Get cool, boooooy.

So I've been taking the dogs on these epic walks, right into the thick of things in Wicker Park, to try to get them to be more socialized when a dog goes by. Which, in a large metropolitan city, is once every 5 seconds. Anyway, I've realized that I've taught them not to bark by using the words "Be cool, be cool." Apparently, I am training my dogs not to bark, while at the same time teaching them how to make it in a West Side Story gang.

****

Last night, we went for margaritas at Tecalitlan:



I ended up like this:



Damn margaritas and their ability to make you not feel your feet.

I owe the Chicago Public Library ninety dollars.

Just now, I was writing an email to my friend Jeff about books we've read, and while I was doing this, my brain said to itself, "Gosh, I wish they had something like Netflix for books."

And then my brain thought about it, and then went, "Oh good Lord. That's what a library is."

I was appalled that my brain had this monologue with itself. Even more appalling, though, was that I found out that there actually is such a thing.

Saying goodbye.

Today on the way home from work for lunch, “Undone” came on the radio, and instinctively I rolled down my window and turned it up, as I’ve found I always do whenever a Good-Era-Weezer song comes on the air. It’s like I’m slipping back in time to eighth grade, where I would do the same thing, I guess in the hopes that another like-minded eighth-grade boy would hear the music and turn in the direction of the car, and from there a tumultuous eighth-grade relationship would begin. I think you can probably guess that this never happened. I bet it’s just because my mom was crimping my style, there in the driver’s seat.

Anyways, so I’m jamming, right, and then I remember a conversation that Steve and I had last night over dinner, which involved him giving me the news that Weezer is releasing a new album, and that said album won’t have a name, but it will be colored red, a la 1994 and 2001.

He also told me that word on the street is that Rivers is also sporting a thin, hipster-ironic mustache, too. I guess here I should clarify that "the street" = music message boards that Steve contributes to, which I consistently make fun of because he makes fun of me for my Flickr obsession. Glass houses, Steve. But anyways - Rivers! Thin, hipster-ironic mustache! On any other man I'd say that I'm 100% pro-facial hair of any kind, EVEN the ironic kind, but because he's Rivers Cuomo, this news just makes me want to sock him square in the mustachioed* face!

My hatred for Rivers is based partly on his horrible musical contributions in the last few years, but more because of that time when Weezer did a record-signing at Mars Cheese Castle, and Steve went, and as they were getting on to their bus Steve called, "Wait! Would any of you like a cheese curd?" Brian Bell and Rivers gave him dirty looks, while Patrick Wilson said, "Sweet! Thanks!" and took one. So everyone in Weezer save Patrick Wilson are dead to me now.

Needless to say, 2008 Me gave a sad, figurative wave goodbye to 1994 Me, rolled the window up, and changed the radio station.

****

As I was leaving my house on the way back from this same lunch, I remembered I hadn't taken my birth control pill yet, so I did a little pillpop&walk to my car. I looked up as I was multitasking, and saw a chick walking with two little kids in a stroller right in front of me. She sort of looked at me, and I can't be sure if it was because I might be in her way, or if she saw that unmistakeable packaging and was offended that I remembered to take my pills because I saw her kids. That wasn't the case at all! Wise 2008 Me realized, though, that trying to possibly explain this to a total stranger was venturing into a World of Hurt, so I just felt like a tool and soldiered on.

Then I bashed my head on the doorframe of my car, which I normally would want to do something stupid like chalk that up to karma or something, but fuck that noise. As of now I refuse to be superstitious.

*Mustachioed is one of my favorite words! I got sort of bummed when I read that there is an adjective equivalent for plain old mustache. I refuse** to use it.

**I'm chock-full of refusals today! Ask me to marry you! I'm not going to say yes!

Thundersnow: Not nearly as cool as Thunderdome.

Yesterday we had thundersnow. THUNDERSNOW. Just kill me now, please. Apparently I no longer live in Chicago, I've been teleported to Narnia, pre-Pevensie intervention. Goddammit it.

Last night all I could do was make a meatloaf in my I Love Lucy flannel pajamas.



I'm still wearing my flannel pajamas at the end of March! Goddammit it.

****

Steve has abandoned me for the weekend. He's going to Memphis, to MLB's Civil Rights Game, which features the White Sox vs. the Mets.

Really I'm happy that he's going, because he's not necessarily one of those people that throws caution to the wind and takes off for a selfish weekend. I think you need those sometimes, though. He's meeting his brother, who's a pilot at Southern Illinois University, and he's going to sleep on his bro's couch and, I don't know, do some other shit that you do with a bunch of college guys.

I did my requisite freak-out-at-Steve-and-make-him-the-sole-reason-my-life-sucks routine early last night, only to realize (and admit - I'm not above admitting) that it was really just my mind finally reacting to possibly missing him while he's away. I tend to go the Nonsensical Route when it comes to dealing with my emotions.

Actually, though, I sort of wanted Steve out of the apartment for the weekend because I have a date with my mom, my carpeting, and a Rug Doctor. We are going to clean the hell out of that indoor/outdoor eyesore that is my floor. Then, starting Monday, the kids are going to be sequestered to the kitchen when I'm not home. It's definitely a downgrade from their awesome couch privileges, but it will also be nice not to have my apartment smell like piss.



****

I also have a date on Sunday night with PBS, and the final installment of "The Complete Jane Austen." Incidentally, today I got an email from some friends of mine informing me of a movie night that, sadly, is at the same time as "Sense and Sensibility."

Sorry guys, but escapism-through-Romantic-era-costume-drama wins.

And I think it's gonna be a long, long time.

I've decided that, this summer, I'm going to channel Elton John whenever I step out into the sun:



Except I'm going to channel awesome Elton, not any of that 1980's, 1990's, "Circle of Life" shit.

Teeth curls

I just opened up my new pack of Orbit Gum, and on the back of the box, it says, in BIG letters:

"HELPS FIGHT CAVITIES BY STRENGTHENING TEETH."

So all morning, all I've been thinking of is an image of my little teeth, sweatin' it out in my mouth, doing squats, lifts and cardio.

Tuesdays in a boring office can do this sort of thing to you.

Just as bright as pink.

Happy Easter! I really pulled out all the stops when choosing my Easter outfit this year, and decided to abandon the normal spring-y colors of this season and instead celebrate Christ's resurrection by dressing in the colors your bruise turns a few days after you plowed your shin into the coffee table:



All I need is an bonnet, and I'm set.

****

Moxie has been getting 5mg of Pepcid AC twice a day, thanks to a recent bout of diarrhea and vomiting. Call me crazy, but I think it had something to do with that ENTIRE LOAF OF WONDERBREAD SHE ATE ON THURSDAY. I walked in the door of my apartment, and all that was left of the bread Steve had bought the night before was a ripped plastic bag and one of the heel ends.

As she was heaving up a whole slice onto my shoe, I stepped out of the situation for a moment, and thought that perhaps, maybe, I should have just cut my losses when the cat died, and been left with only one animal to take care of. I couldn't for the life of me remember why I had thought it was a good idea to get another dog.

But then I took off said soiled shoes, went inside, and Moxie wriggled and writhed on the ground in complete Adorable Mode - I mean, she really knows how to dish out the Cute, and dishes it she does - and, well.....acidic, yeasty bread vomit can't hurt a suede boot too much, right?

Sigh.