fucking winter colds

I feel like complete ass.

Watching this over and over again...it makes me feel better.

Hey girl, you grab the blankets. I'll make you some chicken soup and we'll curl up and watch Buffy.

Movie Trailers - Movies Blog

yes, fine, I will admit it

I am still not friggin' done reading the Harry Potter series. I have the seventh and final book left, which I plan on starting next week and finishing over the weekend. How I've managed to not have the ending ruined for me, I have no idea. But I'm assuming once the film opens on the 19th, that may change, whether I like it or not.

Plus, I like the stories and do very much want to finish them all. I just need a little non-magical reading thrown in too.

Where I'm going with this post is here:

Next weekend, my plan is to not only devour whatever I have left of Deathly Hallows but to do so after having made Butterbeer Cupcakes as an accompaniment. They sound eighteen kinds of delicious and as an added little treat, provided it arrives on my doorstep sometime this next week, I hope they're going to be the very first things I make with this:

I've wanted one for years and since I've been baking lately, I've noticed that it's terribly difficult with a hand mixer and a fairly small Pyrex bowl; half the flour winds up on the walls and half the liquid gets splattered all over whatever shirt I'm wearing. It annoys me and when I get annoyed, I get cranky and when I get cranky, it is not at all pleasant. And baking is all about warm, happy feelings; not unpleasantness.

So, I bought it. And I'm psyched. And I can't wait to bake up a fucking storm.

abandoned

so long, farewell

For tonight's dinner, I'll be having a ginormous healthy salad, chock full of eggs and chicken and all that good protein-heavy stuff.

Because for this morning's breakfast, I'm having apple cider and a gluten-free almond raspberry breakfast cake; a.k.a. carb-o-rama.

Fall is here, which means the Farmers Market at Daley Plaza is on its way out. So, until summer returns, awesome market, I bid you adieu.

The title of this post is from one of the most adorable scenes the cinema ever did see.

my cupcakes are moist and delicious. men love my cupcakes.

I kinda love the days when I don't even leave my apartment but still have an enjoyably productive day. I indulged in my fairly new weekend habit of waking up and rather than getting right up, lounging for a bit and reading my way out of bed. Shortly after that, my super awesome aunt called and despite my semi-hatred of chatting on the phone, we spent nearly two hours catching up on life's happenings. After some more reading, some cleaning up of the DVR, and some laundry, I said to hell with the unseasonably warm 70 something° weather and got my bake on.

Although the batter resembles cooked squash,

it baked up right nice and morphed into pumpkin spice cupcakes.

Not only was this the first time I'd made cupcakes that didn't start off as powder in a box but it was also the first time making my own frosting. The recipe makes far more than what's needed for one batch of cupcakes so I'll have to find something else to whip up that will taste good with it. And it will take a little bit of experimenting to get a consistency I'm really happy with but for my first time out, I was quite satisfied with my brown sugar cinnamon cream cheese frosting.

Slap that on some of those naked-looking cupcakes above and voila...

Tasty homemade cupcake-y goodness!

The title of this post is from one of the best television shows of all-time.

what are you holding out for?

I like television. A lot. I don't schedule my life around it (my life isn't exactly located in the fast lane) but I do consider the invention of the DVR and the ability to pause live television nothing short of godlike. I very much appreciate and enjoy when the thoughts and ideas in one's head make it out; in whatever way, shape or form that person chooses to let them out. Books, films, television, paintings, drawings, music, childhood macaroni art, random scribbles ... they're different outlets for creativity, sure. But they all reveal things about their creator and I admire people who are bold enough to share those things; whether it's with one person or a few select people or the rest of the world.

One of the best things about watching the idiot box is the music I discover. There is almost always a behind-the-scenes genius who I imagine spends his / her time listening to music and is somehow able to just *know* when a particular song works with a particular scene. When watching certain shows, it's become habit for me to fire up Shazam so I can easily turn a few-seconds-long snippet into a full-length awesome new song.

This is one of them. The finale of the first season of How I Met Your Mother involves one relationship ending and one beginning. This song plays in the final scene after one character had the best night of his life and comes home to find his best friend had the worst. It's perfect because the lyrics make me kinda sad but the overall feel of it makes me wanna...act with reckless abandon.

from one of my father's morning emails...

I would like to see you closer to us, but I love the fact that you live where things are happening! I want to enjoy some of that w/ you.

I love Chicago. I do. I think most people spend their lives looking for three major things: what they're meant to do with those lives, who they're meant to spend them with, and where they're meant to spend them. The first one has always escaped me and the second...well, I don't believe in the 'soul mate' theory and choose instead to believe there are many people in the world with whom I could be perfectly happy. Who and where the fuck they are, I have no idea. But that last one? That one, I've managed to find. For me, home isn't where the heart is but where the heart grows and thrives. Some places just feel like home and for me, it's here.

One of the best things about it is that my parents and I are close enough and they're at the age where it's more financially doable than it was in years past to come visit. Although he grew up in a tiny-ass town in the Adirondacks, my father has always been a city lover. When I was little, I was in my parents' room and found a paper bag full of money from all over the world that he had saved from the time he spent in the Navy. He never wanted to be a career military man but he did want to get the hell out of Small Town, USA and joining the Navy was his way of doing that. I love asking him just one small question about that time in his life because he'll go on and on and on about the places and things he saw and how lucky he was to be able to do that. My mother, on the other hand, was never a lover of city life until I moved to Chicago but she's grown to really love experiencing some of the things she never before had a chance to experience. It's been brought up several times how awesome it would be if they moved out here after they retire. A year ago, she wasn't at all ready to sell their house but when she was here in August, she told me she really thinks she could do it and be happy here. If they'll ever really make that big leap, I don't know. But it also wouldn't surprise me if they one day seriously consider it.

They'll be coming out again for Thanksgiving this year and this morning as I flipped through the craptastic free newspaper on my way to its crossword puzzle, I saw this ad for a concert on December 4th:

My parents love smooth jazz. My dad always says, "the stuff will just clear your head," which is the part that usually trips me up because even though I spend far too much time in there already, the entire point of music for me is to *keep* me in my head. I like my tunes to leave me wondering about things and remembering times gone by and questioning where I'm heading. I like my music to leave my head a jumbled up mess of thoughts whereas my parents like it to just mellow them out. For the most part, I divide the smooth jazz genre into two sub-genres:

1. Elevator muzak

2. What I like to call, "music for makin' love, Wonder Bead style"

I certainly don't think there's a single thing wrong with makin' sweet, sweet love but most of the tunes I put in that category simply put in my head images of John & Jane Doe frolicking around a Sybaris-esque love den, complete with candles and bearskin rugs and rose petals on the bed; all of which, to me, are uber cheesy. Thoughtful, genuinely caring gestures that may lead to activities of a carnal nature, I quite enjoy. Cliché romantic ones, not so much. Songs in the elevator muzak category just leave me stuck between wanting to shake my ass just a tiny bit and wanting to fall right asleep.

However, I *do* have somewhat of a musical thing for Brian Culbertson, who also happens to be my parents' favourite artist. And also happens to be the blonde guy in the above concert ad. I'm adding this photo soley because my musical 'thing' for him ain't just musical.

I dig him. I dig him mucho. I love that he started playing piano at the age of eight, I love that his jazz band-leading father encouraged a love of music, I love the originality of most of his stuff, I love that it's not just a dude and his piano but a dude and his piano rockin' out with other dudes and their instruments of choice, I love the fact he's a little contemporary and a little old school and a little jazzy and a little R&B. And anyone who my mother says broke his keyboard during a concert because he was just banging the living hell out of the thing during the entire show, I imagine is one hell of an entertainer. Really, I just love me a skilled musician whose passion is playing the keys.

(One of my BC faves)

So, after they head back to New York the Monday after Thanksgiving, they'll be turning around and flying back out that weekend for a concert at one of the most stunningly beautiful, historic theatres in the city.

I love so very many things about Chicago. But these experiences...the ones that because I'm lucky enough to live here, I get to show people and and share with them...those are the absolute best.

why i love "how i met your mother"

And Neil Patrick Harris. Well, one of the reasons I love Neil Patrick Harris. Mmm, Neil Patrick Harris.

* insert squiggly, dream-like sequences lines and ... music. you know the kind i'm talkin' about ... *

Wait, no. Not that kind of blog. Not that kind of blog!

On Monday's episode of How I Met Your Mother, Barney and James (brothers played by Neil Patrick Harris and Wayne Brady) came across an old letter their mom had written but never sent. It was a photo of the two of them as kids with the words, your son written on the back. Realizing it was a letter to one of their fathers, the entire gang went to the man's house to meet him. Barney had a touching moment when he finally acknowledged that he didn't really believe Bob Barker was his father (his mother had told him he was) and he was finally ready to meet his real dad.

When a black guy answered the door, it was clearly James' father, not Barney's. Unable to accept that, Barney convinced himself he and James shared the same father and he was black for a day.

Legen ... wait for it ...



... dary!

sustenance for both the body and the soul

My lunch routine is usually quite...well, routine. I escape with two of my favourite my co-workers, we talk about stuff, we eat, we return to work. I thoroughly enjoy the company of said co-workers and look forward to getting out of the office everyday come 11:30.

But, I've gotta say that I do so adore my occasional chance to have a solitary lunch.

I'm taking a short breather from The Great Harry Potter Re-Read (I *will* finish the series this time. I *will* finish the series this time.) and after only fifty pages, am completely in love with David Nicholls's One Day.

The cup behind it is the cup from which I devoured what will from here forth be known as The Best Fucking Smoothie Ever™. The desire to go somewhere other than our usual lunchtime haunts had me scouring the web this morning for a new healthy-enough spot to try out and I stumbled across Protein Bar; a place I'd never heard of and is conveniently located a few blocks away. Please note: should any of you who may visit my fair city (and me!) also have the desire to see the Sears Tower (Willis Tower...whatevs), I'll be dragging you to this place because it is directly across the street.

After indulging in my Virgo tendencies and deciding from their online menu what I wanted (for the most part), I ventured over and returned with a cranberry walnut salad for my dinner at the hotline tonight and a smoothie for lunch.

I can now, without reservation, tell you that the Wrigley Peeled is a chocolate protein (you can choose from whey, soy, or egg), almond milk (you can choose from the usuals, soy, or almond), all-natural peanut butter, fresh banana, and agave nectar party in my mouth.

Thank you, my lunchtime companions, for taking the day off.

i don't LOL at my desk very often

But this morning? Hahahahahahahahahaha!

days of our lives - day 03

Your parents

I just wrote a lengthy post describing how awesome my parents are and as I re-read it, I realized it revolved solely around their role as parents. My parents are, first and foremost, individuals. So, I'm going to skirt around this one a bit and rather than writing something new, I'm going to use something I've already written.

Every year for Christmas, I make a gift for my family. My parents, my brother, his girlfriend, my aunt, uncle, and two cousins all get the same gift but personalized. Last year, when they each opened their box, the first thing they saw was a piece of paper that read:

After I had been on Facebook for awhile, a friend emailed me and suggested I finally get a profile picture. She sent me the Greater Than symbol with the simple explanation, "because you are." On those days when I feel "less than," it's a small but giant reminder...that I'm not.

Underneath that was a small painting of the Greater Than symbol done in either their favourite colours or colours that reminded me of them.

Finally, under the painting was another piece of paper that read:

And for the days when you need a reminder that is just a little bit bigger.

That piece of paper was taped to a picture frame, in which I had a list of "Why So and So Is Awesome." These are the ones I gave my parents:

Reasons Why Helen Is Awesome
...Because despite the fact we weren't terribly close while I was growing up, I never feel like that has hindered our relationship as adults. And the one we've worked so hard to develop as the best of friends.
...Because when we moved me to Chicago and a fellow driver was driving like an idiot, you blurted out, "cocksucker!"
...Because even though I'm 31 years old (edited: now, I'm 32!), on my birthday, you almost always wind up telling me the story of the morning I was born
...Because you took me to San Francisco (even if I had a lousy view!) (edited again: my father used to travel as an auditor and when my mother was eight months pregnant with me, she flew out to spend a week with him, hauling me around those crookedy streets and hills of The City by the Bay.)
...Because you're the only other person in the world who understands how much I miss Grandma Marion each and every day
...Because you don't treat Dad like a husband but as a partner and a friend
...Because even though we're adults and can take care of ourselves, you help Andy and I out whenever you can; in so many ways
...Because every year, other than spending it with the entire family, what I look forward to the most at Christmas is shopping and wrapping gifts and listening to Barry Manilow's Christmas CD (shhh, don't tell anyone about that last part)
...Because you stuck around
...Because of a ton of other reasons and some I've yet to discover

Reasons Why Al Is Awesome
...Because I trust you. And that doesn't come easy. Not easy at all.
...Because every time I think about the fact you named me Janelle Lynn so that it would sound "beautiful and French," it makes me smile
...Because you carted my girlfriends and I everywhere when we were younger and I'm sure, ridiculously giddy and obnoxious
...Because even though I know how much you wanted to, you couldn't bring yourself to take me to Chicago (edited: my mother and aunt drove with me out to Chicago when I moved because my dad had told me that even though he wanted to, "I just can't leave you there.")
...Because you brought me my pillow at college! (edited: I went to school two hours from where I grew up. At some point, I had left my pillow at my parents' house and NEEDED it. So, my father and I met half-way simply so I could have my pillow with me at school.)
...Because you passed on to me your bleeding heart liberalism
...Because you don't treat Mom like a wife but as a partner and a friend
...Because even though we're adults and can take care of ourselves, you help Andy and I out whenever you can; in so many ways
...Because I have no idea when it was or in what context it was but I remember you telling me, "you and your brother, and whomever you choose to bring with you, will always be welcome in this house. Always."
...Because of a ton of other reasons and some I've yet to discover

So, to sum up...my parents are friggin' awesome, mmmkay?

aural awesomeness

Random videos on random days when I'm in a random musical kind of mood.

The only song that makes me want to live, love, long for, lust after, and leave someone; all over the course of four minutes and five-five seconds.

if I could snap my fingers and be anywhere in the world...

It's there. I want to go there. I want to go there right now.

(Thank god for Jezebel)

P.S. To The Media: please be aware that in the future, in order to keep my mind in proper working order and my senses from going into complete overload, Christina Hendricks and Neil Patrick Harris are to *never* be photographed together. Thank you.

days of our lives - day 02

Your first love

From simple introductions to talk of a first love. Yowza. This one is a smidge tricky.

My first love was Stephen Capperell. My "late bloomer" status dictated that the majority of intimate / serious / long-term / whatever moments in my life happened...well, later. I met Steve when I was living in Rochester, after having graduated from college. But for the life of me, I can't remember if I was living with my cousin or if it was after Shawner and I had decided to roommate it up. Anyhoo...I don't remember exactly where but we met...wait for it...online and I remember talking for a week or so and then going to the movies (Along Came a Spider). It was a full-on first date kind of evening. He picked me up (is it just me or is it odd that I remember him picking me up but don't remember where the hell I was living?), it was a perfectly delightful evening and when it was over, he took me home.

I refer to him as my first love because he was the first person with whom I had a romantic relationship. He went with a friend out to Seattle one weekend to visit another friend and when I dropped him back at work after having met him for lunch the day before they left, he told me he loved me. And I told him the same. But you know how there's the kind of love you feel for someone because you simply enjoy their personality and company and there's the kind of love you feel for someone because when you come into each others' lives, you turn it upside friggin' down in such an amazing way, you're left wondering how the hell it's even possible for one person to have had such a profound effect on you? Yeah. Steve wasn't the latter. At one point in High Fidelity, Rob says about his relationship with Laura:

She didn't make me miserable, or anxious, or ill at ease. You know, it sounds boring, but it wasn't. It wasn't spectacular either. It was just good. But really good.

That was exactly how I felt about Steve. Things were easy and comfortable. There were other people, both before and after Steve, for whom I had much different and much stronger feelings. But I consider Steve my first love and enjoyed the time in my life when we were together. When I decided to move to Chicago, I knew my feelings for him weren't strong enough to warrant the effort it would take to make a long distance relationship like that work, so I ended things.

He eventually joined LiveJournal and we became 'friends' on there but I used the living hell out of that site, posted a good deal of personal stuff and locked most of it. Shortly thereafter, he stopped using his own journal and we just fell out of touch. Last I knew, he was still living in Rochester and happily married.

And...SCENE.

baked with love, indeed

Since I returned from vacation in New York with the family, I've been thinking about / missing my (maternal) grandmother a bit more than is the norm. Whenever we go up north to our cottage, we stop by the graves of the grandparents and this year, because my brother came up a few days after did, we wound up visiting the cemetery twice. Not a bad thing at all, just...more difficult. And watching Brianna frolic around the cottage just like I did when I was that age was tough. In the way that, at the same time, is positively heartwarming.

I used to spend time at the cottage over the summer with just my grandmother and grandfather. Both of my grandfathers tended to favour my brother and my maternal grandmother favoured me. I have no doubt she loved each one of her grandchildren dearly and I think that was obvious to each one of us. But we just had a special bond.

One of my favourite things to do was play games. Scrabble, Gin Rummy, Sorry, Uno...I have no idea how many hours the two of us spent sitting at the table while my grandfather watched the news or a read a book. And when we weren't doing that, we were doing what I loved to do most with her...baking.

We baked the best date nut cookies ever and those awesome peanut butter ones with the Hershey's Kisses on top. But pies were my that woman's specialty. When she and my grandfather lived in Florida, she made pies for everybody...neighbours, the mailman, anyone who would eat one, I think. Some of the best memories I have are ones of the time I spent with her at the lake in the kitchen. And thanks to what I believe is my vacation and the fact that cooler weather is coming, I've had a huge desire lately to sharpen the ol' baking skills. I've put it off for a bit because I'm one girl and I don't want to eat everything I bake but don't really have a bunch of people with whom I can share. But I've decided, fuck that. Maybe I'll bring stuff to work. Maybe I'll leave something for the mailman. Maybe I'll be the weird girl in the building who bakes things for neighbours she hardly knows. Maybe I'll send some to friends and family. We'll see what trips my trigger when the time comes for consumption.

I suck at cooking and I don't at all enjoy it. Its carefree, experimental "throw in a pinch" aspect of it...well, throws me. But baking? Baking, I dig. I'm an 'order and direction' kind of girl and I like to know things in explicit and exact terms. How many eggs will make my brownies chewy and not cake-like? How much corn starch will turn pudding into solid brick? I want a recipe to give me those answers, I want to follow the directions in said recipe, and I want to take something out of the oven that is a finished product of deliciousness.

So, today at lunch, I strolled over to Borders and completed Step #1.

I'm going to browse through them a bit tonight and tomorrow and bake my first...something...over the weekend.

On the way back from the bookstore, I made a pit stop at Daley Plaza to walk through the Farmers Market, with the intention of picking up something on the healthy side for lunch.

It didn't work. The flavour was super yummy but the consistency of the filling was a little too gelatinous for my taste (not nearly as good as my grandmother's pies..or the ones my mother makes, who may very well be the maker of the world's best pies). But, combined with some milk, it totally hit the lunchtime spot.

And has left me seriously leaning toward baking a pie this weekend.

days of our lives - day 01

Introduce yourself.

Thirty-two years ago, I was introduced to the world as the baby girl of two awesome parents and the baby sister to one awesome brother. I grew up in a small town in upstate New York, where my parents and most of my family still live. I was the girl who waited all summer to go back-to-school shopping for school supplies. I loved (and do love) to read and because I was the only one in my family who hated watching sports, I spent many an afternoon in my bedroom with my stereo on and / or my nose buried in a book. I was best friends with the boy across the street until his family moved into a different house across town.

I was raised as Catholic and remember going to St. Michael's for mass but don't remember when it was we stopped. I never much cared for it because it was boring as hell, my first childhood crush went to church with his family and I basically sat and daydreamed about him through most of the service. We did, however, frequent Midnight Mass when Christmas rolled around and to this day, although I don't care for the religious aspects, the smell of incense and the singing of carols is Christmas to me.

I dug grade school a lot, can remember each one of my teachers except for the 4th grade, and will always answer, "who was your favourite teacher?" with "Mrs. Turner. Hands down." I won a spelling bee in 5th grade but can't remember the word that won it for me. Junior high sucked ginormous amounts of ass but it was when I started taking French (which I would continue to take until my Freshman year of college) and realized my Francophile tendencies. I'm fairly certain it was in the 7th grade when I met my best friend and one of my earliest memories of a childhood sleepover was a night spent at her house. The first time I danced with a boy, it was with one of my brother's friends and to Firehouse's "Love of a Lifetime."

High school was sucky in the typically sucky ways and awesome in others. One of my brother's friends told us the summer after our Freshman year was when we would really start to party and that held basically true. I was somewhat of a geeky kid who got good grades but still lived it up like most teenagers. The first time I got drunk was on some blue flavour of MD 20/20. The first time I smoked, it was a Salem menthol (fucking gross) at a Steve Miller concert. The first time I got high, someone asked me to put on Dave Matthews "#34" and I kept scrolling through the disc numbers wondering why, for the life of me, I couldn't find any tracks beyond track number twelve. I enjoyed every class but Math and used to go home everyday, watch Kate & Allie, and promptly do my homework. I became good friends with the girl I've always considered my other best friend and remember our group hug at graduation as if it were yesterday. I started working at Morgan's somewhere in there and developed the hugest crush ever on a co-worker who, even today, when I see him, causes me to go home and leave my purse and milk in the car because I totally forgot why I had to run to the store in the first place.

My father looked at colleges with me, we visited only Buffalo State and St. Bonaventure, and I knew the minute we pulled up to the Bonaventure campus that I wanted to go there. I majored in Journalism / Mass Communications because I wanted to get paid to write. When I realized I didn't want to be on television or have to write for a newspaper or publication where someone told me what I *had* to write, I switched to Elementary Education. When I realized I didn't want to parent children I didn't give birth to, I switched to English and graduated with a B.A. My favourite courses were Women & Literature and Women in WWII. Because of that and the fact that only a couple more credits and a Senior project would qualify me for a concentration, I wound up with a Concentration in Women's Studies. My favourite academic moment was when my Women's Studies advisor (who was also my History professor) invited her African American History students to her house to listen to old jazz and blues records as she taught that evening's class in her living room. My Junior year involved the one and only time I don't remember getting from Point A to Point B after a night of drinking. For some reason, I decided to make my First Communion and Confirmation as a Junior. The next year, I realized just how much Catholicism isn't my bag and haven't had anything to do with it since. I worked at the student cafe and had to wear a black and white striped shirt that made me look like a referee. The library is still one of my favourite buildings anywhere. My "let's meet people online" phase began. The very first person, I haven't spoken to in years. The second one could have a post all to himself and I still probably wouldn't be able to truly sum up that friendship, which thankfully, still exists today. I had a single room for most of my Freshman year, lived with an awesome girl my sophomore year, another awesome girl my junior year, and three awesome housemates my Senior year; all of whom contributed to the amazing memories I have of my college years.

I moved back home after graduation and lived there for a bit before moving to Rochester and living with a cousin so I could work the 3 - 11 shift at Kinko's Documentation Creation Center. I typeset a bazillion resumes and academic papers, created a few menus, typed up some horrible, horrible Christmas form letters (complete with cheesy clip art), and met friends I still very much miss. We made fake business cards for each other and replaced Kinko's tag line (Kinko's. We're doing more.) with our own tagline, Kinko's. We're doing your mom. I still have the business card in a box full o' memories somewhere.

My "let's meet those online people in person" phase began, I flew to New York for the first time ever, met a guy from online for the first time ever, and had sex for the first time ever. And I still think The Moody Blues' "Your Wildest Dreams" is the best song to have playing while making out with someone. I met Steve, who was the first person I dated "seriously," the first non-familial male to tell me he loved me and the first non-familial male to whom I reciprocated those words (and feelings).

After having flown to Chicago to meet one of those online guys, I fell in love with the city. Our Kinko's location was closed down, I started a temp-to-perm gig at an Accounting firm, it never went permanent and when I was let go, decided to move to Chicago. I broke up with Steve. My mom and aunt packed up a couple cars, we drove out to Des Plaines, and I moved in with said guy from online. I lived in his son's bedroom in the basement (the kid was in college) which was next to the living room where he kept a giant boa constrictor. I lived there until I found my first job in the city as an assistant at an insurance company and became good friends with the woman who trained me. Exactly a month after I started that job, I signed a lease for my first apartment in the city; a tiny but adorable studio. I met Josh, who I dated on and off for a couple years, who introduced me to Buffy and all things Whedon, and who was the first person to really break my heart.

A few years ago, that same woman from my first job brought me over to the company where I am now and I've been administratively assistanting here since. I moved into a one bedroom apartment, which I love.

I'm a low-key, low-maintenance gal. I'm reserved with my feelings, not so reserved with most everything else. I'm a volunteer rape crisis counselor. I love reading. I love writing. I love cities. I love small towns. I love winter. I love the water. I love creative people and inspiring people and people who challenge me. I love memes that help give me ideas for the ol' blog here.

these are the days of our lives

I rarely use LiveJournal anymore as an everyday (or every few days) kind of journal but I do still read the posts of those on my 'friends list' who do still use the site. And from one of those friends, I'm lifting the latest meme because it's more than questions like, "how many CDs do you own?" and "apples or oranges?" and other randoms shit that really doesn't tell a person anything other than what lousy taste in music you have and your crazy ass enjoys oranges more than apples ('cause let's face it, apples should always win that fight).

I know myself and I know I won't be answering one question every day for thirty days but I *will* answer each question in order. I also know that I tend to have a lack of follow-through when it comes to...well, a lot of shit. So, if days go by and I'm not answering any of them, please feel free to comment or email me and tell me to get my fucking ass in gear.



Day 01 – Introduce yourself
Day 02 – Your first love
Day 03 – Your parents
Day 04 – What you ate today
Day 05 – Your definition of love
Day 06 – Your day
Day 07 – Your best friend
Day 08 – A moment
Day 09 – Your beliefs
Day 10 – What you wore today
Day 11 – Your siblings
Day 12 – What’s in your bag
Day 13 – This week
Day 14 – What you wore today
Day 15 – Your dreams
Day 16 – Your first kiss
Day 17 – Your favorite memory
Day 18 – Your favorite birthday
Day 19 – Something you regret
Day 20 – This month
Day 21 – Another moment
Day 22 – Something that upsets you
Day 23 – Something that makes you feel better
Day 24 – Something that makes you cry
Day 25 – A first
Day 26 – Your fears
Day 27 – Your favorite place
Day 28 – Something that you miss
Day 29 – Your aspirations
Day 30 – One last moment

Ready? Go? Set! Introductions to commence at some point today.

a scar means the hurt is over

Almost. I almost have the scar I'll have for the rest of my life and the hurt (I'm assuming) is almost over.

Today is my first day back to work since August 13th and I must say, I'm not sure if it's the mere fact that I'm out of my apartment for more than the length of a good walk or the fact that I committed myself to coming in this morning with a great attitude, but things are going swimmingly.

I'm healing nicely from having Molly the Massive Tumor removed from my thigh (which was later confirmed as benign...huzzah, bitches!), despite the fact that it still hurts a bit to walk. It's not a constant, "oh, the pain! the pain!" kind of discomfort but more what I've always thought pulling a muscle might feel like. Like things in my leg are just uber tight. I've become somewhat accustomed to the numbness I still have, which will make for a pleasant surprise if it does go away, as my surgeon expects it will. Thanks to nerves and their tricky little nervy attributes, there's a possibility I'll never regain feeling in that part of my leg but it was a complaint my surgeon hadn't expected to hear, which leads him to believe the feeling will eventually come back.

Overall, I'm pretty content with how things went and super psyched that it's over. I wasn't at all looking forward to being knocked out during the surgery so the spinal anesthesia was a...pleasant-ish surprise. Although, I've gotta say that being 100% conscious and 100% unable to move anything below the waist is one of the scariest feelings I've ever had the misfortune of experiencing. I got out of surgery at about 9:30 a.m., dozed for a couple hours, and then tried to move my legs / feet for a good three hours before I actually managed to see my little toes wiggle, which is when I finally got to see my mother (all decked out in her awesome blue biohazard-lookin' scrubs suit). Once I was able to stand up, walk on my own, and pee, I was outta there.

I've had a tough time figuring out exactly how I feel about the two weeks that followed because on one hand, it was absolutely awesome to be able to spend so much time with my mother, just the two of us. On the other hand, I was reminded just how unlikely it is I'll ever become a Facebook fan of 'vulnerability.' I've never been the girl who lays her cards all out on the table and is free with asking for help. I hate that my mother had to spend the money and the time and her energy to come out here and basically sit around my apartment with me for two weeks but I also know that's the only place she would have been. Since moving to Chicago eight year ago, I've wondered several (okay, a friggin' ton of) times when the guilt will ever go away. The guilt for leaving my brother to be the one who lives close to our parents and could take care of them, if need be. The guilt for leaving my parents to worry about how I'm doing states away from them. The guilt for having to miss out on so much family time they get to have with each other. The guilt for the extra money it costs when we simply want to see each other. But the strange thing is that I don't think I feel that guilt because I don't believe I'm entitled to my own life. I know I am and I know my family realizes that as well. I know my parents want me to be healthy and happy, wherever that may be. And when they tell me, "don't leave Chicago, Janelle," it's not only because they want a place to stay when they visit their new favourite city but because they know I wouldn't be quite as happy anywhere else. So, I'm sometimes left wondering, "why the fuck do I feel guilty?" I hate that my mother had to cook me dinner and do my dishes and pick something up if I dropped it, and friggin' shower her 32-year-old daughter. But I know I'm entitled to the best care as the next person and I know my mother would have done anything in her power to give me that. I guess I've grown so used to being independent and taking care of myself that it's just weird when someone else has to do it. So, I'll simply take that for what it is. One of a bazillion and one feelings I'll have over the course of my lifetime. Luckily, I have the kind of mother (and family) who will always help me, whenever necessary. In whatever capacity necessary. I'm beyond thankful for the fact that even if it's tough for me to have to ask for that help sometimes, I will never doubt what their answer will be when I do.

And so ends my 31st year of L-I-V-I-N'. I'm 32, a little bit happier and a little bit healthier than I was a year ago. Despite the rough spot at the end of it, here's hoping my next year is equally as awesome as this one was. Or awesomer. I'll take awesomer, too.

(I realized with this post that I often like to steal bits of quotes and use them as my title. So, in keeping with that klepto theme, I've stolen the idea for crediting those quotes from one of the awesome blogs I read.

The title of this post is from a random quote I found online from Harry Crews:

There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with.

40 years

My parents are celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary today. Forty years of love and laughter and celebrations and holidays and vacations and so much more. Before they ever decided to have children they would love unconditionally and consistently, they vowed to love each other the same way. I'm amazingly thankful and proud and inspired that although that committment has been tested and I know it will be again...it's never been broken. And I'm quite sure it never will.

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stretching or interpretive dance? you decide

I don't know how deep the cut will be, Mr. Stewart

But it also won't be my first. I wrote a little something about a year ago and mentioned that when I was four years old, I had a tonsillectomy. Until...well, sometime relatively soon, that's the only surgery I've had the unfortunate pleasure of experiencing.

A few weeks ago, after noticing what appears to be a baseball hiding in my thigh, I went to my awesome primary doctor who referred me for an ultrasound to confirm her suspicion that it's a common, entirely benign bump in the road, so to speak. After the ultrasound, the Radiologist, who I swear to Hippocrates, was no older than Doogie Howser (okay, he probably was but he was amazingly fucking young-looking), told me he couldn't confirm that diagnosis but "don't worry, don't worry," which was promptly disregarded because finding a large mass in one's body that can't immediately be confirmed as benign is pretty much all you need to start worrying. Thankfully, one of my co-workers is fantastic beyond belief and sent me to his cousin's MRI practice, where I received a freebie, which is a savings of approximately a metric assload. To any of you readers contemplating opening your own MRI practice, I'd like to take this opportunity to offer you a tip:

- They can be scary tests, I know. And cheery, upbeat music is a delightful and appreciated gesture. But during MRIs, one is supposed to stay as still as humanly possible and when your playlist is full of the most awesomest songs to ever come out of the 80s, it's likely to leave your patient wanting to do nothing but shake her ass. It's maddening!

I did, however, manage to fight the dancing fever and made it through the hour-and-a-half (!!!) test and a few days later, got the results that it "looks" like what we thought it was but doesn't necessarily "act" like it. Apparently, there are subtypes that aren't cancerous but aren't entirely benign. I always kind of hated science because it's all so black and white and I'm a firm believer that ain't nothin' that black and white. But when push comes to shove and I'm being told that it looks like one thing but acts like another, I immediately *want* things to be black and white. If it has atypical characteristics of something, in my mind, that ought to mean it's *not* that particular something. But in the medical world? Not so. While it's...reassuring to be reminded that there are inconsistencies even in the precise world of medicine, it's the opposite of reassuring to be told by my primary doc, "I'd like to send you to an oncological surgeon." Do I have cancer? We're all about 99.9% certain I don't. But because of that possibility that it looks like one thing but is really something else, someone who really knows their shit needs to address it.

So, I have an appointment with the surgeon next week, he'll look at my films, book an OR, and off I'll go. Initially, we had thought I would just have a little local anesthesia but because of its size and the fact that it's apparently growing around and under muscle, I'll be rendered completely unconsciousness, which...well, is the part that scares me.

The act of having surgery doesn't really bother me and I realize it takes far more for surgeons to be certified and handed a scalpel than successfully removing the plastic funny bone from Cavity Sam without his little red nose buzzing. I'm not sure I would necessarily put myself in the "general pessimist" camp but I do put myself firmly into the "realist" column. Shit happens, I know this. And most of the time, you never know when that shit is gonna happen. I just don't like the idea of being completely oblivious to the world around me while someone slices up my thigh...hoping for the best. It's not exactly the world's most difficult surgery but we're talking about bones and fat and muscle and blood vessels. Essential pieces that help legs function properly. If I could watch him do it, I'd feel worlds better. I liken it to my desire to be fully awake and looking out the window watching along, should I ever be in a plane crash. If I wind up on a crazy, time-shifting island with my limbs still attached and blood still pumping through my body, I want that memory of what I was just equally lucky enough and badass enough to live through. And if I wind up dead as a doornail, I don't want to have closed my eyes while plummeting to my death in an attempt to pretend it's not happening. I want the very last thing I *am* in the world to be...frighteningly awake.

And that's simply not an option this time around. I don't think fairly simple surgery is the same as an ugly plane crash and I don't think I'm going to wind up dead from a few cuts in my thigh. But still. Shit is just easier when you're four years old.

Then again, I didn't have things like this to listen to when I was four years old either.

familiar comfort

skin to the wind, baby!

I spent most of this past Saturday naked. Nude. In the buff. Sans clothes.

(Image via 9gag)

This little tidbit wouldn't really be blog-worthy if it weren't for the fact that I was also outside. More specifically, outside at Lake O' The Woods Club, a nudist club in Indiana.

A couple months ago, a good friend told me about Chicago Fun Club, a local group of nudies that has what appears to be at least one event a month where they get together, shed the clothes, and frolic about doing any number of things. The plan was to go a couple months ago when my friend made a weekend trip to Chicago but I couldn't quite bring myself to do it. A few weeks later, he told me the Chicago club was meeting up this past Saturday at LOWC for a skinny dipping event and all-around day of hanging out.

And hang all out, we did.

My morning started off on a less than pleasant note and despite the fact that all I really wanted to do was lounge on the couch and watch the one thing that always helps adjust my perspective, I would have felt shitty backing out. So, we hopped in the car and a little over an hour later, arrived at our very first nudist event. Which proved to be exactly what I friggin' needed that day.

Since everyone and their brother can't just pull in, ditch their clothes and roam around the grounds, we were buzzed in by what I imagined was a woman inside somewhere sitting behind a desk completely naked. Once we parked the car, we looked like the oddballs of the group walking toward the clubhouse with our clothes on. Everyone and their brother (and sister and wife and husband and children) were either in the pool or lounging around on the chairs surrounding the pool but there were some people just laying in the grass and some standing around talking with others; all of them, naked. We made our way into the clubhouse to sign in, where we were greeted by the mystery phone voice who buzzed us in, who was indeed, sitting behind a desk naked. She crossed our names off, scanned our driver's licenses, took some general info, and sent us back outside to join in the fun. So, we headed back to my friend's car, ditched our clothes and walked back over toward the clubhouse, finally looking just like everyone else.

We found a little spot to throw down some towels and sat for a bit to take in the sights. There were women who looked much like I do...there were women who were smaller and women who were bigger. Short guys, tall guys, white guys, black guys. I'm not sure, number-wise, how the gender scale tipped but there seemed to be quite a good number of both men and women. We chatted it up with a man from Maine whose family often travels with him but for reasons I can't remember, he was solo this time. We chatted with an Army vet who has been a member of the club for years and years. After swimming in the pool for a bit, because of the torrential downpour, we wound up huddled under a big tent, where we struck up conversation with a few people closer to our ages (we've dubbed the male of the group, "Horse Cock" because...well, yeah. I managed to keep my eyes in check for most of the day but a girl couldn't help but notice that tasty little treat floppin' around all afternoon). Since there wasn't much to be done in the rain, we went inside with them and into the sauna with a few other people to warm up. After which, once the rain stopped, it only made sense to take a swim in the lake, which is, I must say, amazingly fucking delightful after coming out of a sauna. Because I'm firmly in the anti-Mexican food camp, we didn't stay for dinner and left shortly after the skinny dipping.

New people tend to scare me. I'm shy in the sense that meeting new people and making new friends is unpleasantly difficult for me. I hate crowds and I'm not really much of a 'group event' kind of girl and much prefer spending my time with just a few people at once. But I was amazed at how little of a concern that was to me. I suppose it's really no different than people who get together and hang out because they're Cubs fans or Buffy fans or The Flaming Lips fans...there was a common interest between everyone that, at least for me, put me much more at ease than I had expected. There was...a brazen honesty about everyone that I positively adored.

I didn't grow up in a "naked house" but it also wasn't one shrouded in shame. We left bathroom doors open, we brushed our teeth while someone was showering...nakedness was just never that big of a deal. Thankfully, for me, that's carried over into my adult life. I'm not one to wear what most would call "skimpy" clothes when out and about and like a lot of people, there are days when there are parts of my body I'd rather not look at. But if I'm in my apartment, I'm most likely wearing as little as possible. It's just more comfortable. Hell, I have to wear clothes any time I'm outside of my apartment so why the hell would I want to be stuck in them when I'm just hanging out in the privacy of my own home? I don't.

My Saturday morning had started with my body...turning on me and left me wondering exactly what sort of ugliness was lurking around inside. Thankfully, not only am I on the upswing of taking care of that little health bump in the road, but the perfect way to combat that feeling last Saturday was to spend the afternoon being reminded that no matter what may be going on in the inside, the outside...just like everyone else's...remains beautiful.

do not enter

spark it up!

notes from a landlord

mmm, tasty. and ooh, sparkly!

I got your rigid definition of masculinity right here, television execs

I had fake eggs this morning and just realized the mug I grabbed out of the break room in which to nuke said eggs is a Spike TV mug.

The little images go all the way around the mug so here is a complete list for you to see just what kind of awesome manly things for men you're missing out on by not being able to see the entire mug.

- a Jack and an Ace from a deck of cards
- an odometer
- a Nintendo game controller
- brass knuckles
- a golf cart
- an arcade game controller (I think. It's a joystick and little red buttons...arcade controller, oui?)

- foosball men

- an overflowing beer mug

- a big ol' truck on big ol' wheels

- a woman with her legs spread wide, glancing back over her shoulder in that pose that is allegedly super sexy

- a joystick

- a martini

- a motorcycle

- a gun

- dice

- a hotel key (Rm 2, to be exact)
- a car
- what I believe to be a gas can?

- a hammer

- a pack of matches

- a sneaker

- a guy with his leg up (I'm assuming he's a kick boxer. Ya know, the sport of the future)

- a urinal

UGH.

This is what the mug looks like now.

here today, New York tomorrow!

my third favourite flower. they're grrrrrreat!

thank you, HGRB creator. Thank you.

Hot Guys Reading Books

you'll never guess when I took this photo

ghettofabulocity

I've wondered the same thing

While I'm quite pleased with the series finale of LOST, I would have loved an answer to this particular question.

the post in which

I channel Sophia Petrillo.

Picture it. Penn Yan, New York. 1983.

It was the day I turned five years old. And my very first day of school. On the corner of my mother's beloved corner lot, my brother and I waited for the school bus; him in his Firemen hat (the baseball team on which he played) and me decked out in the finest home-sewn, coloured polka dot dress a girl could want. I imagine I was a giddy little girl when my mother finished it and gave it to me but all I remember about it is standing in our kitchen holding the McCall's pattern in my hands and thinking how cool it was that Mom was going to turn drawings of something into a something I could actually wear. Paired with the baby blue sweater knitted by what I believe was one of my two dear grandmothers, I think I was quite stylin'. But it's really the cross-stitched-with-love gingerbread handbag I'm carrying that really pulled the outfit together.

I don't remember how school went that day or if I celebrated my 5th birthday like a rock star. Or who the hell the kid is in the background watching the teary-eyed mother taking a picture of her babies as the youngest heads off on her own into the world for the very first time. There's not even a crazy, made-up story that goes along with this photo, so I suppose that makes me a pretty piss poor Golden Girl knock-off.

But it's one of my most favourite photos ever and just felt like sharing.

these hips are mighty hips

you know what they say about giving credit

off-kilter

what are you waiting for, stupid? Eat it!

My girl, Betty, rockin' the girlie parts innuendo, circa 1992.



And still rockin' it, circa 2010!

is it 10:30 yet?!

52 seconds in.



I'm ready. Bring the funny, Betty!

no, we're *not* all sugar and spice

This kind of shit drives me batty.

At the age of 31, I have no idea how many times over the years I've been told that I should smile more. I've actually had people stop me on the street and ask me some version of, "why so blue?" or tell me, "you'd be prettier if you smiled" because they didn't care for the face I happened to be sharing at that moment. And in each one of those cases, the people who approached me? Men.

Surprisingly, it hasn't happened much recently but the next time it does, I've already decided I'm going to look the douche square in the face and tell him my mother just died of cancer, my father just got in a car accident and is paralyzed, I just found out I have a fatal brain tumour, and my pet monkey was stolen and sold on the zoo world black market. And then smile a big, friggin' smile and continue on my way to wherever I was heading before I was so rudely approached by Random Stranger #1,032.

It's not my job to make you feel important or better about yourself and it's not my job to mold myself into whatever it is some random person wants from me. Christ, I do that for society in general on a daily basis in ways I don't even realize at the time and it can be exhausting. My emotions and how I show them don't exist for you. And just because someone is a celebrity / star / whatever you want to call it, it doesn't mean she exists solely for you either. Just because I buy a ticket to a movie starring a particular celebrity, it doesn't mean I'm entitled to any certain part of that person. She doesn't owe me politeness, she doesn't owe me a hug and an autograph, she doesn't owe me anything; especially to respond to me in any way but a genuine one.

Unlike some people, I don't remember the moment my feminism was awakened. I tend toward it being somewhere around the time I made my First Communion and was Confirmed in Catholicism as a Junior in college (a moment that is *not* on my list of best ones). But the reason I continue to acknowledge it and embrace it is because I constantly find myself relating its principles to everyday life. The time I was at the bus stop with my headphones on and the homeless guy quite literally kicked me in the shins because I couldn't hear him ask me for change? My body isn't public property, pal. The bazillion times I've made choices a parent or relative or friend didn't agree with? I understand and respect that you disagree with me but it's my choice. And the times I simply ignored and walked away from the men who told me I should smile more because they would like me to? I'm not here for public consumption.

Whether I'm an Oscar-nominated actress or Janelle, Plain and Not So Tall.

through the trees

yeah. um...

I got nothin'. Well, I've got giggling. And an excuse for a sodomy tag.

nestled all snug in my bed

daily haiku on love = daily dose of delightful

I think I stumbled across this blog when a friend re-posted one of his haikus from it. While I'm sure that just as we all do, the owner of the blog has some less than beautiful qualities, I sure as hell can't find them anywhere when I'm reading.

It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy everyday. Who couldn't use more of that?

Go ahead. Add me to your daily reading.

oh sweet god, cover your eyes!

Fuckin' serious, folks?

I have nothing at all against Victoria's Secret models flaunting their tits all over television in more of an attempt to get men to stroke one off than to actually sell bras and panties. They're friggin' gorgeous, even if I do wonder how some of them don't fall over when the wind blows. But you know what? Chicks with tits bigger than theirs and added hips and ass to go along with them? They wear bras. And they're sexy. And they don't spend their time sitting at home watching television, eating ice cream out of a carton and getting "fatter." They wear pretty underthings. And they meet men for lunch in their skivvies (possibly only in commercials and fantasies but ya never know). And they fuck. And they do the very same things other women do.



That is all.

I'm just *not* going to do it, thanks

I need new sneakers.

Fear not, this post isn't going to revolve solely (ha!) around my need for new athletic footwear but the fact I'm still wearing a pair of sneakers with a giant hole in the bottom of the left one *is* what inspired this post.

I don't generally care for sneakers. I only wear them to and from work and when I go to the gym. Truth be told, I hate footwear in general. Have you ever heard of bras being referred to as "boobie zoos"? That's much how I feel about shoes. Foot zoos. Hate 'em. But much like math, it's a necessary evil. So, I buy sneakers.

Over the years, I've mainly purchased Nike sneakers because when I spend the good hour or two it takes me to purchase one lousy pair of shoes, I simply wind up feeling the most comfortable in their shoes. But there has always been that nagging little voice in my head telling me to buy a different brand because of Nike's alleged repeated asshattery, such as their piss poor child labour laws and the likelihood that little Tommy and Tammy were paid $.05 for every eight pairs of shoes they produced while I'm forking over close to $100 a pair. But I have a really difficult time with boycotting.

Everyday, companies are in the news for one reason or another, often with bad press. Most recently, I gave up Starbucks for a bit because of their lousy-ass handling of a teenager's sexual assault claim. What did I get this morning on my way into work? A tasty little nonfat white mocha with raspberry. Back in 2006, the Marriott Hotel chain was in the news for claiming a woman who was raped at gunpoint in front of her children was to blame. Have I stayed in a Marriott since then? Indeed. Is it fairly likely I'll stay in a Marriott again? It is. Obviously, there are far more instances of companies using questionable practices and my continued patronization of those companies. But if I boycott every company whose practices I disagree with, I'm going to be left on the Wells St. bridge asking for change right alongside the guitar playing homeless guy. Although, I *will* take this opportunity to let you know, Mr. Polanski, that I very much would enjoy seeing The Ghost Writer. But I'm going to take that entertainment hit and let your film fall into the "ain't never gonna happen" category because I can't stomach even a penny of my money finding its way back to you.

But back to Nike. After everyone's favourite hoops-throwing rapist had his case dropped, Nike was the first company to 'take him back.' The only people who know what happened in that Denver hotel room are Kobe and his accuser but my default is to believe a victim. But no matter whether he raped that woman or not, his first post-rape case commercial for Nike was this:



In it, we see him shooting hoops and hear his voice telling us, Love me or hate me; it's one or the other. Always has been. Hate my game, my swagger. Hate my fade away, my hunger. Hate that I'm a veteran. A champion. Hate that. Hate it with all your heart. And hate that I'm loved for the exact same reasons.

Feel free to call me a humourless prude of a feminist but that shit just rubs me the wrong way. If you were, to say, Google some of his earlier commercials, you'll (hopefully) notice quite a difference between those and the latter ones after his case was dropped.

And there's Tiger's new craptastic commercial.



Cue Tiger looking all sad and lonely while looking at the camera and listening to his dead father say, "Tiger, I am more prone to be inquisitive. To promote discussion. I wanna find out what your thinking was. I wanna find out what your feelings are. And, did you learn anything?"

While I don't believe Kobe had consensual sex with the woman who accused him of rape, from what's been told to the public, Tiger *did* have consensual sex with his mistresses. Sure, he's a massive asshat with a serious Madonna / Whore complex (Tiger, if you're reading, here's a tip: the women dudes want to fuck? They can be the very same women dudes also want to marry. They need not be separate.) but I don't give a flying golf ball what or who Tiger sticks his dick in, provided it's a consensual act. Even so, I think Nike's ad is in piss poor taste and it gives me the creeps.

And now, we've got this Major Douchenozzle, Ben Roethlisberger. Yet again, he's been accused of sexual assault (that's three times, for those who are keeping track). Even if I allowed for the "bitches always put out, feel regret and then cry rape" argument (which I don't), exactly how many women is it going to take before it's acknowledged this guy has a serious entitlement complex? No criminal charges does not equal innocence and in the very least, Roethlisberger is a fratboy-esque jock who spends his free time drunkenly pawing at women. But it's no surprise that Nike continues to stand by him.

Once, twice, three times you've proved yourselves to be a company of jagoffs, Nike. Remember when you suspended Michael Vick because of his love of vicious dog fighting? Yeah, me too. I'm no marketing executive or genius business woman but wouldn't it just be cheaper to put out a press release stating "Nike believes 100% that dogs are man's best friend. Cruelty and abuse toward animals will be taken very serious and the abusers will be punished. Abuse and disrespecting women? Eh, we're gonna go ahead and let those slide."

I hope Adidas foot zoos are comfortable.