Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #164: The part where I encounter a question I don't want to answer
eamondaly1110: would you say i would fit into a women's 14?
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #163: The part where I raise a salient question
Why is it that Scooby Doo speaks with a very strong speech impediment, while his nephew, Scrappy Doo, speaks perfectly clearly? I always assumed Scooby's speech problems were due to him being a TALKING DOG. Apparently, that's not the case.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #162: The part where we are not haters
Unlike many of our acquaintance, we are not Valentine's Day haters. Yes, I know, it's a "Hallmark holiday." Yes, I'm being ordered to love.
But the thing is, I already do love, so why not take a moment and wallow in it? Eamon and I are of one mind on this matter.
So last night, we did up VD, Daly style. And it was quite nice.
I'll start with this amusing anecdote about the gifts. Anyone who's been in a relationship beyond the courtship phase knows: the gift-giving grind can begin to get relentless . And VD -- well, it's a toughie. I honestly can't imagine expecting -- or giving -- some expensive jewelry/watch/small island sort of extravaganza. After all, VD should be about small tokens, correct? But how many pewter handheld hearts and small stuffed bears wearing bulky red knit sweaters does one really need?
So it was with a deal of puzzlement that I launched into this year's VD gift hunt. Which means, basically, doing Google searches on innumerable combinations of search terms.
To whit:
+"Valentine's Day" +male +steak
+Gift +Man +love
+Valentine's +present +geek
+"roller derby" +"comic book" +love
Despite this rather scattershot methodology, I very quickly located the perfect gift. It had hearts. It was wearable. It was geeky. It was: the 8-Bit Dynamic Life Shirt.
The gag is this: you each wear matching shirts, emblazoned with five hearts. When you near each other, the hearts begin to light up. When you diverge they darken.
It's simple. It's brilliant. It's ... expensive. Just a little too, rather, for a gag gift. I hem. I haw. I look for cheap knock-offs. I almost place an order.
Then I recall an innocent question I was asked just one week earlier.
"What's your tshirt size?"
Knowing that Eamon had already filled our light-up-my-lover-is-near shirt needs, I retreated to the perfect present-giving fallback position: liquor. A nice bottle of black Sambuca for my sweetie, accompanied by 5 black licorice pipes.
Presents in hand, we plan the rest of our evening. No crowded "romantic" restaurants for us. I head to Paulina Meat Market, and drop a comically exobitant amount of money on two ribeye steaks (for us and what army, I'd like to know), and a pound of shrimp.
We then execute a nearly perfect meal -- Eamon manning the cast iron skillet for the steaks (cooked to perfection), me succeeding in locating and excecuting a truly easy and wonderful recipe for shrimp scampi. (Seriously. Try it. It's amazing and so easy).
For afters, Eamon suggested -- surprise, surprise -- that we make truffles. The New York Times says they're easy, he reports.
This is stunning to me. Eamon doesn't particularly like truffles. But I do not look a truffle horse in the mouth, so I happily comply.
So, with NY Times recipe in hand, we embark. We each get half a batch, ours to flavor as we please. Me, I'm pretty tame. Cayenne/vanilla, rolled in sugar cinnamon for one batch; cardamom rolled in cocoa for the other.
Eamon is like a crazy man: He spikes one half with Couvoisier, and with a fire of inspiration in his eyes, adds liberal dashes of ... bacon salt. Stepping back from the brink of madness, he leaves his other batch plain, and rolls them in finely chopped walnuts.
We are delighted to find that our handiwork is surprisingly tasty. And so easy.
Eamon marvels. "I wish I'd know how easy these were to make. If I'd known about these in college, I would've gotten 40% more tail, guaranteed."
But the thing is, I already do love, so why not take a moment and wallow in it? Eamon and I are of one mind on this matter.
So last night, we did up VD, Daly style. And it was quite nice.
I'll start with this amusing anecdote about the gifts. Anyone who's been in a relationship beyond the courtship phase knows: the gift-giving grind can begin to get relentless . And VD -- well, it's a toughie. I honestly can't imagine expecting -- or giving -- some expensive jewelry/watch/small island sort of extravaganza. After all, VD should be about small tokens, correct? But how many pewter handheld hearts and small stuffed bears wearing bulky red knit sweaters does one really need?
So it was with a deal of puzzlement that I launched into this year's VD gift hunt. Which means, basically, doing Google searches on innumerable combinations of search terms.
To whit:
+"Valentine's Day" +male +steak
+Gift +Man +love
+Valentine's +present +geek
+"roller derby" +"comic book" +love
Despite this rather scattershot methodology, I very quickly located the perfect gift. It had hearts. It was wearable. It was geeky. It was: the 8-Bit Dynamic Life Shirt.
The gag is this: you each wear matching shirts, emblazoned with five hearts. When you near each other, the hearts begin to light up. When you diverge they darken.
It's simple. It's brilliant. It's ... expensive. Just a little too, rather, for a gag gift. I hem. I haw. I look for cheap knock-offs. I almost place an order.
Then I recall an innocent question I was asked just one week earlier.
"What's your tshirt size?"
Knowing that Eamon had already filled our light-up-my-lover-is-near shirt needs, I retreated to the perfect present-giving fallback position: liquor. A nice bottle of black Sambuca for my sweetie, accompanied by 5 black licorice pipes.
Presents in hand, we plan the rest of our evening. No crowded "romantic" restaurants for us. I head to Paulina Meat Market, and drop a comically exobitant amount of money on two ribeye steaks (for us and what army, I'd like to know), and a pound of shrimp.
We then execute a nearly perfect meal -- Eamon manning the cast iron skillet for the steaks (cooked to perfection), me succeeding in locating and excecuting a truly easy and wonderful recipe for shrimp scampi. (Seriously. Try it. It's amazing and so easy).
For afters, Eamon suggested -- surprise, surprise -- that we make truffles. The New York Times says they're easy, he reports.
This is stunning to me. Eamon doesn't particularly like truffles. But I do not look a truffle horse in the mouth, so I happily comply.
So, with NY Times recipe in hand, we embark. We each get half a batch, ours to flavor as we please. Me, I'm pretty tame. Cayenne/vanilla, rolled in sugar cinnamon for one batch; cardamom rolled in cocoa for the other.
Eamon is like a crazy man: He spikes one half with Couvoisier, and with a fire of inspiration in his eyes, adds liberal dashes of ... bacon salt. Stepping back from the brink of madness, he leaves his other batch plain, and rolls them in finely chopped walnuts.
We are delighted to find that our handiwork is surprisingly tasty. And so easy.
Eamon marvels. "I wish I'd know how easy these were to make. If I'd known about these in college, I would've gotten 40% more tail, guaranteed."
Monday, February 11, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #161: The part where Eamon is witty
kaydaly88: my horoscope says i should do yoga
eamondaly1110: you did yoga already!
kaydaly88: so i'm ahead of the game!
eamondaly1110: you're precrastinating.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #160: The part where Eamon and I attend an "affair"
Recently, Eamon and I received a thrilling invitation. A formal party, the invitation read. "Top hats, evening gloves, and dancing shoes encouraged." The invitation came by way of Pam Demic, one of the referees for the Windy City Rollers, where Eamon serves as head of Rules and Regs/Stats.
Of course, we RSVP'd with a breathless "Yes, indeed!"
But this left us with a dilemma: What to wear?
Anyone who knows me well knows that I have a passion for costumery. There is nothing I love better than cobbling together the semblance of some other identity using stray odds and ends that come to hand. All without the aid of any skill in stitchery (which I sadly lack).
Eamon is of the same mind, so, as you can imagine, our house is literally stuffed to the rafters with ensembles from days past, including get-ups approximating an Olympic torchbearer, an old-timey carnival strong man, a witch, a wild west prospector, a native islander, a robot, a Thanksgiving turkey on skates, Salvador Dali (mustache only), Pumpkin Head and a Bearded Lady, a dubious Frenchman, a creepy gym guy, and a seemingly innocuous table.
And thus began the quest for the perfect outfit. I will not report on Eamon's endeavor, as it consisted mainly of saying, the night before the party, "You know, Kohl's has tuxes, and they're pretty cheap..."
Life is not so easy for we ladies. Our finery is infinitely varied, and subject the whims of taste, budget, and availability. Nonetheless, as soon as saw the invitation, a vision began to form in my fevered brane. Ginger Rogers-esque. But where was one to find such an ensemble? And what to do with one's drab, layered, non-descript hair?
Well, as luck would have it, two weeks before the affair, I had to have a tooth crowned, which put me in the vicinity of Elliot's Consignment Store, located a few doors down from my dentist. So it was that, numbed and woozy, I wandered in to browse the used clothing within. On the ground floor, nothing. Standard-issue little black dresses, appalling woolen affairs, racks of denim. So it was only on the slightest of whims that I decided to answer the call emblazoned on numerous placards to head downstairs for "basement bargains."
The combination of "basement" and "bargains" was not promising, but in my fevered, post-crown haze, I figured, why not?
It was there, nestled amonst some truly appalling prom dresses and bridesmaid gowns, that I found something that looked, surprisingly enough, promising. A floor-length gown. A sort of retro, empire-waisted affair, it was sleeveless, and sported a bodice emblazoned with black bugle beads in remarkably good condition. The skirt consisted of a heavy silvery cream fabric with an overlay of black chiffon shot through with a silver shimmer.
I checked the price tag. "$35" was slashed through with not one, but two lines. This could be, as I said, promising.
So into a drafty changing room I go, and what to my wondering eyes ... the dress is almost a perfect fit. The straps need shortening (per usual for a girl with a legenadarily short torso), but the length is perfect, as is the curve-hugging silhouette.
But what would Eamon think? As I contemplate the potentially rock-bottom price, I think, who cares? Dresses like this come once per decade.
I slip back into my jeans and woolly sweater, and toddle up to the register.
"That's a cute one," says the clerk. "Did you want to buy it?"
"Sure," I say. "How much is it?"
Dear friends, there are times in life when even I, as blessed with verbal puissance as I am, fall short of the expressing the wonder of life. Words simply cannot express the enormity of her response. There is no way I can prepare you for what follows. So I'll simply record it here, unvarnished.
"$10."
Done and done.
As she preps my purchase, I nab a pair of dangly rhinestone earrings as well, for the low, low price of $8.
The rest of the outfit comes together with remarkable thrift and serendipity. After dropping off my dress at the dry cleaners for alterations ($10), I stop into Payless Shoe Source (musing that I could pay more, but why?), and pick up some strappy silver sandals ($8) and a bangly clutch ($8). Kohl's rock-bottom jewelry sale reaps me a fishwire-and-faux-diamond necklace for $5. And at Vogue Fabrics, my big indulgence, a diamond headband for the exorbitant price of $20.
And now, the hair. Given the empire-waist silhouette and my alabaster and ebony complexion, I decide Ginger Rogers is not the best muse. Audrey Hepburn, I think. A la My Fair Lady.
I dig deep into my once robust hairstyling skills (yes, friends, I once played a 1930's-era private secretary in an execrable production of Annie. I know how to do my own hair), and manage to craft a dreamy concoction of bobby pins, hairspray, and stardust.
And when all is done, I'm truly impressed by the sheer volume of bargain glamour we Dalys manage to muster.
When we arrive at the party, held at the hosts' lovely Printer's Row loft, we discover we were well advised to evoke some personal glamor. Our hosts have crafted a truly elegant 1930s-inspired party backdrop, complete with a sparkly mirrored ball suspended beneath of white chiffon canopy backlit by twinkly lights. They hired a bartender, who offers seldom-seen gimlets and old fashions as well as a menu of signature Old Hollywood-inspired cocktails. A DJ spins vintage jazz. At one point, we're entertained by a duo tap-tap-tapping to "Putting On the Ritz."
Ginger never had it so good.
Of course, we RSVP'd with a breathless "Yes, indeed!"
But this left us with a dilemma: What to wear?
Anyone who knows me well knows that I have a passion for costumery. There is nothing I love better than cobbling together the semblance of some other identity using stray odds and ends that come to hand. All without the aid of any skill in stitchery (which I sadly lack).
Eamon is of the same mind, so, as you can imagine, our house is literally stuffed to the rafters with ensembles from days past, including get-ups approximating an Olympic torchbearer, an old-timey carnival strong man, a witch, a wild west prospector, a native islander, a robot, a Thanksgiving turkey on skates, Salvador Dali (mustache only), Pumpkin Head and a Bearded Lady, a dubious Frenchman, a creepy gym guy, and a seemingly innocuous table.
And thus began the quest for the perfect outfit. I will not report on Eamon's endeavor, as it consisted mainly of saying, the night before the party, "You know, Kohl's has tuxes, and they're pretty cheap..."
Life is not so easy for we ladies. Our finery is infinitely varied, and subject the whims of taste, budget, and availability. Nonetheless, as soon as saw the invitation, a vision began to form in my fevered brane. Ginger Rogers-esque. But where was one to find such an ensemble? And what to do with one's drab, layered, non-descript hair?
Well, as luck would have it, two weeks before the affair, I had to have a tooth crowned, which put me in the vicinity of Elliot's Consignment Store, located a few doors down from my dentist. So it was that, numbed and woozy, I wandered in to browse the used clothing within. On the ground floor, nothing. Standard-issue little black dresses, appalling woolen affairs, racks of denim. So it was only on the slightest of whims that I decided to answer the call emblazoned on numerous placards to head downstairs for "basement bargains."
The combination of "basement" and "bargains" was not promising, but in my fevered, post-crown haze, I figured, why not?
It was there, nestled amonst some truly appalling prom dresses and bridesmaid gowns, that I found something that looked, surprisingly enough, promising. A floor-length gown. A sort of retro, empire-waisted affair, it was sleeveless, and sported a bodice emblazoned with black bugle beads in remarkably good condition. The skirt consisted of a heavy silvery cream fabric with an overlay of black chiffon shot through with a silver shimmer.
I checked the price tag. "$35" was slashed through with not one, but two lines. This could be, as I said, promising.
So into a drafty changing room I go, and what to my wondering eyes ... the dress is almost a perfect fit. The straps need shortening (per usual for a girl with a legenadarily short torso), but the length is perfect, as is the curve-hugging silhouette.
But what would Eamon think? As I contemplate the potentially rock-bottom price, I think, who cares? Dresses like this come once per decade.
I slip back into my jeans and woolly sweater, and toddle up to the register.
"That's a cute one," says the clerk. "Did you want to buy it?"
"Sure," I say. "How much is it?"
Dear friends, there are times in life when even I, as blessed with verbal puissance as I am, fall short of the expressing the wonder of life. Words simply cannot express the enormity of her response. There is no way I can prepare you for what follows. So I'll simply record it here, unvarnished.
"$10."
Done and done.
As she preps my purchase, I nab a pair of dangly rhinestone earrings as well, for the low, low price of $8.
The rest of the outfit comes together with remarkable thrift and serendipity. After dropping off my dress at the dry cleaners for alterations ($10), I stop into Payless Shoe Source (musing that I could pay more, but why?), and pick up some strappy silver sandals ($8) and a bangly clutch ($8). Kohl's rock-bottom jewelry sale reaps me a fishwire-and-faux-diamond necklace for $5. And at Vogue Fabrics, my big indulgence, a diamond headband for the exorbitant price of $20.
And now, the hair. Given the empire-waist silhouette and my alabaster and ebony complexion, I decide Ginger Rogers is not the best muse. Audrey Hepburn, I think. A la My Fair Lady.
I dig deep into my once robust hairstyling skills (yes, friends, I once played a 1930's-era private secretary in an execrable production of Annie. I know how to do my own hair), and manage to craft a dreamy concoction of bobby pins, hairspray, and stardust.
And when all is done, I'm truly impressed by the sheer volume of bargain glamour we Dalys manage to muster.
When we arrive at the party, held at the hosts' lovely Printer's Row loft, we discover we were well advised to evoke some personal glamor. Our hosts have crafted a truly elegant 1930s-inspired party backdrop, complete with a sparkly mirrored ball suspended beneath of white chiffon canopy backlit by twinkly lights. They hired a bartender, who offers seldom-seen gimlets and old fashions as well as a menu of signature Old Hollywood-inspired cocktails. A DJ spins vintage jazz. At one point, we're entertained by a duo tap-tap-tapping to "Putting On the Ritz."
Ginger never had it so good.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #159: The part where I indulge in some childish whimsy
As I've mentioned before, I am not a Chicago native. And while I've gotten used to this thing they call "snow," there are still many wintry rituals I've not partaken of.
Exhibit A: the snowman.
I've heard tell of such critters, even seen them live in the flesh. But before today, I'd not put hand to flake in an effort of snowy creation.
So you can well imagine that when neighbor Ann suggested making a snowman, I was a bit hesitant to join in. Surely, there is some trick. Some technique you learn only through dint of hard labor over years in a bitter climate. But I didn't want to seem like, oh, a freak, so I voiced none of this, and tentatively began packing snow on the nice pile she'd amassed.
The more I did so, the more satisfying it became. Jack, who claimed to be "helping," seemed more intent on trying to tempt us away to other acts of creation ("No! Let's build a fort! A space alien..." and so forth) or launching wry critiques of our work. We paid him no mind.
Finally, it was completed, and we were stepped back to admire the fruit of our labors.
And proud we were, until the Brenners came by to visit. "Nice snowman," Erik Brenner ventured. "Did you see our snow pile?"
We had. It loomed from half a block away on their front lawn. We'd marveled at the energy it would take to amass such a pile, and secretly wondered ... why?
Would we like to come see it? Yes, we would.
Upon approaching, it seemed nothing but a pile, but then, one of the Brenner twins alluded to a "secret" on the back side. We investigated, and were thunderstruck to discover a perfectly servicable igloo! One capable of holding small children, adults, and even a dog!
Show-offs.
Exhibit A: the snowman.
I've heard tell of such critters, even seen them live in the flesh. But before today, I'd not put hand to flake in an effort of snowy creation.
So you can well imagine that when neighbor Ann suggested making a snowman, I was a bit hesitant to join in. Surely, there is some trick. Some technique you learn only through dint of hard labor over years in a bitter climate. But I didn't want to seem like, oh, a freak, so I voiced none of this, and tentatively began packing snow on the nice pile she'd amassed.
The more I did so, the more satisfying it became. Jack, who claimed to be "helping," seemed more intent on trying to tempt us away to other acts of creation ("No! Let's build a fort! A space alien..." and so forth) or launching wry critiques of our work. We paid him no mind.
Finally, it was completed, and we were stepped back to admire the fruit of our labors.
And proud we were, until the Brenners came by to visit. "Nice snowman," Erik Brenner ventured. "Did you see our snow pile?"
We had. It loomed from half a block away on their front lawn. We'd marveled at the energy it would take to amass such a pile, and secretly wondered ... why?
Would we like to come see it? Yes, we would.
Upon approaching, it seemed nothing but a pile, but then, one of the Brenner twins alluded to a "secret" on the back side. We investigated, and were thunderstruck to discover a perfectly servicable igloo! One capable of holding small children, adults, and even a dog!
Show-offs.
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