums. That I am guarding like a crack addict.

Other than that, I've got a fuck-busy weekend coming up and I've been hungover at work the last two days in a row. AWESOME!!! I'm sitting here right now plotting the lies I could concoct to be able to leave early.

So, to conclude: you didn't miss much.

And, scene.