My mind is all over the place
Mood:  caffeinated
Now Playing: Weezer

Some random observations:

I'm off a six-year McDonald's breakfast hiatus. I just can't seem to get up early enough to get hungry enough to crave fake eggs and greasy meat. The last memorable McD's breakfast: freshman year of college. Move in day. My roomie (and buddy) Cara's parents had breakfast with us under the Golden Arches before they bid her an awkward tearful farewell right there in the parking lot afterward. But today I had it again, and it's everything I remembered. If I'm eating in, it's hard to pass up the Hotcakes. My dad used to bring me those on Saturdays when he'd get up early to go get a haircut. But these days, for my money, it's a Bacon egg and cheese Biscuit meal.

Breakfast in tow this morning, I had hoped to catch up with another morning friend: The Price is Right. Since moving out to the central time zone, wherein TPIR comes on at a relatively-early 10 a.m. instead of the east-coast standard 11, I haven't really, um, been able to catch it. I sat down, was happily screaming at the morons who squander the last bid without using the one-dollar or one-dollar-more method, preparing for the first spin of the big wheel... when the power went out. And it stayed out until TPIR was OVER. How depressing. Luckily I drown my sorrows in McCoffee.

I have some parenting advice. Now, I'm no expert. Although I do love children. I do. They're cute; they say funny stuff. [begin rant] But if it's a hot day, there's a giant line at the beverage cart, and you're halting 20 thirsty people's lives in the middle of Milennium Park because your kid can't decide between an orange push pop or a chocolate ice cream bar for five full minutes, here's why. Because when you name a kid Donovan and dress him exclusively in plaid shorts from the Gap that's exactly what you're breeding. And it's a slippery slope from here before that kid becomes one of these bratty preteens who text messages his friends through an entire movie, even though it's freakin Superman in freakin' IMAX, and it cost 10 dollars to watch.  [end rant]

But what do I know? It's starting to occur to me that I am getting increasingly old and crochety. For instance, I see these commercials for Sweet Tart candy in goo form that you squeeze into your mouth, and I get a little sick to my stomach.

The other day I was waiting for the elevator when The Tannest Mom in the World walked up with her two kids for their (daily) trip down to the pool. One of the little darlings was swinging a plastic bag full of pool stuff, change of clothes, toys and whatnot, like a maniac. Or like a child. Like I used to do. But I found myself wincing, absolutely sure that the contents of the bag would go flying through the air and take out an eye or something. Probably mine. And then, like my parents used to do, Mommy Tannest chided: "Stop swinging that around; you're bothering that lady."

That. Lady. Ouch.

And finally, on the packing front, here's the only thing I've managed to get boxed up:

 

 

A couple of key points
Mood:  accident prone
Now Playing: Weezer
Yesterday was not a good day for me on the intellectual circuit. It wasn't my finest hour, let's say.

First of all, I got distracted from moving festivities by a classic episode of Full House, wherein D.J. wins a limo ride and tickets to the Beach Boys concert, but must toil over which family member to bring along.

Of course, in the end, the Boys are so delighted with the Tanner family and their impromptu living room rendition of "Kokomo" that they are ALL invited along (except for baby Michelle, who mysteriously disappeared). Well, from when I first watched this episode in the early nineties until this very moment, I had just assumed they taped the characters singing along with the Beach Boys at an actual concert. But, upon closer inspection, I realized that the crowd shots and shots of the gang butchering "Barbara Ann" are painfully separate, except for a row of raised hands in the "front row" in certain shots. How could I have been so blind? They weren't at a real concert at all. Now I wonder if they *really* went to Disneyland on vacation..!

As if that weren't enough, yesterday marked a milestone in my driving career. For the first time, I locked my keys in my car. Yep, left them right in the ignition (thankfully with it off, though). So my post All-Star party involved calling a tow truck. It always gets me how tow trucks are all at least 20 years old. I guess they never break down. So the guy gets out of his circa-1980 truck and uses this little pump thing to pry open my passenger's side window a bit so he could get this thing in to jimmy the lock open. The whole thing was over in two minutes. And it became painfully clear to me that it is incredibly easy to break into cars, and locking them is really a giant joke. I may start using that removable faceplate feature on my stereo.

But if you are casing my car, stereo aside, here is a brief list of what you'd score:

- a jacket or sweatshirt of some sort
- a Houston Astros cap
- a Pittsburgh Pirates umbrella abandoned by an ex many years ago
- approximately 50 napkins from a variety of fast food restaurants
- a road atlas from three years ago with a route from Athens, Ohio to Houston, Texas highlighted
- about 30 sticky pennies
- A toy lizard found at the legendary Kennywood Amusement Park.
- sunglasses from the Dollar Store in Peebles, Ohio
- A burned copy of The Band's "The Last Waltz"

Ah... I love my car.

Get up, Get up, Get Movin'
Mood:  rushed
Now Playing: Stevie Wonder
This whole moving thing has become a really great excuse for everything. For instance, you may ask, "Why has been so long since you've written a blog entry?" And that answer to that, my friend, is because I am so busy moving. What does that mean, exactly? Is anything in boxes yet? Well, heavens no, it isn't.

But what I have done is begun to compile a complicated series of "To Do" lists that consume most of the time that I haven't been spending watching movies and reading books that I need to return to the library and friends before I move. Once I finish each To Do list, I get the same feeling of accomplishment I would have gotten from actually doing something on the list, without any of the hassle of leaving the couch.

Ok, but in reality, I have managed to get some stuff knocked off the list. Well, I went apartment-hunting anyway. I'm either really good at this or really bad at it, because I can look at 100 places and not particularly like any. Eventually, all the apartment complexes tend to look the same. They all have these terrible names that include as many of these terms as possible: village, water, lake, pond, homes, woods, ridge, valley or park.

I may or may not have ended up picking the place with the best snacks available in the leasing office.

Next time I go home-hunting, which I hope is a very long time from now, on the tour, I'm going to ask if I can turn on the shower. I've been thinking about it, and excellent water pressure is the only thing that's kept me in my current place for so long. I'm not going to actually take a shower or anything creepy like that, just a simple check of the flow.

During the whole trip, I had to eat out a lot. And with that comes the playing of one of my favorite restaurant games: "Are they on vacation?"

To play, you just look around and try to figure out who in the restaurant are locals and who's there on vacation. Tips: Look for foreign hip packs, er, belt bags or fanny packs if you will, Hawaiian shirts, baseball caps, tote bags and accents.

Thanks. Now I can check "write in blog" off my list.

NOTE: Here's a good one. My blog program's spell check doesn't recognize the word "blog."

Home* Sweet Home*
Mood:  energetic
Now Playing: Magic Numbers
As I am planning to move next month, I have been digging through the apartment, purging the pointless and organzing the important. And I'm getting a bit nostalgic for the Chicagoland area. Here are some of the things I'll miss:

1. Hot dogs with a whole bunch of shit* on 'em. Especially from Portillo's and Spankys.
*mustard, hot peppers, onions, relish, celery salt and a big dill pickle on a poppy seed bun. While we're on food, Chipotle, Jimmy John's and Lou Malnati's pizza as well)

2. Four distinct seasons, none of which are all too hot, even if one is really cold with lots and lots of snow. But it was fun to have sports writers with snow shovels digging out my car once a week after work.

3. The cute little girl with bells on her ankles who hides behind her mother's skirt when I see them in the laundry room. And also the effiminate Courtney, this tall fellow who works in the office and is also in the laundry room a lot. He has 100 bright yellow towels and folds them meticulously straight from the dryer.

4. Baseball, baseball, baseball. Most days you can watch two games a day, even if one of those is the Cubs. Plus whatever's on national tv. Living in a World Series champion town really was exciting.

5. Paper wad fights at work.

6. Packing the cat in the car and taking a road trip to St. Louis.

7. Riding trains. The parks downtown. Skyscrapers and museums, not that I saw them all that often.

8. Everyone here thinks I have a Southern accent and have taught me new ways to say "sausage" and "garage key."

9. Definitely the Steelers bar. And The Official Bar in Elgin, where my picture is on the wall, and I have the jukebox memorized.

10. I can choose to embrace or to ignore the giant mall in my backyard.

11. Everyone here had just learned to spell my name.

12. With O'Hare and Midway, you can always fly somewhere for pretty cheap.

13. The libraries are freaking awesome. Seriously.

14. Free guitar lessons from Jamie and hanging out at the shop of the most bad-ass airbrush artist in the country.

15. A best friend who likes Family Guy, good movies, thrift stores and yard sales, roller coasters, beer, road trips, crossword puzzles, books, John Prine and Grateful Dead, Mo, and everything else that is great about this world.

16. Coupons! Not only can I pilfer coupons from four different Sunday papers, but they mail me coupons for stuff in the area literally every week.

17. Ikea. I may have to spring for furniture made with real wood now.

18. My apartment faces West, and in the evenings that I get to be home, everything glows pink.

19. I kind of like the central time zone, now that I've gotten used to it.

20. Chicago pops up in a lot of rap songs, and I could always relate.

Eye just don't know.
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: Cubbies at Twinkies.
When I first went to my optometrist last year, I was a little put off by two things. First of all, when I called to make an appointment, they asked if I wanted to come that very day. If not today, then tomorrow, or how about the next day... they were much too available. Secondly, when I did go there, the office was smack dab in the middle of a big grocery-store-laden strip mall, and I'm just not that hip on a medical facility that may or may not have been a Subway sandwich shop in a former life.

But the people there were fairly nice, including a little Asian lady who always remembers my face and calls me "Miss Lisa," and the contacts were cheap. So I stayed for that appointment and a year or so later, partially out of laziness, decided to go back again (yesterday).

I had gotten over all of my previous reservations and had given this set of doctors the benefit of the doubt, when they sat me down and had me fill out another form... the typical fare where you write in your name, address, insurance information, etc. Well, this three-page form they gave me was used already. I mean, a previous client had filled out all the information, and someone had painstakingly colored over their swirly responses with a White Out pen. Filling in my name was like carving it in white, plastery (overly frugal) stone. I can't imagine why you'd recycle a form with the approximate value of... 3 cents? 5 cents? Don't you have a Xerox machine? Was the staple made of gold? I said something to the secretary about it, and she just replied something about how the person had filled it out but didn't stay for an appointment.

Probably because they recycle forms. Or maybe because their magazines are really old. While I waited, I read a two-month-old Oprah, or O, whatever it's called, which I had never touched before that day but picked up because someone had colored in her face on the front a fascinating shade of green, and I wanted to see what else the kid did to the magazine.