I fear it's only the beginning.

Shopping at Jewel has got to be the most fun thing ever these days. The glass case (sandwiched in between dental care and contraceptives) that brought us such awesome keepsakes as the Love Beyond Words frame is stuffed to the gills with more, well, keepsakey frames! For example. It's hard to see from this picture (and P.J. won't let me take it home for a better photo) so I'll narrate. We have a couple of crazy kids clutching chardonnays (chardonnaies?), staring off into a vineyard. It looks like a vineyard. It could just as easily be a cornfield, I guess. But what separates this from any other dime store tacky frame are the words scattered willy nilly (haphazard seems too harsh- I'm sure they had a design scheme, even if I don't fully understand it): honeymoon, my true love, I love you, etc. And the prominent words, thusly leading me to believe that this is the intended title? Special The Beginning. That's not even a sentence. Yet I love it. I wonder if it could be featured on Engrish.com.

A little extra photo fun for you as well- if you look behind Special The Beginning, what do you see? Why, it's part of Love Beyond Words! (Why has no one snapped this frame up?) Also, a pair of concerned eyes feature prominently in the pic. They are mine and the concern is real. For behind Special The Beginning is a frame I like to call Dreams Come True. (That's what it says on the frame.) The photograph is a close-up of a baby boy, his face smooshed into a pillow. I don't even know where to begin with that one, nor do I wish to contemplate what kind of dreams (plural!) have just come true.

I would have taken a picture of that one too, but someone felt the need to continue with our grocery trip. In the name of art I'll return soon for more documentation. You're welcome, Kate.

My reckless disregard proves that I don't work for the CTA!

Last night, after Instant Theatre (which was great, by the way- and there's talk of workshopping one of my plays! Calloo!), P.J. and I went to Margie's Candies. It's gotten so we can't be on the Western bus, at the Armitage and Western corner or even on that leg of the Blue Line without needing to stop by for some ice cream. ("Well, we're here...) Last night was no exception, although we decided to only get it to go. (Does that make it less of a Margie's Candies spree? "We've had ice cream four times this week!" "Yeah, but that last time we just got it to go.")

You see, the Western bus is darned finicky (see- Expresstern post) and can take quite a bit of time to show up. Not last night! As soon as we exited the shop (shoppe?) we saw a bus coming. A way down the street, sure, but certainly not enough time to pound a pistachio cone without getting a headache the size of Guam. Or even Rhode Island. Besides, I was walking veeery carefully as the pistachio was apparently quite slippery. The guy at Margie's scooped some on my cone, went to hand it to me and PLOP. In some other tub of ice cream. (I asked if I could just carry that one home. He laughed. I was serious.) So, I was rushing the pistachio for NO MAN. P.J., of course, had no such issue as his was a chocolate malt and lidded as per bus regulations. We had a Benny Hill-like few moments where we decided how to hide the cone from the bus driver. Under P.J.'s shirt? No. Upside down in his malt? Perhaps, but...no! It doesn't fit! Can you drink faster? No? Darn it...As the bus pulled up I was struck with inspiration. Wrapping a napkin around the top of the cone, I placed it into my bag (an Italian leather beauty that cost a few hundred bucks, mind you. It was a gift and had they but known it would be a vehicle for dairy it might have been revoked) and nonchalantly beeped my bus pass, smiling at the driver. We sat way in the back and I carefully unwrapped my pistachio prize. No ice cream headache! No wasted food! And best yet, no five hundred dollar fine for eating on the bus 'cause I housed that baby. (Apparently no one says "housed" out here, Kate. Can you explain?)

Speaking of Kate (hi, Kate), she called me today and as I picked up I heard, "Just in time! Are you ready?" And then chorus of "I just called to say I love you." Phew! We almost missed our song on the radio! It's a good thing we caught it or we'd just have to wait until the next time Bohemian Rhapsody, She's Like the Wind, You Shook Me All Night Long, Dancing on the Ceiling or anything from the original cast recording of Grease came on. (It shocks me that we accomplish anything in a day at all.)

And this is for Kate as well. (It just passed the test of a modern day three and half year old, so I really think they had something there.)

No vegans here, thankyouverymuch.

Last night we went out to dinner at Brazzaz, a fantastic Brazilian steakhouse for an all-you-can-eat steak, chicken, bacon-wrapped anything and lamb extravaganza. Turns out, we can pack away quite a bit of protein. They also have the best salad bar I've even seen in my life. (Does that make me sound like a rube? I hope not.) They had oysters!The "all you can eat" aspect reminded me of an Ellen Degeneres standup bit ("Do we really need all we can eat? We're not bears.") but it was still fun to attempt. It got a little stressful towards the middle of dinner, however. They have these chips that say on one side "Yes, please" and on the other "No, thank you." That means that the meat-wielding gauchos will pass by your table with alarming regularity and if they see the "yes" chip they begin their litanies; Shrimp? Yes please. Lamb chop? Sure! Filet? Flank? Sausage? Oh, well I... Bacon-wrapped chicken? Bacon-wrapped bacon? I mean, sure, yes, I like those things, but... Grilled pineapple? Please stop! Okay, fine, one piece. Two, yes, okay fine, but that's it.

Thankfully P.J. had the presence of mind to turn the chip over for me. But then the stress of flagging down the gaucho whose meat you wanted (that sounds weird) with the "Yes, please" chip without sending out the wrong signals to the gaucho you like just fine but aren't interested in that way. It was also sort of like a seance where you're putting yourself out there for something but you really don't know who's gonna end up at the table. P.J. was exceptional at turning the chip, but I'd get so excited at my third helping of grilled pineapple that before you could say Garlic Beef Coulette I'd get gauchoed. We ended up with a few prime cuts of Guilty Beef for not being quick enough on the "No, thanks" chip.

That said, it was excellent and I highly recommend it. Did I mention that their salad bar has fresh oysters? They do.

Tonight I'm being featured as part of Chicago Dramatists' Instant Theatre. Nine playwrights, a few parameters for the script and actors who show up with no idea of whom or what they're playing. It is so, so fun. 8pm at the Dramatists' Theatre. Free! Need more? My one-act is called "Go to Bed, Janie," and our "rules" for the night were to feature a situation where someone is "on the edge" of something. Also, to play around with the "rules" of up and down, east and west, our ideas of space and so forth. I've already said too much.

I am so full.

There's no smoking in the fireworks tent.

I think I've figured it out. Sure, we've all been alerted that there will be travel delays on the brown line (and red line, purple line and any other line that roughly intersects and can be forced to travel on the same track) and we've been urged to be patient, "leave early, leave late, alternate," all that helpful advice. We've been given numerous phone numbers to dial if we'd like to vent to a recorded message and, in some cases, a bored "operator." But now they've given me the best and clearest picture of the situation with which we must deal; a cartoon depiction of the station personnel's workday. Great, fantastic, the blurry text explains that workers are standing by to deal with issues that may occur. Terrific! Why are two of them holding hands? Is the third one their screen? I'm all for star-crossed (track-crossed?) love affairs, but please fellas, on your own time. I'm telling Ron Huberman.

(A slightly embarrassing footnote- I was en route to the Sedgewick station and on the phone with my mother when I heard a train pull up. I frantically told my Mom that I'd call her back, hung up, pressed the camera function and tried to snap a nonchalant picture before the train opened its doors. I failed. So yes, I was that person who held the doors of the train open to lean out and snap a second blurry picture. I apologize, rush hour rides. So, I guess the delays are due to amorous employees and vigilant bloggers. So Mom, sorry if you thought I was in immediate danger of getting hit by a train. I wasn't.)

This weekend we went to Cincy to see the in-laws (I can write that now, you see) and had many fun adventures. To start things off, after we hopped off the Skyway (a bit out of the city) we discovered that I-65 was closed for oh, about five exits. So, hah ha, they detoured us! For forty minutes! On back roads and alternate highways that led back to Chicago! Gasguzzleriffic. The trip was redeemed in Lowell, Indiana, however. As we were filling the tank (thank you, Failure to be a Good I-65), a girl handed us a coupon for "Five dollars worth of free fireworks" in the tent behind the station. (Anywhere else in the country I feel like it'd be phrased "Five dollars off," but whatever.) So we bought some! Things that pop, sparkle, sizzle and shoot up, and even one with a panda! Aside from the fact that they're sorta completely illegal in the state of Illinois, it's very exciting. More on that as it develops.

And upon our return at 10pm on Sunday night (yes, we had a fun time in Cincinnati, but that's for another post) we discovered that the carnival that parks itself in the Lane Tech parking lot, the one that we always, always miss was in town. A carnival, mere steps from our apartment! We were not going to miss it again! So, with a rented PT Cruiser stuffed to the gills (hubcaps?) with registry gifts procured from the inlaws' storage, we locked the car and ran over to the Fair to see if we could still buy tickets. We could not. However, our puppy dog eyes and deep sighs of dismay did not go unnoticed by a burly security guard. "Take 'em up," he said to the half-asleep operator of the WindJammer. Yes! We were allowed a (free) ride on a contraption that straps you on your belly and lets you soar at a sideways 45 degree angle at vomitous speeds! It. Was. Awesome.

More adventures later... for now, I'm off to pick more strawberries and perhaps float them in the kiddie pool with my two year old boss.

Sure, it's funny, but I still can't mail my bills.

Fine. I'll admit it. The majority of my posting process goes like this: my sis Kate will email/call me with something wacky, we'll laugh/joke/talk about it for an hour, I'll write a post about it, I'll call her to see if she's read the post, she'll read it and be the first to comment, she'll call me back to see if I've received the comment, and we'll talk some more about how funny whatever it was actually was in the first place. Ah, the magic of the internet. It really brings people together!

Next youngest sis Chel just landed in Venice for her summer of thesis research (i.e., finding just the right blend of tasteful and funky in a Venetian glass gift for one's sister[s].) Youngest Em (she's not the youngest Em I know, just the youngest one in my immediate family) is sailing around the continent in a makeshift dinghy, collecting marine samples that, through careful study, may save us all. (I actually have no idea what she's doing there, I imagine it's on a real boat that someone else made. There was talk of snailing, whatever the heck that is. I think it's a science term.)

And as for me, I spent yesterday with my Wednesday/Friday gals and a playdate friend. The sun was sunshiney and the juice boxes were flowing like water with organic fruit blends added. Our first stop was Dunkin' Donuts, as I had promised my older gal a pink froster for my birthday on the 6th (You see, on my birthday I like to take my kids out to do all the fun stuff I like to take me out to do. My hope is to one day have a cavalcade of children gleefully exclaim "Oh, it's her birthday at last!) However, on that day we enjoyed torrential downpours so it had to be postponed. Her friend had never even been to a Dunkin Donuts and kept asking what this place was called, again. There were two pink frosters left on display, so my older gal said, "Hmm. Splitsies?" Thusly, pink frosters and apple cinnamon jammers were eaten on our way to the sticker store. (Why? What do you do at your office? I know that Nat plays volleyball.)

SO. The sticker store, a.k.a. Scrapbook Source is quite a cool place. Unfortunately, it's going out of business. Fortunately, I let the girls load up their arms with stickers and fancy paper and it only cost six bucks. (75% off the clearance items? We're going back on Friday.)

Then, we went to the park and had a picnic. The girls and a few other chickadees they met inevitably started to play in the way that girls of any age [ahem, middle school] are wont to do- at the exclusion of one or two. It was then that I had my moment of brilliance. "Girls...do you know how to make a bird's nest?" No, they said. (Me neither. Turns out, making a passable bird's nest is three parts confidence and one part dexterity with clovers.) I told them that EVERYONE had to work together to get each ingredient. Before you could say 'Hannah Montana' (what is it with me and Miley Cyrus lately?) I had piles of twigs, long-stemmed clover flowers, dirt, leaves and wood chips (city kids in playlots think wood chips are naturally found in large quantity out of doors) at my disposal. We tied knots in the long grasses, stuck flowers in the loops, tied twigs with clover around the outer ring and stuck bits and pieces of nature in the gaps to make it "comfy." The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to convince birds to move in. That part was a little depressing. But at least we were all playing nicely!

In other Chicago news, the postal annex on Lincoln and Addison is out of stamps. Their vending machines will take your money, oh yes they will, but when you inquire as to where the heck are my stamps, you're informed that they're gone. Gone, you ask? They took them away, you are informed. Who took them? And what did you do?

Let that be a lesson of some sort. In other news, I'm still out of stamps.

...Just remember who said it first.

Big news recently was the controversy surrounding Miley Cyrus. Not that one! The other one! Apparently her song "See you again" sounds a ton like "Sunglasses at night" by the one and only Corey Hart. (I love that song. Not that one. The other one.) Also, Avril "Originality" Lavigne's ditty "Girlfriend" is a direct ripoff of The Rubinoos "I wanna be your boyfriend." This last tidbit made me feel a whole lot better- I was kinda hating myself for rocking out (crunching out?) to it at the gym. Well, I didn't play it, it was on the playlist for this abs class I take on Thursdays...oh, no matter. My point is, yes, I can read the back of your morning copy of "RedEye" on the train, and yes, that is where I get my "news."

My other point is- this is not news! It used to be news! You know when? When it was called "I want a new drug" by Huey Lewis and the News and it was ripped off by Ray "Ghostbusters" Parker, Jr.! (Good song.) People have always done this and always will. If you have a stellar song, chances are people will want to pretend that they wrote it! I do it all the time! (There's less chance of getting sued if it's someone like me, but still. See how easy it is? Now pretend I'm Avril Lavigne. Not you, P.J. But I think we can all see what I'm getting at!)

Sticking with this thread (stay with me), I've also had this nagging suspicion lately. Have you watched "Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves" recently? Have you also watched "The Cutting Edge?" Well, I sure have. You know that part of the latter where they've made it to the Olympic Trials and there's all this triumphant music, right before we find out that D.B. Sweeney will button his collar button for no man? I'm pretty darned sure that it's the same as the soaring music when Robin returns to Locksley manor and...(well, you all know what happens.) Sure, I have no "proof." But I'm working on it.

On a completely (mostly) unrelated note, Hale from the Cutting Edge is exactly what I imagine when I hear the word 'fiance.' You know, the guy Kate's going to marry? It always made me think of some guy who's running your Dad's company in the London office and wears loafers. I've never trusted people who bandy that term about. I mean, come on, where was Hale when Kate was working her butt off for 18 months trying to prove she could qualify?

These are all things that bother me slightly. I'm gonna go order a Hawaiian pizza and I'm certain I'll feel better in the time it takes to say "Pamchenko Twist."

Sign me up!

This is an actual travel insurance payout list for an American Express Corporate cardholder (in this case, my brother in law, whom I dearly hope I am not jinxing as I have become quite fond of he and his beat-boxing ways.):

1. Loss of life: $350,000 (Nothing funny here, although that is more than my husband's life insurance policy. Maybe we should get an AmEx?)
2. Loss of two or more hands or feet: $350,000 (I read this wrong the first time...)
3. Loss of sight in both eyes: $350,000 (Like that episode of Quantum Leap where Sam was a concert pianist and was blinded by a flashbulb. But that was only temporary. And fictional.)
4. Loss of speech and hearing: $350,000 (Might as well throw in breathing. What HAPPENED to you?)
5. Loss of one hand or foot: $175,000 (That is indeed half of $350,000)
6. Loss of sight in one eye: $175,000 (Like if you were poked.)
7. Loss of speech: $175,000 (Is this like being rendered speechless?)
8. Loss of hearing: $175,000 (Pretend you can't talk and it'll double.)
9. Loss of thumb and index finger on the same hand: $87,500 (This is MIGHTY specific. On the same hand? And why not the middle finger and thumb? It makes a better claw.)
10. Loss of carry-on bags: up to $1,250
11. Loss of checked bags: up to $500 (These last two seem downright paltry, now that I know how much money you have. Although I imagine if you lost my carry-on bag you may also have lost me along the way. So I guess it all adds up.)

Yoshi's just a better racer, that's all.

Turns out, the "dive" bar we went to on Friday night was actually a sweet little Korean place. Sure, it wasn't the Cape Cod Room at the Drake...(as so few places I go to are- in fact, none of them are the Cape Cod Room at the Drake. I've never been there. But it sounds so nice!) It was quite fun nonetheless. The bartenders, a mother and daughter team, actually thanked us each time we ordered a drink. A copious amount of thank yous went around! The karaoke machine played muzak versions of a bizarre cross-section of "popular" songs. I sang Roxette's "Fading like a flower," only to be joined for some intense emoting by a guy I had never seen before in my life. The machine had a crazy grading system and we received a 91 out of 100. I felt we could do better! Later in the evening he joined me again for Roxette's "She's got the look." 97. (I'm rather certain some people thought we were Roxette. I did nothing to negate this belief. I've always liked Roxette.) P.J. did a great Johnny Cash, but then again, he always does a great Johnny Cash.

On the way home we decided to run by the Wiener's Circle. Yes, Mom, that's the real name.

En route, we experienced the Clark bus at its finest; a very large woman with a mohawk and a predilection for nose-picking, a girl with great yellow heels (P.J. correctly identified them as "pumps") who inexplicably began crying while her boyfriend remained oblivious, and a frat boy who ran in FRONT of the bus (joined by eight hundred of his frat brethren) yelling "I am a pedestrian!"

But on to the Wieners. Best late night dogs + attitude in the city for my $2.49. Char-cheddar red hot with everything! If you tried to offer me celery salt, neon green relish or a bizarrely tangy cheese sauce in any other facet of my life I would laugh. And wonder why I was being offered condiments. But in Chicago and on a fabulously charry dog and at 2am it just hits the spot in that "I'm 28- aren't I a little young for heartburn this fierce" way.

On to Saturday! We decided to ride our bikes to the beach to continue with our No Longer Planning A Wedding revelry. Limey, my lime green 10-speed with its '82-'83 Greenfield, WI permit sticker (they make you register your bike in Wisconsin? It must have been a Reagan thing) drew many an envious stare. Perhaps it was the streamers.

SO. It was a four mile bike ride to Montrose Beach and when we got there we not only noticed that the beach was quite full, but also the water was quite empty. We forgot to check the bacteria levels online, ha HAH! After calling the Park District hotline we discovered the Montrose was the only beach affected by high bacteria levels (I think it may have had something to do with the dog beach being RIGHT THERE, but I'm not going to dwell too hard on that. I love Montrose Beach.) So, we rode north another mile to Foster. A beachtacular time was had by all (and a family size bag of Cheetos.) Ten mile roundtrip ride! Limey is now in the shop pleading exhaustion, much like a starlet in rehab.

Later I went to the Old Town Art Fair, but as the Brown line took an hour and a half to get me there, (usually a 25 minute endeavor, but north and southbound trains were sharing the same track. How fun AND dysfunctional!), I got to Sedgwick just as the artists were rolling the sides down on their display tents. Sigh. A vendor gave me a bag of Fritos, though, so the trip wasn't a complete bust. However, as it was my second bag of chips that day I was at a very real risk for scurvy.

Met up with some friends at Midsommer's Fest up in Andersonville and got a seven dollar gyro from the Andie's stand. (I really needed some citrus or some greens at this point.) And then a coconut shake. (Oh well.)

P.J. met up with us as we made our way to another lovely pal's birthday party at her pretty, pretty apartment. (It doubled as a housewarming party even though they'd lived there for a couple of years. Maybe they were afraid of our group of friends? They needn't have been. We all behaved.) At least six theatre companies were represented which, as anyone knows is the mark of a superb party. I did have the intense joy, however, of meeting a girl so dense that she repeatedly lectured me on a show I worked on for a solid five months AND told people that she could explain it more concisely...on the basis of having seen it twice. But, as this is a family blog, I won't dwell on that negativity. I calmed myself with some excellent canapes.

The evening was so warm that we decided to walk the eleven blocks home. The beauty of the moment was only slightly marred by the car that raced by, shattering a parked car's side mirror. (I tried to get the license plate, I swear I did.)

Sunday! Lollygagged in the a.m. (see? It's relevant!) and then headed over to St. Ben's. Rode our bikes over to the bike shop to deposit Limey and then had a divinely fantastic brunch at Victory's Banner. This place is sublime. Blueberry streusel French toast with a lemon marscapone filling! (People unfamiliar with me on a personal level may, upon reading these posts, assume that I weigh roughly three hundred pounds. I assure you this isn't so.) P.J. got a Neatloaf sandwich. For the restaurant is vegan. But again, you don't miss the meat. And again, I love meat.

Then, like the millionaires we are in our minds, we went to an open house for a home that we could pay a fraction of the mortgage for if, say, I sold a kidney. But we joined the mailing list!

Back home, same day. P.J. did actual yardwork while I pretended to garden. (I'm truly awful at it. I have a black thumb.) But the strawberries are thriving despite me! And the lettuce, peppers, tomatoes, sugar snap peas, lilies, oregano, dill, parsley, basil (okay, the basil needs a little TLC), chives and assorted hearty li'l flowers! I picked all of the edible things into a big bowl and made quite a good side dish for the bacon-wrapped hot dogs P.J. skilleted up. (It must be a midwestern thing.)

And then...mojitos. And then...Mario Kart! (I realize that eventually I have to go back to the obligations and stresses of my previous year, but until then...Toad and Yoshi.)

So, now it's Monday and I'm taking care of my rockstar two-year old guy. This a.m. we strolled (literally, in his stroller) to my house to inflate the kiddie pool his parents gave me for just this purpose and fill it with frigid water. ("Kiki, it's chiwwy.") We made makeshift boats out of his tiny Crocs and floated miniature Ernie and Elmos around the pool, then picked strawberries from the garden which he promptly dunked into the pool. ("Winse!") I figure that the strawberries are healthy (no pesticides) and the water was added only moments before from the hose, so...I'm practically helping to raise an organic child. I drew the line at tossing Goldfish crackers into the water, no matter how clever I may have thought it was.

He started to nod off on the six block walk back to his home and was asleep on my shoulder before we reached his crib. (Sometimes I wonder who has more fun with my days, the under-6 set or me.)

What the deuce...?

My sister just went to a wedding where they served fruitcake. That's not right. Who serves fruitcake? Who likes fruitcake? Are you telling me that the bride and groom chose fruitcake to symbolize their [dessert] love? You don't do that. As Johnny Carson used to say, there's only one fruitcake in the world and it keeps getting passed from family to family. I wonder if it was a gift. You know how some people will inevitably complain if there's only yellow cake or like, red velvet at a wedding? What kind of response were they expecting by serving a "cake" enjoyed by less than four percent of the populace? (I just made up that number.) They should have been stopped. I've been married enough (once) to know that the bride and groom can easily be stopped.

And this part is for my mother. (Feel free to keep reading, but I guarantee you won't find this as entertaining as my Mom undoubtedly will.)

So, Mom. Did a little research into the song you asked about. My initial answer was correct; Manfred Mann DID do a cover of Springsteen's "Blinded by the light", (the first single from Greetings From Asbury Park NJ, 1973) and the verse you had questioned was "revved up like a deuce/another runner in the night." Basically, a deuce is a two-seater car a la the Beach Boys' "Little deuce coupe." (Springsteen's version says "cut loose" instead of "revved up," but since he bandies the term about half a dozen times on that album alone, maybe Manfred Mann decided to take creative liberties. That could happen, right? The world's most prolific cover band taking creative liberties? Sure!)

And there you have it. Revved up like a DEUCE, and not that other noun which I hope we never have occasion to say to one another again, on the phone or otherwise.

Would you like to see some common misheard interpretations of that line? A few gems:

Racked up like moose that's been run over in the night...
Wrapped up like a dude, sha na na reuben in delight...
Wracked up by the goosin' and the runnin' in the night...
Caught up by the juice bar in the middle of the night...

You are so welcome.

Tonight I'm going to a Korean dive bar up in Andersonville for a karaoke birthday party! Tomorrow I may head over to the Old Town Art Fair. Hey! Chicago Social should link up to my blog, you know, for things to do about town! They do that, right? I've never actually read Chicago Social. I won't let that stop me.

I'll meet you at the restaurant.

Ooh, it's a sticky day. Took the Western express bus to work (or, as I like to say "Expresstern") which means I showed up late and ripe. P.J. is convinced that a person's smelliness on the bus can rub off on you- literally make you stinky for the day by relative osmosis. I hope he's wrong, 'cause I spend an awful lot of time on the Blue line, or, using its street name, the Pee Pee train.

Good morning!

Speaking of transit, I had the great fortune of sitting next to a bona fide freakaroo last night. Well, technically, I had the first sideway seat on the back of the bus and she had the last forward facing row...so in essence I was in her lap. The phone call that she took (on her headseat- I always think people are talking to themselves, does no one else worry about this?) started out innocuously enough. There was talk about going downtown. She had already been downtown! Dinner? What about that Mexican place? I like that Mexican place. Then it got slightly more loudish. So, you don't want to meet me? Oh, so I should come meet you? But I've already been downtown! I'll go back downtown, but I've already been downtown! I was already there!

People started to glance around, a bit uncomfortable. (And if you've ever tried to make a packed Addison bus uncomfortable at rush hour on a game night, you'll know it's an uphill battle! Bunker Hill! But louder!) Then she really got going. Well, what was up with that [expletive] you pulled at 2:30? How about that [expletive] you pulled? No, no, no, no, what was that [expletive] you pulled at 2:30? FINE. I'll meet you at the restaurant. I'll meet you at the restaurant. I'll meet you at the restaurant. I'll meet you at the Mexican restaurant. (It was like sitting next to Rain Man.) Fine. But I've already BEEN downtown. (Oh no.) I was just there! I'll go downtown, but I've already BEEN downtown. Fine, I'll meet you at the restaurant. (Hang up the phooone.) I am not talking about this on the phone. I am NOT talking about this on the phone! Because I'm on a bus and I'm not TALKING about this on the phone! Yeah? Well, I HATE THE WAY YOU TALK TO ME! I'll meet you at the restaurant.

She hangs up and the passengers on the extraordinarily packed bus exchange uncomfortable brow raises and giggles. The lady to my left uncovers her son's ears. The White Hats eat their Taco Bell. AND THEN. Her phone rings again!

I TOLD you I didn't want to talk on the phone! Well, I'm on the phone! What, what, what, you can't NOT talk on the phone for the next half hour? (!) I'll meet you at the restaurant. (They're still going to have a meal together?) I SAID- I'll meet you at the restaurant. WELL, I'M TIRED OF YOUR [expletive.] I'll meet you at the restaurant.

I wanted to lean over and suggest that they order a pizza and stay in, as this lady was clearly jonesing for a public fight. (You always get the flautas! You ALWAYS get the flautas!)

This took place over the course of ten blocks.

On another note, they're gonna add Addison to the bus tracker! I swear I don't work for the CTA.

Love beyond words.

Okay, this is pretty special. You don't see this sort of thing just browsing up and down the aisles of your local Jewel Osco every day. But that's just what I did!

Let's start with the obvious. Your love is Beyond Words. But just the right size for framing! And it's clearly intended as a gift...for a wedding? Bar Mitzvah? I can't imagine anyone buying it for themselves. (Honey, I found this right there in the store- it's like they made it for US!) Besides, to keep a frame like this around is a pretty ballsy move. Are you trying to intimidate your friends? Are you that couple that doesn't need other friends? Well, with a few more purchases like this that may no longer be a pesky issue!

NOW. On to the happy couple. Oblivious Yarmulke Guy is pleased as punch to either be a) in Love or b) on a date with someone who is not quite feeling the Love. I don't believe I've ever seen an actual grimace before! Satin Pashmina Girl is pretty resolutely resigned to being with this guy. Maybe it's her prom? Maybe her mother set her up with a nice Jewish boy? Or perhaps she has seasonal allergies. Those are the worst.

I'm having a bit of trouble believing that this is the best example of Love Beyond Words that the framing company could find. Unless they were trying for irony. Or maybe, just maybe, the Words that their Love is Beyond are: prenuptial agreement. Oh no! Yarmulke Guy made his wife sign a prenup and she had to go along with it because, after all, he is a doctor and she has all those loans from Sarah Lawrence. But she doesn't have to be happy about it, and nothing he says or does can take away the memory of that artist with his rent-controlled loft in SoHo, the one without two nickels to rub together...Darn her pride!

But maybe some Words are better off left unspoken.

Not the end of the Road[house.] (Yes, I owe abcNEWS a nickel.)

Do you know who's great? (Do you think this is a poor way to start a blog? Discuss.) Patrick Swayze. The man has pancreatic cancer yet continues to work on a new cop drama in which he plays a "gritty FBI agent." Patrick! I realize I am late to the party in acknowledging your illness, but I had no idea you were still filming cop dramas! I love cop dramas! And I love you! Nobody puts Patrick Swayze's career in the corner. Here's something else I learned today. Patrick Swayze has a fan site where you can become a "Swayze Buddy." Sure, you think I'm kidding around, but I guarantee at least three new memberships today (my sisters)...maybe four! (Hi Mom.)

So there you have it. As for me, I have no such illness (or cop drama) to speak of, but I DO have a brand spankin' new freelance writing gig (jinx jinx jinx), a couple of plays under my belt (skirt? waistband?), and a new husband (upgraded from a leased boyfriend) who majored in awesome and minored in doing the dishes. I won't go into too much marriage detail because, as the five-year old whom I nanny for put it, "That seems like the kind of thing you should keep to yourself." The fact that I AM married, I asked her? "That's just what I think," she said.

On that note, I nanny for five faboo children (belonging to three rad families) and split my week between them. I could, I imagine, make it one massive day with all of them. I could charge a hundred bucks an hour! No one would pay it, but I could charge it!

I live in Chicago, in the terribly cool Roscoe Village neighborhood. (Come on, Wrigleyville, it's not THAT far away. Twelve blocks west.) Have you ever been to Victory's Banner restaurant? I think you'd like it. No meat, though, just a warning. You won't miss it. And I love meat. PETA's gonna dig this blog.

And that's enough blahblahging (ooh, domain name change?) about myself. Did you see the "Arrested Development" where Chachi (yes, that's his real name) is Bob Loblaw and works as a lawyer? In his spare time he writes BobLoblawsLawBlog. (You know, the ol' lawblog?) I WISH I could make this stuff up.