It's been one of those weeks.
Ever since, say, Sunday, my life has been riddled with fiascos and broken plans. I'm a survivor, though. I bounce back.
But things really spun wildly out of control yesterday. I'd been planning to have my good friends and fellow America's Next Top Model (ANTM) fans Jackie and Roxi over for a girlie tv night of Tyra-gone-wild accompanied by homemade empenadas.
But then Roxi got a last-minute, early-morning job interview scheduled for Thursday morning, so had to beg off. We suggested some alternate viewing plans, but since there was a still a chance that Jackie and I might gather (and since I'd already thawed out some meat for the empenadas), I thought I'd prep my little meat pies just in case. They do nice quitely, unbaked, in the fridge, thank you very much.
In my haste -- and due in no small part to my piss-poor knife skills and remarkably dull cutlery -- I sliced my thumb. Strike that. I sliced off my thumb. Or at least a the very tip of it. And some fingernail to boot.
Now, let me clear, friends: I'm an no stranger to damaged digits. See my note above about piss-poor knife skills. Scarcely a meal goes by during which I haven't slice and diced something on my person. So rather than panic, I simply stanch the blood with a wad of toilet paper and press.
I lift the wad. Still bleeding. I press some more.
Still bleeding.
It will stop, I assume. I attempt to dab on some Neo-sporin, but greasy ointments, I find, don't stick to blood. Funny that.
I manage to unwrap a bandaid with my remaining fingers and stretch it over my mangled tip. As the blood pools out the edge, a thought crosses my mind: This is no ordinary owie.
I rip off the bandaid and reapply the wad. Emergency room crosses my mind. I feel a wave a panic. I bat it down. I sit on the toilet lid and force myself to breathe very deeply. The panic passes.
I go back to the kitchen, where I had set up my laptop (a girl needs showtunes while cooking). I text Eamon with a brief explanation of my predicament. He expresses concern. I elaborate. He asks follow-questions. Tired of trying to IM with one hand (while keeping toilet paper wadded on my thumb), I ditch the laptop and pick up the phone.
Eamon: Do you think you need stiches?
Kay: There's nothing to stitch.
Eamon: Sounds like you need to go to the emergency room.
Kay: [weepy gulp] OK.
Eamon: Do you need me to come get you.
Kay: [weepier gulp] Yes.
As I wait for Eamon, I open the front blinds so I can watch our neighbor children cavort. Because, of course, this is the first day with cavort-worthy weather we've had in ages. Which I knew. And which I'd planned to join in for, pre-thumb-amputation.
To kill time, I go back to inspect ground-zero of my accident. Hey! There's my thumb tip, nestled amongs the diced onion. Actually, it's a big hunk of fingernail, with some scraps of skin attached. Still, pretty gross. I discard the tip, nail and onions. I even toss the potatoes I'd chopped before all the carnage, just for good measure.
Eamon arrives, and off we go to St. Francis, where within a mere hour and 45 minutes, I'm nicely equipped with more bandaids, hospital-grade Neo-sporin, and a shiny new tetanus shot.
Fast-forward to tonight. I watch ANTM solo, as I just couldn't imagine hosting poor Jackie with no delicious chopped items for her to savor. Later, I watch the season premiere Top Chef.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear? Chicago chef Stephanie Izzard (with whom I share a one degree of separation!) succumbs to nerves in the first Quick Fire challenge and... gasp! ... cuts her finger while chopping onions!!!!
Mayhap I'm a Top Chef after all!
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #167: The part where I discuss local Chicago ancestry
Last summer, our little neighborhood of 1500 W. Norwood suffered a lost. Long-time resident Bernadine passed away.
Bernadine was a beloved fixture on the block. When I think Bernadine, I think "dame." The kind of stylish, 1950's-style urbanite who might be seen just upstage of Katherine Hepburn in The Desk Set. When the ladies and I would gather at the benches during the summer, Bernadine would make frequent, brief appearances, always dressed to the nines in matching pantsuit ensembles with coordinating scarves tied with a tidy knot at the neck. Her hair and makeup were always impeccable.
Bernadine was feisty. She knew her own mind, and didn't sugarcoat a thing. "No, there's nothing afterwards," she'd say, with certainty, of death. Tart, I would call her. Wry.
She loved the kids on the block, calling them sweetheart and darling. She was an especial favorite of Sam, son of Ruth and Kevin, and the O'Connor triplets (now incomprehensibly fled to Milwaukee).
She was also the sworn enemy of Delores. None of us ever learned the source of this enduring enmity -- perhaps some borrowed folding chairs, never returned, or one too many requests for a cup of sugar. Me, I suspect there was no single trigger; rather, a deep and abiding difference in style, temperament, and philosophy of life. Like Bonaparte and Wellington, they were.
What I always respected about Bernadine was her absolute commitment to living as she liked. She was regularly teased about her "boyfriend," a local fellow who would squire her out to dinner, after which she would rib him about eyeing the waitresses. She was always ready to share an opinion about restaurants she'd recently visited, and, if not dining out, had a regular report of what she'd planned for her evening meal.
She occasionally spoke of her husband, who died of leukemia years before. He went into the hospital, she said, and never came out.
When she passed away, after several months of illness and hospital stays, she was deeply mourned. Her memorial had a large turn-out, with many Norwood families in attendance. Ruth gave a heartfelt eulogy, in which she recalled how Bernadine had taught Sam the pleasure of "drinking the little half-and-half containers" at the restaurants they visited on their regular dinners out.
Bernadine's memorial was an eye-opener. Her family had laid out tons and tons of family photos on tables. There was Bernadine, in the fashionable '50s, coifed and cutting-edge. She was a model, we learned, and it made all the sense in the world.
I found myself thinking of Bernadine this morning, as I was perusing my copy of City of the Century: The Epic of Chicago and the Making of America. After Bernadine's passing, her family held an estate sale. We were all invited to look in. I did, not expecting to actually buy anything. As is well known, I'm tight with the purse.
But, as it turns out, Bernadine had amassed a fascinating collection of books about Chicago. I snapped them all up, including City of the Century. I recalled that Bernadine's son-in-law, when he got up to speak at her memorial, described her great pride in her family's old-school Chicago roots. He mentioned her maiden name, Beaubien, and noted that her family stretched back to some of the city's first founders.
So it was this morning that Bernadine came back into my life. I cracked open City of the Century, and some 50 pages in lit upon Mark and Jean Baptiste Beaubien. Mark is described as "a devil-may-care Creole from the Detroit area." With the help of Jean Baptiste, he opened a tavern called "The Sauganash." To quote City of the Century:
"Visitors from the more civilized parts were shocked to see Indian braves spinning the white wives of fort officers around the dance floor of the Sauganash to the frenzied fiddling and toe tapping of Mark Beaubien, or Indian and white women drinking home-distilled liquor straight from the bottle..."
Sounds remarkably like a 1500 Norwood block party. No wonder Bernadine loved living here.
Bernadine was a beloved fixture on the block. When I think Bernadine, I think "dame." The kind of stylish, 1950's-style urbanite who might be seen just upstage of Katherine Hepburn in The Desk Set. When the ladies and I would gather at the benches during the summer, Bernadine would make frequent, brief appearances, always dressed to the nines in matching pantsuit ensembles with coordinating scarves tied with a tidy knot at the neck. Her hair and makeup were always impeccable.
Bernadine was feisty. She knew her own mind, and didn't sugarcoat a thing. "No, there's nothing afterwards," she'd say, with certainty, of death. Tart, I would call her. Wry.
She loved the kids on the block, calling them sweetheart and darling. She was an especial favorite of Sam, son of Ruth and Kevin, and the O'Connor triplets (now incomprehensibly fled to Milwaukee).
She was also the sworn enemy of Delores. None of us ever learned the source of this enduring enmity -- perhaps some borrowed folding chairs, never returned, or one too many requests for a cup of sugar. Me, I suspect there was no single trigger; rather, a deep and abiding difference in style, temperament, and philosophy of life. Like Bonaparte and Wellington, they were.
What I always respected about Bernadine was her absolute commitment to living as she liked. She was regularly teased about her "boyfriend," a local fellow who would squire her out to dinner, after which she would rib him about eyeing the waitresses. She was always ready to share an opinion about restaurants she'd recently visited, and, if not dining out, had a regular report of what she'd planned for her evening meal.
She occasionally spoke of her husband, who died of leukemia years before. He went into the hospital, she said, and never came out.
When she passed away, after several months of illness and hospital stays, she was deeply mourned. Her memorial had a large turn-out, with many Norwood families in attendance. Ruth gave a heartfelt eulogy, in which she recalled how Bernadine had taught Sam the pleasure of "drinking the little half-and-half containers" at the restaurants they visited on their regular dinners out.
Bernadine's memorial was an eye-opener. Her family had laid out tons and tons of family photos on tables. There was Bernadine, in the fashionable '50s, coifed and cutting-edge. She was a model, we learned, and it made all the sense in the world.
I found myself thinking of Bernadine this morning, as I was perusing my copy of City of the Century: The Epic of Chicago and the Making of America. After Bernadine's passing, her family held an estate sale. We were all invited to look in. I did, not expecting to actually buy anything. As is well known, I'm tight with the purse.
But, as it turns out, Bernadine had amassed a fascinating collection of books about Chicago. I snapped them all up, including City of the Century. I recalled that Bernadine's son-in-law, when he got up to speak at her memorial, described her great pride in her family's old-school Chicago roots. He mentioned her maiden name, Beaubien, and noted that her family stretched back to some of the city's first founders.
So it was this morning that Bernadine came back into my life. I cracked open City of the Century, and some 50 pages in lit upon Mark and Jean Baptiste Beaubien. Mark is described as "a devil-may-care Creole from the Detroit area." With the help of Jean Baptiste, he opened a tavern called "The Sauganash." To quote City of the Century:
"Visitors from the more civilized parts were shocked to see Indian braves spinning the white wives of fort officers around the dance floor of the Sauganash to the frenzied fiddling and toe tapping of Mark Beaubien, or Indian and white women drinking home-distilled liquor straight from the bottle..."
Sounds remarkably like a 1500 Norwood block party. No wonder Bernadine loved living here.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #166: The part where Eamon takes the plunge
I recently posted that Eamon asked an odd question. Strangely, no one has yet expressed surprise or asked for any follow-up. Despite my readers' lack of interest (or, perhaps, familiarity with Eamon's character and habits), I will provide a follow-up, gratis.
Polar Plunge, you see. A bunch of people jumping into Lake Michigan as a fundraiser for the Special Olympics, you see. Derby-related, you see.
I will digress for a moment to note that I've never quite understood the rationale of the "make-a-pledge-so-you-do-unpleasant-things" style of fundraising. I like my friends. I like the causes they support. I don't need to be bribed into giving them money in exchange for the pleasure of viewing them in uncomfortable circumstances--say, walking for three days straight, or climbing the stairwells to the top of the Hancock, or, for instance, jumping into a freezing cold lake in February. But that's just me.
Back to our story. The Windy City Rollers entered a team to jump. They would be costuming themselves as the "Babe-raham Lincolns." Chicks dressed as our 16th president. Top hats and beards abound.
But tragedy struck when one of the skaters was unable to do the plunge. Who, a stricken nation cries out, could possibly take her place???
Yeah, one guess.
So Eamon is set to plunge. But, since a tall, bearded man dressed as Abraham Lincoln is neither funny nor gender-bending, he decided to attire himself somewhat differently. As "Betsy Rawsome."
This puzzled me some. Betsy Ross. Abraham Lincoln. I questioned. I gingerly reminded that they weren't from the same historical period. I was told not to be snippy.
Leaving doubts and a basic knowledge of American history behind, I settled in to watch the fun of Eamon cobbling together -- yes -- another costume.
It started with a wig and bonnet ensemble from the local party store, amusingly labeled a "Betsy Ross disguise." (Why a disguise? Are we thinking someone will mistake him for the actual Betsy Ross?)
Then, he tried to squeeze himself into an old hand-me-down bridesmaid's dress I had on hand. It used to serve as the foundation for my ever-popular Snow White costume (royal blue, big puffy sleeves, full skirt). I assured Eamon it would never fit, as even I can no longer zip it up. He refused to believe without proof. A few popped stitches later, and he had his proof.
It was then that one of the skaters stepped in, with two former prom dresses, in the famed size 14 mentioned earlier. A pale blue taffeta gown fit the bill nicely.
As it was strapless, Eamon asked if I had any white fabric on hand that would serve as a shawl. Being the best wife ever, I remembered some lace curtains I had packed away. A patriotic themed pin to hold it together completed the ensemble.
And so it was that, bright and early on Sunday morn, we headed to North Beach where Eamon and the Babes took the plunge. And won first prize for individual costume. I am not kidding.
Another Daly triumph!!
Polar Plunge, you see. A bunch of people jumping into Lake Michigan as a fundraiser for the Special Olympics, you see. Derby-related, you see.
I will digress for a moment to note that I've never quite understood the rationale of the "make-a-pledge-so-you-do-unpleasant-things" style of fundraising. I like my friends. I like the causes they support. I don't need to be bribed into giving them money in exchange for the pleasure of viewing them in uncomfortable circumstances--say, walking for three days straight, or climbing the stairwells to the top of the Hancock, or, for instance, jumping into a freezing cold lake in February. But that's just me.
Back to our story. The Windy City Rollers entered a team to jump. They would be costuming themselves as the "Babe-raham Lincolns." Chicks dressed as our 16th president. Top hats and beards abound.
But tragedy struck when one of the skaters was unable to do the plunge. Who, a stricken nation cries out, could possibly take her place???
Yeah, one guess.
So Eamon is set to plunge. But, since a tall, bearded man dressed as Abraham Lincoln is neither funny nor gender-bending, he decided to attire himself somewhat differently. As "Betsy Rawsome."
This puzzled me some. Betsy Ross. Abraham Lincoln. I questioned. I gingerly reminded that they weren't from the same historical period. I was told not to be snippy.
Leaving doubts and a basic knowledge of American history behind, I settled in to watch the fun of Eamon cobbling together -- yes -- another costume.
It started with a wig and bonnet ensemble from the local party store, amusingly labeled a "Betsy Ross disguise." (Why a disguise? Are we thinking someone will mistake him for the actual Betsy Ross?)
Then, he tried to squeeze himself into an old hand-me-down bridesmaid's dress I had on hand. It used to serve as the foundation for my ever-popular Snow White costume (royal blue, big puffy sleeves, full skirt). I assured Eamon it would never fit, as even I can no longer zip it up. He refused to believe without proof. A few popped stitches later, and he had his proof.
It was then that one of the skaters stepped in, with two former prom dresses, in the famed size 14 mentioned earlier. A pale blue taffeta gown fit the bill nicely.
As it was strapless, Eamon asked if I had any white fabric on hand that would serve as a shawl. Being the best wife ever, I remembered some lace curtains I had packed away. A patriotic themed pin to hold it together completed the ensemble.
And so it was that, bright and early on Sunday morn, we headed to North Beach where Eamon and the Babes took the plunge. And won first prize for individual costume. I am not kidding.
Another Daly triumph!!
Crazy Crap Item #165: The part where I am witty
Yesterday, Roxi informed me that it was "National Grammar Day."
To which I responded, "Do you think they chose March 4th as the date because the date itself is a full sentence?"
I'm so clever, I shock myself.
To which I responded, "Do you think they chose March 4th as the date because the date itself is a full sentence?"
I'm so clever, I shock myself.
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.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #158: The part where Eamon hits the nails square on the head.
eamondaly1110: i just discovered a new anagram for my name: "A Manly Ode".
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #156: The part where I finally document the holidays
Here it is, more than halfway through January, and I'm finally taking time out of my busy schedule to document the Daly/Peterson yuletide.
Pleasant, it was. Low-key. Hence the lack of documentation. And yet, there are still details to record. To whit:
* Eamon and flew out of O'Hare and into Long Beach airport, just a stone's throw from my brother's house. It was thus that my brother had the enviable privilege of picking us up and transporting us to his house for the night. And thus he did.
* We overnighted at Mike's, where we indulged in a brownies and the ear-scratchings so desired by Mike's and Kathy's cats, and enjoyed a pleasant lounge before retiring.
* The following day, the eve of Christmas Eve, we arose in a leisurely fashion, and were treated to a sumptuous brunch at Hof's Hut, Mike's and Kathy's favorite diner. We've eaten there before, and delighted in its full menu complemented by a full bar.
* Mike graciously took us over to Mom and Dad's in glorious Banning, where we settled in for a five-day-long sleep-and-eat-athon. Things started auspiciously enough, as we grazed on See's candy (my most favorite of dipped chocolates. Suck it, Fanny May!) and sweet, sweet beer, straight from my dad's kegerator (located, as it is, in my dad's private, in-house pub. I am not kidding).
* I savored my mother's flair for holiday decor, which tends to involve a number of animal representations. Hence, my favorite Peterson household decoration, newly clad in yuletide splendor, and mom's artful enhancement of the dining-area chandelier. It as also an opportunity to walk down memory lane via some of our long-cherished decorations, including:
- Mike's proprietary ornament (Santa in his sleigh), a gift from him in his early years from our Aunt Doris. All through my childhood, it was made pressingly clear to me that this was MIKE'S ornament. Don't touch it. Don't even look at it.
- My favorite ornament. It was a retaliatory favorite. Mike gets an ornament? I get an ornament. So I took this one over. It's very fancy.
- Mike's reindeer. Virtually unidentifiable now, it was once a quite credible reindeer, with antlers and all. Mike made it in kindergarten. It has a certain understated poetry, I believe.
* The next day was Christmas eve, which we celebrated with much laying about, eating of aforementioned See's candy, sipping of aforementioned beer, and watching of holiday-themed television. I ventured out at one point for a refreshing walk, but was turned back by bone-chilling, gale-force winds. Thus it was that I was forced to lounge abed and acouch the whole day long.
* For our Christmas Eve supper, we were treated to my dad's homemade lasagna. The one bitter moment in an otherwise delightful evening was the sad loss of the garlic toast, which failed to emerge intact from the oven.
* Christmas Day. Mike and Kathy arrived mid-day for chit chat, merriment, and the joy of opening presents, presents and more presents. Then we tucked into a delightful honey-baked ham with all the trimmings, followed up by Dad's world-famous tortoni.
* The next high point came a few days after Christmas, when we headed over the home of my Aunt, Doris. She is the much vaunted matriarch of the now-famous Potts family. The occasion was Baby Rick's 50th birthday, compounded by general holiday merriment and a most rare chance for a quasi-family reunion. It was a grand opportunity to mix it up with cousins I seldom see, including the charming Fordham gals, Mountain-man Tom, Rick and his lovely wife Kryttre. Cousin Rick spoke of his work peddling rare jazz recordingas an L.A.-based vinyl superstore, and supplied me with some images of his artwork (described in an earlier post), which shall receive full treatment at a later date. Tom regaled us with tales of life in the wilds of Montana, including intriguing anecdotes about the goings-on at a local polygamous compound and an annual frisbee golf tournament. (I can only assume these two things are unconnected.) The Fordham ladies (chiefly Aunt Donna and Sue) compared notes about the various attributes and comparative odds at several local casinos. It was an entertaining and informative evening.
* At the end of the week, it was home again, home again, jiggedy jig. Against all odds, Eamon and I had a remarkably smooth trip home. All flights were delayed, which gave us the rare opportunity to hop on an earlier flight. We arrived home a full 4 hours earlier than scheduled, the perfect capper to a lovely holiday season!
Pleasant, it was. Low-key. Hence the lack of documentation. And yet, there are still details to record. To whit:
* Eamon and flew out of O'Hare and into Long Beach airport, just a stone's throw from my brother's house. It was thus that my brother had the enviable privilege of picking us up and transporting us to his house for the night. And thus he did.
* We overnighted at Mike's, where we indulged in a brownies and the ear-scratchings so desired by Mike's and Kathy's cats, and enjoyed a pleasant lounge before retiring.
* The following day, the eve of Christmas Eve, we arose in a leisurely fashion, and were treated to a sumptuous brunch at Hof's Hut, Mike's and Kathy's favorite diner. We've eaten there before, and delighted in its full menu complemented by a full bar.
* Mike graciously took us over to Mom and Dad's in glorious Banning, where we settled in for a five-day-long sleep-and-eat-athon. Things started auspiciously enough, as we grazed on See's candy (my most favorite of dipped chocolates. Suck it, Fanny May!) and sweet, sweet beer, straight from my dad's kegerator (located, as it is, in my dad's private, in-house pub. I am not kidding).
* I savored my mother's flair for holiday decor, which tends to involve a number of animal representations. Hence, my favorite Peterson household decoration, newly clad in yuletide splendor, and mom's artful enhancement of the dining-area chandelier. It as also an opportunity to walk down memory lane via some of our long-cherished decorations, including:
- Mike's proprietary ornament (Santa in his sleigh), a gift from him in his early years from our Aunt Doris. All through my childhood, it was made pressingly clear to me that this was MIKE'S ornament. Don't touch it. Don't even look at it.
- My favorite ornament. It was a retaliatory favorite. Mike gets an ornament? I get an ornament. So I took this one over. It's very fancy.
- Mike's reindeer. Virtually unidentifiable now, it was once a quite credible reindeer, with antlers and all. Mike made it in kindergarten. It has a certain understated poetry, I believe.
* The next day was Christmas eve, which we celebrated with much laying about, eating of aforementioned See's candy, sipping of aforementioned beer, and watching of holiday-themed television. I ventured out at one point for a refreshing walk, but was turned back by bone-chilling, gale-force winds. Thus it was that I was forced to lounge abed and acouch the whole day long.
* For our Christmas Eve supper, we were treated to my dad's homemade lasagna. The one bitter moment in an otherwise delightful evening was the sad loss of the garlic toast, which failed to emerge intact from the oven.
* Christmas Day. Mike and Kathy arrived mid-day for chit chat, merriment, and the joy of opening presents, presents and more presents. Then we tucked into a delightful honey-baked ham with all the trimmings, followed up by Dad's world-famous tortoni.
* The next high point came a few days after Christmas, when we headed over the home of my Aunt, Doris. She is the much vaunted matriarch of the now-famous Potts family. The occasion was Baby Rick's 50th birthday, compounded by general holiday merriment and a most rare chance for a quasi-family reunion. It was a grand opportunity to mix it up with cousins I seldom see, including the charming Fordham gals, Mountain-man Tom, Rick and his lovely wife Kryttre. Cousin Rick spoke of his work peddling rare jazz recordingas an L.A.-based vinyl superstore, and supplied me with some images of his artwork (described in an earlier post), which shall receive full treatment at a later date. Tom regaled us with tales of life in the wilds of Montana, including intriguing anecdotes about the goings-on at a local polygamous compound and an annual frisbee golf tournament. (I can only assume these two things are unconnected.) The Fordham ladies (chiefly Aunt Donna and Sue) compared notes about the various attributes and comparative odds at several local casinos. It was an entertaining and informative evening.
* At the end of the week, it was home again, home again, jiggedy jig. Against all odds, Eamon and I had a remarkably smooth trip home. All flights were delayed, which gave us the rare opportunity to hop on an earlier flight. We arrived home a full 4 hours earlier than scheduled, the perfect capper to a lovely holiday season!
Friday, January 18, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #155: The part where Amazon.com reveals something about myself I'd rather not know
Today, I was greeted by this email message from Amazon.com:
Dear Amazon.com Customer,
As someone who has bought teen comedies on DVD, we thought you'd like to know that the teen comedy Bring It On: In It to Win It is airing Sunday, January 20th at 8/7c on ABC Family Channel.
So now I've been identified as someone who needs to know that Bring It On: In It to Win It will soon be aired. Who are you to judge me, Amazon.com???
Dear Amazon.com Customer,
As someone who has bought teen comedies on DVD, we thought you'd like to know that the teen comedy Bring It On: In It to Win It is airing Sunday, January 20th at 8/7c on ABC Family Channel.
So now I've been identified as someone who needs to know that Bring It On: In It to Win It will soon be aired. Who are you to judge me, Amazon.com???
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #154: The part where James registers emotion
Yesterday, I received a lovely invitation from Ann to lunch with her and her 3-year-old son James. I indicated that such a thing would be delightful, and we made plans for a Friday outing. Then, this report from Ann:
We'll probably go on the early side Friday - maybe 11:30? I told James about it and he said "Oh boy, I'm so ga-cited". I'm ga-cited too.
I second that emotion.
We'll probably go on the early side Friday - maybe 11:30? I told James about it and he said "Oh boy, I'm so ga-cited". I'm ga-cited too.
I second that emotion.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #153: The part where I find that, once again, poop and Christmas are inexorably linked
Considering the title of this blog, it should not be surprising that poop is recurring theme. This was not intentional. And yet, as the months have passed, and my scribal duties have continued, I've actually found it necessary to include a tag for aggregating all poop-related entries. It's frankly a little alarming.
But with this entry, I may need to designate a new tag, something along the lines of "poop/Christmas." The last entry of this designation involved a particularly apt gift I supplied to the Casey boys.
This time, I'm reporting of an oddly similar poop/Christmas decoration, this with a century's old European heritage: The Caganer. I heard of it via email from my good friend and generally non-poop-story-telling associate Christine Gaiden. Learn more about this fun holiday tradition here!
And if you're still planning to send me a late holiday gift, add it to your list!
But with this entry, I may need to designate a new tag, something along the lines of "poop/Christmas." The last entry of this designation involved a particularly apt gift I supplied to the Casey boys.
This time, I'm reporting of an oddly similar poop/Christmas decoration, this with a century's old European heritage: The Caganer. I heard of it via email from my good friend and generally non-poop-story-telling associate Christine Gaiden. Learn more about this fun holiday tradition here!
And if you're still planning to send me a late holiday gift, add it to your list!
Crazy Crap Item #152: The part where my neighbors redefine the nativity
I just returned from a five-day Yuletide sojourn in sunny SoCal, followed by a cozy overnight in Grafton, Wisconsin, with many tales of amusement and photos to upload. But since that will take awhile to process, I will, in the meantime, regale one and all with an account of a Casey Nativity.
The Caseys, as you will recall, are our splendid neighbors. Besides providing endless hours of entertainment via their two sons, Jack and James, they are the source of plentiful other benefits, including occasional gratis snowshovelings, helpings of smoked pork, out-of-town plant waterings, and general neighborly conversation. We try to reciprocate with remarkable Halloween displays, cookie parties, and the like, but I fear we are always in arrears, neighborly gesture-wise.
Upon my return from the land of my birth this holiday season, I received a cheery email from Ann, noting that I had several packages on my back porch that I should be aware of, as well as some lovely photos of this year's Casey Nativity Scene.
The CNS (as it shall henceforth be known) is an extravagant affair. I conjecture that it entails somewhere in the neighborhood of 4,768 separate figures. Lovingly crafted angels. Porcelain renditions of sheep so lifelike you can almost hear them bleat. And the capper, a beautifully Italianate sculpture of the holy family, flanked by camels and asses. Each year, Jim Casey oh-so-carefully arranges these figurines to accurately capture of wonder of the season. Jack and James gaze in awe.
Until this year. This year, it seems, small hands have meddled. New figures have been introduced. While James may have had a hand in things, I suspect, considering Jack's ruling obsession, that the elder Casey may have played the larger role in this year's enhancement of the CNS.
So it was that I received from Ann an email with several photos, with the following explanation:
"I'm attaching some pictures that I took of our nativity scene. I have not yet photographed the civil war soldiers or Yoda (from star wars) but you get the idea."
Enjoy the full splendor here.
The Caseys, as you will recall, are our splendid neighbors. Besides providing endless hours of entertainment via their two sons, Jack and James, they are the source of plentiful other benefits, including occasional gratis snowshovelings, helpings of smoked pork, out-of-town plant waterings, and general neighborly conversation. We try to reciprocate with remarkable Halloween displays, cookie parties, and the like, but I fear we are always in arrears, neighborly gesture-wise.
Upon my return from the land of my birth this holiday season, I received a cheery email from Ann, noting that I had several packages on my back porch that I should be aware of, as well as some lovely photos of this year's Casey Nativity Scene.
The CNS (as it shall henceforth be known) is an extravagant affair. I conjecture that it entails somewhere in the neighborhood of 4,768 separate figures. Lovingly crafted angels. Porcelain renditions of sheep so lifelike you can almost hear them bleat. And the capper, a beautifully Italianate sculpture of the holy family, flanked by camels and asses. Each year, Jim Casey oh-so-carefully arranges these figurines to accurately capture of wonder of the season. Jack and James gaze in awe.
Until this year. This year, it seems, small hands have meddled. New figures have been introduced. While James may have had a hand in things, I suspect, considering Jack's ruling obsession, that the elder Casey may have played the larger role in this year's enhancement of the CNS.
So it was that I received from Ann an email with several photos, with the following explanation:
"I'm attaching some pictures that I took of our nativity scene. I have not yet photographed the civil war soldiers or Yoda (from star wars) but you get the idea."
Enjoy the full splendor here.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #151: The part where I start a new holiday tradition
During the long, cold winters, I see very little of my small neighbors. Which is too bad, because they are remarkably entertaining.
So, I thought recently, how could I entice the teenies to my very doorstep? Perhaps, I thought, a sort of small shindig. A holiday gathering, in which we decorate sugar cookies. Thus it was that Cookie Party was born.
This past Friday saw the First Annual Cookie Party. To prep, I cleaned the house, made a messload of sugar cookies in fanciful holiday shapes, then bought an obscene amount of white frosting, tubes of colored gel frosting, and many wee jars of sprinkles, jimmies, decorating candies and the like.
The wee folk, with moms, began arriving around 3pm. Here are some highlights:
* Emmett succeeding in hiding his frosted cookie in a huge pile of sprinkles.
* Calvin rapidly producing a massive number of artfully decorated, neatly executed cookies, using only colored gel.
* Jack repeatedly discovering that the little red hot candies are REALLY HOT, eating some more to confirm, then scaring the bejeezus out of Ruth and myself by seeming to choke.
* Opening the front door to discover James, who shouts "PRESENT" and thrusts a wrapped package into my hands.
* A brief respite watching videos and lounging on our lush couches.
* Fiona performing a leaping, skipping dance for me, and announcing that she is not a ballerina, but a princess ballerina.
* Looking upward to find some strange lumps stuck to my livingroom ceiling, and realizing from this that small boys had found my dish of "spaghetti and eyeballs" (a leftover from Halloween), pried out the eyeballs, and launched them thitherward. It was the only act of desecration in the household, so I guess I got of lightly.
To sample more of Cookie Party, check out these terribly blurry photos.
So, I thought recently, how could I entice the teenies to my very doorstep? Perhaps, I thought, a sort of small shindig. A holiday gathering, in which we decorate sugar cookies. Thus it was that Cookie Party was born.
This past Friday saw the First Annual Cookie Party. To prep, I cleaned the house, made a messload of sugar cookies in fanciful holiday shapes, then bought an obscene amount of white frosting, tubes of colored gel frosting, and many wee jars of sprinkles, jimmies, decorating candies and the like.
The wee folk, with moms, began arriving around 3pm. Here are some highlights:
* Emmett succeeding in hiding his frosted cookie in a huge pile of sprinkles.
* Calvin rapidly producing a massive number of artfully decorated, neatly executed cookies, using only colored gel.
* Jack repeatedly discovering that the little red hot candies are REALLY HOT, eating some more to confirm, then scaring the bejeezus out of Ruth and myself by seeming to choke.
* Opening the front door to discover James, who shouts "PRESENT" and thrusts a wrapped package into my hands.
* A brief respite watching videos and lounging on our lush couches.
* Fiona performing a leaping, skipping dance for me, and announcing that she is not a ballerina, but a princess ballerina.
* Looking upward to find some strange lumps stuck to my livingroom ceiling, and realizing from this that small boys had found my dish of "spaghetti and eyeballs" (a leftover from Halloween), pried out the eyeballs, and launched them thitherward. It was the only act of desecration in the household, so I guess I got of lightly.
To sample more of Cookie Party, check out these terribly blurry photos.
Crazy Crap Item #150: The part where Eamon is the champion!
At this point, I will pause to update a story previously begun here. This concerns Eamon's involvement in Mustaches for Kids, the fundraising effort supporting Chicago's Off the Street Club.
As is well known, Eamon has participated as a fundraiser, gathering pledges from those who wish to see him grow a corner-to-corner, unironic mustache. Clearly, given Eamon's usual appearance of general hairiness, mustache-growing entails first a stripping down to the bare wood. Before going bare, he briefly tried out this handsome handlebar variant.
Over the course of the month, many of our friends donated funds, which Eamon tracked with this lovely mustache graphic. He vowed that if he met his target of $2,000, we'd kick in a matching $2,000. Well, in the 11th hour, after a last-ditch fundraising email, Eamon overshot his amount, raising a total of $2,075.16 from our generous friends, neighbors and associates. So pleased was he with his achievement, he pledged an additional $500 from the Daly household, so all told, we donated a total of just over $4,500 to this great charity! Kick ass! Kick ass stache!
The fundraising month was concluded with the final event, the Stache Bash, a rip-roaring capper of event, which featured two bands, and appearance by some of the great kids who attend Off the Street Club, and a parade of mustaches. Many participants also participate in a costume competition, choosing alter-egos that nicely enhance the appearance of a hairy upper lip.
Despite Eamon's remarkable attire (seen here and here), he did NOT win the costume contest. I was crushed. However, even more importantly, he won the coveted Abe Frohman Award for TopFundraising! For this honor, he received a beautiful framed portrait of the mustache of all mustaches, Tom Selleck.
Since I can muster only the scraps of facial hair that are native to all women of Italian descent, I got into the swing of things with this cunning prosthesis.
Experience all the fun of Stache Bash by reviewing the photo set on our Flickr site.
As is well known, Eamon has participated as a fundraiser, gathering pledges from those who wish to see him grow a corner-to-corner, unironic mustache. Clearly, given Eamon's usual appearance of general hairiness, mustache-growing entails first a stripping down to the bare wood. Before going bare, he briefly tried out this handsome handlebar variant.
Over the course of the month, many of our friends donated funds, which Eamon tracked with this lovely mustache graphic. He vowed that if he met his target of $2,000, we'd kick in a matching $2,000. Well, in the 11th hour, after a last-ditch fundraising email, Eamon overshot his amount, raising a total of $2,075.16 from our generous friends, neighbors and associates. So pleased was he with his achievement, he pledged an additional $500 from the Daly household, so all told, we donated a total of just over $4,500 to this great charity! Kick ass! Kick ass stache!
The fundraising month was concluded with the final event, the Stache Bash, a rip-roaring capper of event, which featured two bands, and appearance by some of the great kids who attend Off the Street Club, and a parade of mustaches. Many participants also participate in a costume competition, choosing alter-egos that nicely enhance the appearance of a hairy upper lip.
Despite Eamon's remarkable attire (seen here and here), he did NOT win the costume contest. I was crushed. However, even more importantly, he won the coveted Abe Frohman Award for TopFundraising! For this honor, he received a beautiful framed portrait of the mustache of all mustaches, Tom Selleck.
Since I can muster only the scraps of facial hair that are native to all women of Italian descent, I got into the swing of things with this cunning prosthesis.
Experience all the fun of Stache Bash by reviewing the photo set on our Flickr site.
Crazy Crap Item #149: The part where James masters a new skill. Kind of.
Three years ago, I had the opportunity to witness the acquisition of skills vis-a-vis jokes. Young Jack, then three years old, made a huge semantic leap forward by learning the form of the riddle. Question? Answer. The form he had down pat. The content was less certain. Generally, his riddles consisted of questions followed by nonsense answers, and much giggling on his part.
Then, at age 4, he took another leap forward, and figured out that in addition to the question/answer format, the content actually had to make sense. And be funny.
This led to his first successful telling of a joke, which actually elicited a laugh out loud from me:
Q: What did the lion eat at the restaurant?
A: The waitress.
An amusing joke, only enhanced by its telling by a bright-eyed four-year-old who is equal parts delighted and surprised that you find his joke funny.
So now that Jack's little brother James has passed the three-year-old mark, I guess it's no surprise he, too, has stumbled on joke format. But as you can see from these latest samples, content still eludes him:
Q: What did the chocolate milk say to the white milk?
A: You're not tasty.
Q: What did the dark say to the light?
A: You're too bright.
Q: What did the Halloween thing say to Santa Claus?
A: You're Christmas.
Q: What did the apple cider say to the chocolate milk?
A: Lone Ranger and Tonto.
Watch this space for future developments.
Then, at age 4, he took another leap forward, and figured out that in addition to the question/answer format, the content actually had to make sense. And be funny.
This led to his first successful telling of a joke, which actually elicited a laugh out loud from me:
Q: What did the lion eat at the restaurant?
A: The waitress.
An amusing joke, only enhanced by its telling by a bright-eyed four-year-old who is equal parts delighted and surprised that you find his joke funny.
So now that Jack's little brother James has passed the three-year-old mark, I guess it's no surprise he, too, has stumbled on joke format. But as you can see from these latest samples, content still eludes him:
Q: What did the chocolate milk say to the white milk?
A: You're not tasty.
Q: What did the dark say to the light?
A: You're too bright.
Q: What did the Halloween thing say to Santa Claus?
A: You're Christmas.
Q: What did the apple cider say to the chocolate milk?
A: Lone Ranger and Tonto.
Watch this space for future developments.
Crazy Crap Item #148: The part where Piatt cracks wise
My good friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt, was kind of enough to take me as his "plus one" to a sneak preview of the movie Sweeney Todd. The game plan was that he was to arrive at the Thorndale El stop at 5:45. I would pick him up and we would fly, on wings of doves, up to Evanston for the screening.
So I was caught unawares when the doorbell rang at 5:30 and I was in the midst of household chores. I didn't answer, as we live in prime territory for door-to-door sorts who in this instance would no doubt throw my last-minute schedule into chaos. "If it's Piattarriving early,arriving early," I thought, "he will ring again, and only then will I run downstairs."
At the sounding of the bell a second time, I flew downstairs, and found him perched on my doorstep in the midst of calling me on is cell phone. I ushered him in. He explained he'd gotten done early, and decided to head on over. I explained the delay in my door-answering, and my current immersion in last-minute housewifely duties.
"I was changing the sheets on the beds," said I.
"Oh, I've seen that before," he replied, "on Nick at Nite."
And ... scene.
So I was caught unawares when the doorbell rang at 5:30 and I was in the midst of household chores. I didn't answer, as we live in prime territory for door-to-door sorts who in this instance would no doubt throw my last-minute schedule into chaos. "If it's Piattarriving early,arriving early," I thought, "he will ring again, and only then will I run downstairs."
At the sounding of the bell a second time, I flew downstairs, and found him perched on my doorstep in the midst of calling me on is cell phone. I ushered him in. He explained he'd gotten done early, and decided to head on over. I explained the delay in my door-answering, and my current immersion in last-minute housewifely duties.
"I was changing the sheets on the beds," said I.
"Oh, I've seen that before," he replied, "on Nick at Nite."
And ... scene.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #147: The part where housecleaning raises questions
This Friday, I'm hosting the first-ever Daly household Cookie-Party (tm). The concept is simple. I clean the house. I prepare sugar cookies. I stock up on frosting and sprinkles. I spread a tarp. Small people come over and create their tributes to the holiday season. Moms attend along with, eat snacks and sip wine. Simple brilliance.
So at the moment, I'm at step one: cleaning the house. Which raises two questions:
1. Why do we have tent stakes?
2. Why are they in the diningroom?
No answers forthcoming.
So at the moment, I'm at step one: cleaning the house. Which raises two questions:
1. Why do we have tent stakes?
2. Why are they in the diningroom?
No answers forthcoming.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #146: The part where I wonder why Christmas thinks it has something to prove
When Christmas time rolls around, I listen to Christmas music. Probably more than is healthy or prudent. And in my listening, I've noticed something strange. A remarkably large number of Christmas song express the fact that Christmas is, in one way or another, the best time of the year. This is often followed by some meta-carol, Russian doll moment, where the image of groups of children caroling is evoked.
Now first off, what self-respecting holiday needs to have sung about it the fact that it's being sung about?
Secondly, and more insidiously, why do pop carol singers feel the need to reiterate so frequently that Christmas is not just a perfectly good holiday, but is, in fact, "The best time of the year"? Halloween makes no such claims. Thanksgiving seems, by comparison, serenely content in its own sense of goodness, without the need for such braggery. And Easter. There is moderate glee at the notion of hopping down bunny trains and such like, but no need to self-promote.
So my question: What is Christmas' deal? Is it really so insecure? Did somebody disparage Christmas during its awkward adolescence? Or is this sense of slackjawed seasonal wonder just a placeholder for divinity in an increasingly secular society that wants to hold onto that "magical night" feeling, but without putting a manger in front of city hall?
Weighty holiday question, all.
Now first off, what self-respecting holiday needs to have sung about it the fact that it's being sung about?
Secondly, and more insidiously, why do pop carol singers feel the need to reiterate so frequently that Christmas is not just a perfectly good holiday, but is, in fact, "The best time of the year"? Halloween makes no such claims. Thanksgiving seems, by comparison, serenely content in its own sense of goodness, without the need for such braggery. And Easter. There is moderate glee at the notion of hopping down bunny trains and such like, but no need to self-promote.
So my question: What is Christmas' deal? Is it really so insecure? Did somebody disparage Christmas during its awkward adolescence? Or is this sense of slackjawed seasonal wonder just a placeholder for divinity in an increasingly secular society that wants to hold onto that "magical night" feeling, but without putting a manger in front of city hall?
Weighty holiday question, all.
Crazy Crap Item #145: The part where I find the perfect holiday gift
On a recent trip to the market, while perusing the "seasonal" aisle, I found a most remarkable item. A plastic reindeer. Filled with candy. When you press down on it, it emits a piece of candy and drops it into a sack marked "Santa's 'presents.'" As you can imagine, it's quite classy.
So needing to purchase this item, and similiarly needing to spread it as far and wide as possible, I picked up three of them. One I deposited in Eamon's stocking. The other two, I crammed into the Caseys' mailslot. They just barely fit.
Later, I emailed Ann to ensure she was aware of this offering an its source. I wrote:
I left a small offering in your mail slot. It's for the boys. It's ... strange.
She replied:
So you're the one responsible for my boys talking about "super yummy reindeer poop?" You have given them the opportunity to talk about poop and eat candy at the same time - the perfect gift. We spent some time trying to figure out which neighbor might have left the pooping reindeer in our slot - when I mentioned your name among a series of neighbors Jack yelled "Yes, Kay!"
I am renowned.
So needing to purchase this item, and similiarly needing to spread it as far and wide as possible, I picked up three of them. One I deposited in Eamon's stocking. The other two, I crammed into the Caseys' mailslot. They just barely fit.
Later, I emailed Ann to ensure she was aware of this offering an its source. I wrote:
I left a small offering in your mail slot. It's for the boys. It's ... strange.
She replied:
So you're the one responsible for my boys talking about "super yummy reindeer poop?" You have given them the opportunity to talk about poop and eat candy at the same time - the perfect gift. We spent some time trying to figure out which neighbor might have left the pooping reindeer in our slot - when I mentioned your name among a series of neighbors Jack yelled "Yes, Kay!"
I am renowned.
Crazy Crap Item #144: The part where I get delicious chills down my spine
Anyone who has visited Chez Daly knows this is a delightful abode. They also know that it is in sad need of refurbishment.
Besides requiring all the infrastructure upgrades one would expect in a house just shy of 100 years old, our cozy nest sports a number of other "opportunities for improvement," as I like to call them. To whit: cracked plaster, dented plaster, patched plaster, wood paneling, more wood paneling, faux wood paneling, broken floor tiles, inspiring light switches, and numerous other astonishing features. Yup, it's a "fixer-upper."
As I contemplate the many changes we hope to make, I never fail to think of the previous inhabitant, Mrs. "Babe" O'Malley (mentioned briefly, once before). She and her husband raised no fewer than eight children in this home, and we hear that is was she who performed what appears to be the one and only renovation to the home, which occurred in the early '70s. Hence the gold and avocado wall paper. I respect the efforts she made, wallpaper roll in one hand, scruff of insolent child's neck in the other, when she first moved in, and wonder whether she takes our plans to update as an insult or, as I hope, a tribute.
It was with this thought in mind that I contemplate a recent occurrence. Our architect, Megan, stopped by to do some measurements of our attic and back porch. Our attic is accessible only through a portal located in the ceiling of my office closet. After inspecting the attic, she stopped at my desk, where I was working away, and said she had some updated plans for us to review. She asked we take a look and provide some feedback. She left the plans on the right-hand corner of my desk. I escorted her downstairs, where she did some more snooping. As she left, she reminded me about the plans. I promptly forgot them.
Until the next day, a saturday. I recalled the plans, and mentioned to Eamon we should take a look. He asked where they were. I said, on the corner of my desk. He headed upstairs, and shouted down, where on your desk? The right-hand corner, I answered. There's nothing here, he claimed.
I sighed, silently cursed his inability to see something right in front of his face, and went upstairs. I pointed dramatically to the corner of the desk, where I found... nothing. Strike that. There was a magazine, a small stack of CDs, and sheet music for a flapper-era song called "Don't Bring Lulu." Nothing else. I check the floor. Nothing. I check the rest of the desk. Nothing. I recall what projects I was working on when Megan was here, and check all related file folders in my work drawer. Nothing.
So, I think, I hallucinated the desk corner. Megan must've dropped the plans on /some/ corner of /some/ piece of furniture, and I've filled in the blank in my mind. So i check all the tables downstairs. And upstairs. I check the bathrooms. I check the floor of my office. Again. I check the front entryway, the radiators, and any of other flat rectangular piece of furniture. When Eamon suggests we ask Megan for another copy of the plan, I agree, and tell him to tell her I'm an idiot.
I do another search, smaller this time, on Sunday. I resign myself to the fact that I am, indeed, and idiot.
Monday morning, I oversleep. Eamon has just left for work as I arise. I go to the office. I sit down. On the corner of my desk, right next to my laptop, is a scroll -- three floor plans rolled up and bound with a rubber band. I hadn't recalled the plans were in a scroll. I hadn't seen a scroll before.
I text eamon online:
-- So, you found the plans!
-- Where were they?
Eamon replies:
-- I didn't.
And then he texts the exact thought I had:
-- I guess Mrs. O'Malley wanted to approve them before we saw them.
I can only assume she approves.
Besides requiring all the infrastructure upgrades one would expect in a house just shy of 100 years old, our cozy nest sports a number of other "opportunities for improvement," as I like to call them. To whit: cracked plaster, dented plaster, patched plaster, wood paneling, more wood paneling, faux wood paneling, broken floor tiles, inspiring light switches, and numerous other astonishing features. Yup, it's a "fixer-upper."
As I contemplate the many changes we hope to make, I never fail to think of the previous inhabitant, Mrs. "Babe" O'Malley (mentioned briefly, once before). She and her husband raised no fewer than eight children in this home, and we hear that is was she who performed what appears to be the one and only renovation to the home, which occurred in the early '70s. Hence the gold and avocado wall paper. I respect the efforts she made, wallpaper roll in one hand, scruff of insolent child's neck in the other, when she first moved in, and wonder whether she takes our plans to update as an insult or, as I hope, a tribute.
It was with this thought in mind that I contemplate a recent occurrence. Our architect, Megan, stopped by to do some measurements of our attic and back porch. Our attic is accessible only through a portal located in the ceiling of my office closet. After inspecting the attic, she stopped at my desk, where I was working away, and said she had some updated plans for us to review. She asked we take a look and provide some feedback. She left the plans on the right-hand corner of my desk. I escorted her downstairs, where she did some more snooping. As she left, she reminded me about the plans. I promptly forgot them.
Until the next day, a saturday. I recalled the plans, and mentioned to Eamon we should take a look. He asked where they were. I said, on the corner of my desk. He headed upstairs, and shouted down, where on your desk? The right-hand corner, I answered. There's nothing here, he claimed.
I sighed, silently cursed his inability to see something right in front of his face, and went upstairs. I pointed dramatically to the corner of the desk, where I found... nothing. Strike that. There was a magazine, a small stack of CDs, and sheet music for a flapper-era song called "Don't Bring Lulu." Nothing else. I check the floor. Nothing. I check the rest of the desk. Nothing. I recall what projects I was working on when Megan was here, and check all related file folders in my work drawer. Nothing.
So, I think, I hallucinated the desk corner. Megan must've dropped the plans on /some/ corner of /some/ piece of furniture, and I've filled in the blank in my mind. So i check all the tables downstairs. And upstairs. I check the bathrooms. I check the floor of my office. Again. I check the front entryway, the radiators, and any of other flat rectangular piece of furniture. When Eamon suggests we ask Megan for another copy of the plan, I agree, and tell him to tell her I'm an idiot.
I do another search, smaller this time, on Sunday. I resign myself to the fact that I am, indeed, and idiot.
Monday morning, I oversleep. Eamon has just left for work as I arise. I go to the office. I sit down. On the corner of my desk, right next to my laptop, is a scroll -- three floor plans rolled up and bound with a rubber band. I hadn't recalled the plans were in a scroll. I hadn't seen a scroll before.
I text eamon online:
-- So, you found the plans!
-- Where were they?
Eamon replies:
-- I didn't.
And then he texts the exact thought I had:
-- I guess Mrs. O'Malley wanted to approve them before we saw them.
I can only assume she approves.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #143: The part where Eamon is spurned by lesbians
As many of you know, Eamon is, once again, participating in Mustaches for Kids. It's a fundraiser in which participants (called "growers") pledge to shave any existing facial hair and grow in a non-ironic, corner to corner mustache. Friends and well-wishers--desiring to witness such absurdity--pledge money to reward these mustachioed do-gooders. Proceeds go to a local charity; in Chicago, the designated charity is Off the Street Club.
As some may recall, Eamon participated last year, and swept the final prize for most money raised. It was a proud moment. (View his victory dance here.) Once again, he's growing for the kids, and once again, you can bask in the fuzzy glow of his hairy lip, as well as check his progress on the money raising.
As part of this grand endeavor, he participated this week in a fundraising event at T's Bar and Restaurant in Andersonville. In addition to donating 10% of all drink and food purchases from patrons mentioning the charity, T's provided, as is their want, shots of liquor to be sold, all proceeds pocketed by the fundraisers.
Well, as much as this is a lovely way to garner cash, Eamon felt it lacked zip. So, to perk things up, he contrived a special, mustache-themed shot glass experience. After cutting out many faux 'staches (colored in with magic marker by yours truly), he taped aforesaid mustaches to the front of many small plastic shot glasses. The idea being: if one correctly shotgunned the beverage in a handsfree fashion, one could be seen to wearing a mustache at the end of the shot. It's hard to envision, so I provided this useful photographic demonstration.
For $6, each patron received not only the shot (choice of lemon drop or raspberry kamikaze), but also a polaroid of the endeavor. And to add the sizzle to the steak, Eamon came up with an enticing name for this beverage/performance art: "The Mustache Ride."
The appealing name, combined with Eamon's winning salesmanship, meant shots were tossed by nearly all and sundry in the backroom of T's. With the exception, that is, of one group.
For those not familiar with T's, it caters to that joyful 10% of the population whose object of romantic desire does not square with notions of normative sexuality espoused by the far-right. As such, it was not surprising to encounter a cabal of lesbians perched on stools by the pool table. Try as he might, Eamon could not convert a single sale to these ladies. He could wheedle. He could plead. They were having no part of my hairy husband and his mustache rides.
Their loss, is all I can say.
As some may recall, Eamon participated last year, and swept the final prize for most money raised. It was a proud moment. (View his victory dance here.) Once again, he's growing for the kids, and once again, you can bask in the fuzzy glow of his hairy lip, as well as check his progress on the money raising.
As part of this grand endeavor, he participated this week in a fundraising event at T's Bar and Restaurant in Andersonville. In addition to donating 10% of all drink and food purchases from patrons mentioning the charity, T's provided, as is their want, shots of liquor to be sold, all proceeds pocketed by the fundraisers.
Well, as much as this is a lovely way to garner cash, Eamon felt it lacked zip. So, to perk things up, he contrived a special, mustache-themed shot glass experience. After cutting out many faux 'staches (colored in with magic marker by yours truly), he taped aforesaid mustaches to the front of many small plastic shot glasses. The idea being: if one correctly shotgunned the beverage in a handsfree fashion, one could be seen to wearing a mustache at the end of the shot. It's hard to envision, so I provided this useful photographic demonstration.
For $6, each patron received not only the shot (choice of lemon drop or raspberry kamikaze), but also a polaroid of the endeavor. And to add the sizzle to the steak, Eamon came up with an enticing name for this beverage/performance art: "The Mustache Ride."
The appealing name, combined with Eamon's winning salesmanship, meant shots were tossed by nearly all and sundry in the backroom of T's. With the exception, that is, of one group.
For those not familiar with T's, it caters to that joyful 10% of the population whose object of romantic desire does not square with notions of normative sexuality espoused by the far-right. As such, it was not surprising to encounter a cabal of lesbians perched on stools by the pool table. Try as he might, Eamon could not convert a single sale to these ladies. He could wheedle. He could plead. They were having no part of my hairy husband and his mustache rides.
Their loss, is all I can say.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #142: The part where I receive a most unexpected compliment
Last Friday night was date night at the Daly household. Eamon and I bought tickets to see a performance by comedian Kristen Schaal at the Lakeshore Theatre. We supped beforehand at a local Moroccan restaurant. That's where it all started to go gloriously awry.
Red wine, you see. With dinner. It was a chilly evening, and nothing warms the bones like red wine. So we drank several glasses. Actually, we split a bottle.
Then on to the theatre, which has a bar. I became reacquainted with my good friend Jack and his buddy, Diet Coke.
We were heading home, when I recalled that my dear friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt, was to be in attendance at the Green Mill. I've never been to aforementioned Chicago landmark, and since it was right on our way home, I suggested we meet him there. More Jack followed. And more. And more. Then, in the 11th hour, Eamon purchased a bottle of champagne. I only dimly recall this.
Other things I recall:
- The refrain "Kristen Schaal is a horse," which was chanted during the show.
- Getting free ice cream from the theater after the show, which we ate on the 36 bus en route to Green Mill.
- Excoriating the novel The Time Traveler's Wife, which features Green Mill. It is a dumb, pretentious, over-rated piece of trash. The novel, not the jazz club.
- Having my messenger bag dumped accidentally in a booth at the Green Mill, and later, Mr. Piatt discovering my chapstick and my lipstick wedged beneath his crotch.
- Eamon shushing me a number of times during the musical sets.
- Repeatedly pointing out that I was wearing Landsend moccasins, inappropriate nightlife wear, but which served as evidence that I had not intended to see and be seen that night.
- The beginning of a cab ride home, but not the end.
The result of all this imbibery is that Saturday was pretty much of a wash for both of us. I reported this to Mr. Piatt, who reported back:
'Two people this weekend (Erin Fast and, upon hearing about my weekend, Jonny Mess) said the exact same sentence to me, word-for-word:
"I love wasted Kay."'
Now that is something to be known for.
Red wine, you see. With dinner. It was a chilly evening, and nothing warms the bones like red wine. So we drank several glasses. Actually, we split a bottle.
Then on to the theatre, which has a bar. I became reacquainted with my good friend Jack and his buddy, Diet Coke.
We were heading home, when I recalled that my dear friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt, was to be in attendance at the Green Mill. I've never been to aforementioned Chicago landmark, and since it was right on our way home, I suggested we meet him there. More Jack followed. And more. And more. Then, in the 11th hour, Eamon purchased a bottle of champagne. I only dimly recall this.
Other things I recall:
- The refrain "Kristen Schaal is a horse," which was chanted during the show.
- Getting free ice cream from the theater after the show, which we ate on the 36 bus en route to Green Mill.
- Excoriating the novel The Time Traveler's Wife, which features Green Mill. It is a dumb, pretentious, over-rated piece of trash. The novel, not the jazz club.
- Having my messenger bag dumped accidentally in a booth at the Green Mill, and later, Mr. Piatt discovering my chapstick and my lipstick wedged beneath his crotch.
- Eamon shushing me a number of times during the musical sets.
- Repeatedly pointing out that I was wearing Landsend moccasins, inappropriate nightlife wear, but which served as evidence that I had not intended to see and be seen that night.
- The beginning of a cab ride home, but not the end.
The result of all this imbibery is that Saturday was pretty much of a wash for both of us. I reported this to Mr. Piatt, who reported back:
'Two people this weekend (Erin Fast and, upon hearing about my weekend, Jonny Mess) said the exact same sentence to me, word-for-word:
"I love wasted Kay."'
Now that is something to be known for.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #141: The part where Eamon and I discuss the lively arts
kaydaly88: in other news, art is the axe that chops into our frozen sea
kaydaly88: in case you were wondering
eamondaly1110: old news
kaydaly88: very old
kaydaly88: about 100 years old
eamondaly1110: it also turns out that music is the diaper for the rotting old man.
kaydaly88: really!
kaydaly88: i hadn't heard.
eamondaly1110: and dance is the leaf blower that clears away our frito-lay-messed lawn.
kaydaly88: true.
kaydaly88: so wise in its way
eamondaly1110: mime is just fucking weird, though.
kaydaly88: yeah
kaydaly88: it's for shit
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #140: The part where I remember just how scary things can be
Halloween is upon us, and I've enjoyed watching the various small people in our midst prepare for the mayhem. Most fascinating, I think, has been young James. At age 3, he's entering the threshold where he's beginning to understand "scary." Which means that things that would not have phased him last year are suddenly horrific.
There are irregularities in this trend. Skeletons, for example, hold no terrors for him. Perhaps it's because he does not yet grasp what a skeleton actually is, or what it implies, but he seems to find them rather cuddly. He has all but adopted a fully articulated, 10" tall skeleton I bought at Jewel ($3 - a bargain!), wrapping it in a cosy blanket and toting him around like a baby doll. His name is Boney.
He's less thrilled with costumes. Eamon's robot head, now enshrined on our fireplace mantle, drives him from the room, and he asked me to remove my witch hat when I modeled it for him.
So you can imagine his unbridled horror when our neighbor Jon Hey attended afternoon fun at the benches wearing a zombie mask. I'm told that his disguise delighted 6-year-olds Sam, Emmet and Jack, but reduced James to quivering paroxysms of fright. Sobs. Screaming. Uncontrollable terror.
So it's not clear why John decided to stage a repeat performance the next day, and to head directly towards James. Who starts to quiver.
So I scoop him up and tell him, "It's only Jon Hey."
To which he replies, "What if it's not????"
Remembering as I do that category of terrifying doubt, I said, "Wanna go in my house and play?"
Which he did. And I don't blame him.
There are irregularities in this trend. Skeletons, for example, hold no terrors for him. Perhaps it's because he does not yet grasp what a skeleton actually is, or what it implies, but he seems to find them rather cuddly. He has all but adopted a fully articulated, 10" tall skeleton I bought at Jewel ($3 - a bargain!), wrapping it in a cosy blanket and toting him around like a baby doll. His name is Boney.
He's less thrilled with costumes. Eamon's robot head, now enshrined on our fireplace mantle, drives him from the room, and he asked me to remove my witch hat when I modeled it for him.
So you can imagine his unbridled horror when our neighbor Jon Hey attended afternoon fun at the benches wearing a zombie mask. I'm told that his disguise delighted 6-year-olds Sam, Emmet and Jack, but reduced James to quivering paroxysms of fright. Sobs. Screaming. Uncontrollable terror.
So it's not clear why John decided to stage a repeat performance the next day, and to head directly towards James. Who starts to quiver.
So I scoop him up and tell him, "It's only Jon Hey."
To which he replies, "What if it's not????"
Remembering as I do that category of terrifying doubt, I said, "Wanna go in my house and play?"
Which he did. And I don't blame him.
Crazy Crap Item #139: The part where I learn a new definition for BYOB
I've heard yet again from my Montana-based cousin, Mountain Man Tom. This time, he recounts an amusing anecdote vis-a-vis Chinese food in his particular hinterland. Enjoy:
Kay,
Your father has touted restaurant dining in your neighborhood. I thought you might find some humor in Montana dining.
Once a week I meet my friends, Ace and Chris (of the broken rib) at the local brewery's tasting room. We quaff a couple then pick up dinner to go, normally Pizza. Yesterday Chris had a yen for Chinese. Chris is a funny eater and a person of strong opinions, such as preferring The Bamboo Garden to Chang's Family Restaurant, if you can imagine such a thing. The Bamboo Garden features bad service, mediocre (possibly cold) food, and often can not actually produce the meals offered on their menu. Anyone with sense goes to Chang's. Not Chris. She wanted beef and broccoli from The Garden, and called them from the brewery to order. They had no broccoli. This pushed her button. "What if I Pick up some fricken (she actually said "fricken", the first time an expletive was necessary) broccoli at Safeway and bring it to you, will you fix me my (non-fricken) meal.?" They said they would. So, she got greens and took them to The Garden. They gave her $2 off for bringing her own broccoli. She had to wait an hour and the food wasn't very good. Come visit and we can go to Chang's.
Mountain Man Tom
Kay,
Your father has touted restaurant dining in your neighborhood. I thought you might find some humor in Montana dining.
Once a week I meet my friends, Ace and Chris (of the broken rib) at the local brewery's tasting room. We quaff a couple then pick up dinner to go, normally Pizza. Yesterday Chris had a yen for Chinese. Chris is a funny eater and a person of strong opinions, such as preferring The Bamboo Garden to Chang's Family Restaurant, if you can imagine such a thing. The Bamboo Garden features bad service, mediocre (possibly cold) food, and often can not actually produce the meals offered on their menu. Anyone with sense goes to Chang's. Not Chris. She wanted beef and broccoli from The Garden, and called them from the brewery to order. They had no broccoli. This pushed her button. "What if I Pick up some fricken (she actually said "fricken", the first time an expletive was necessary) broccoli at Safeway and bring it to you, will you fix me my (non-fricken) meal.?" They said they would. So, she got greens and took them to The Garden. They gave her $2 off for bringing her own broccoli. She had to wait an hour and the food wasn't very good. Come visit and we can go to Chang's.
Mountain Man Tom
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #138: The part where I lay down the law
Recently I was sent to review a horrible, horrible show. As it happens, the show was really still in rehearsal, so after sitting through an hour and a half of blech, I'm not reviewing it after all. It did, however, allow me to compile some new rules for theater. Such as:
1. Any character that is defined by a hat is not a strongly drawn character.
2. Interacting with audience members in character during intermission is not clever or artsy. It's just intrusive.
3. Sign language is not to be used on an ad hoc basis. It is not to be used at all, unless:
a. one or more performers in the cast are hearing-impaired
b. one or more characters in the play are hearing-impaired
c. the audience is hearing-impaired.
4. After a rape/murder is presented on stage, you are not allowed to evoke a cheerful, hopeful tone for the rest of the show. Ever.
5. Rape/murders should not be depicted in musicals. Murders are OK (Sweeney Todd). Near-rape is OK (West Side Story). But not the two, happening at once.
1. Any character that is defined by a hat is not a strongly drawn character.
2. Interacting with audience members in character during intermission is not clever or artsy. It's just intrusive.
3. Sign language is not to be used on an ad hoc basis. It is not to be used at all, unless:
a. one or more performers in the cast are hearing-impaired
b. one or more characters in the play are hearing-impaired
c. the audience is hearing-impaired.
4. After a rape/murder is presented on stage, you are not allowed to evoke a cheerful, hopeful tone for the rest of the show. Ever.
5. Rape/murders should not be depicted in musicals. Murders are OK (Sweeney Todd). Near-rape is OK (West Side Story). But not the two, happening at once.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #137: The part where I open a little window on our marriage. Or, a door.
Yesterday, Eamon and I visited his folks up in lovely Spring Grove, IL. His mom's computer was in need of surgery, and since it looked like an all-day affair, I came along.
While waiting for some magical computer program to do some magical thing, he joined me out on the patio, where I was flipping through a coffe-table book about bungalows. Our conversation went thusly:
Kay: Oooh! A shower door. I miss shower doors. We had a shower with a door when I was growing up.
Eamon: I hate shower doors. They make me feel trapped.
Kay: I love shower doors. They make me feel safe.
And ... scene.
While waiting for some magical computer program to do some magical thing, he joined me out on the patio, where I was flipping through a coffe-table book about bungalows. Our conversation went thusly:
Kay: Oooh! A shower door. I miss shower doors. We had a shower with a door when I was growing up.
Eamon: I hate shower doors. They make me feel trapped.
Kay: I love shower doors. They make me feel safe.
And ... scene.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #136: The part where Jack and James crack wise
My neighbor Ann Casey reported two witticisms produced by her sons, Jack (age 6) and James (age 3).
Jack just celebrated a birthday, and yesterday, he enjoyed a family party in the evening, complete with cake and presents. This capped an afternoon of frolic involving himself, James, and our other neighbors, Casey and Daniel. Exciting hijinx included the unveiling of a brand new Pirates of the Caribbean sprinkler (Target, at the must-sell price of $2.48), the witnessing of Kay cleaning out her garage (fascinating and disgusting stuff), the perusal of a Halloween decorations/costumes catalog, and the impromtu planning of a haunted house in the Daly garage. High times indeed.
Apparently, the day was much prized by young Jack, who today was heard to say, "Get me the phone! I want to call yesterday and ask it to come back."
James countered this witticism with a bit of unplanned mayhem at church this morning. While he was permitted to join his mother at the communion rail, he was scandalized to learn he was not allowed to partake of the sacrament. This led to much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and the crying out of "I want the body of cracker!!"
That is a boy that gets right to the heart of the sacred mystery.
Jack just celebrated a birthday, and yesterday, he enjoyed a family party in the evening, complete with cake and presents. This capped an afternoon of frolic involving himself, James, and our other neighbors, Casey and Daniel. Exciting hijinx included the unveiling of a brand new Pirates of the Caribbean sprinkler (Target, at the must-sell price of $2.48), the witnessing of Kay cleaning out her garage (fascinating and disgusting stuff), the perusal of a Halloween decorations/costumes catalog, and the impromtu planning of a haunted house in the Daly garage. High times indeed.
Apparently, the day was much prized by young Jack, who today was heard to say, "Get me the phone! I want to call yesterday and ask it to come back."
James countered this witticism with a bit of unplanned mayhem at church this morning. While he was permitted to join his mother at the communion rail, he was scandalized to learn he was not allowed to partake of the sacrament. This led to much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and the crying out of "I want the body of cracker!!"
That is a boy that gets right to the heart of the sacred mystery.
Crazy Crap Item #136: The part where Delores experiences an upgrade
I've written often of Delores, our neighbor who keeps vigil over 1500 Norwood from her majestic lawn-chair perch, and who so helpfully informed me of the poop incident.
Just this past weekend, as I was cleaning out the garage, I was interrupted by my neighbor Ann, who excitedly told me Delores had kicked it up a notch. She provided this photo as proof.
Oh, Delores. Long may you wave.
Just this past weekend, as I was cleaning out the garage, I was interrupted by my neighbor Ann, who excitedly told me Delores had kicked it up a notch. She provided this photo as proof.
Oh, Delores. Long may you wave.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #135: The part where Eamon and I are inadvertantly witty
So I'm working on brochure copy for a video lecture series on "The Classic Novel." As such, I am working up a sidebar of quotes from great novels. I decided to share one quote with Eamon, which spawned the following exchange:
(14:30:58) kaydaly88: “…first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.”
(14:31:03) kaydaly88: now /that's/ art
(14:31:10) eamondaly1110: is that jay-z?
(14:31:16) kaydaly88: no, but close
(14:31:19) kaydaly88: joy-ce
(14:31:23) eamondaly1110: ha!
I wish we could say we were being deliberately clever, but we weren't.
Oh, and if you're wondering about that quote, learn more here.
(14:30:58) kaydaly88: “…first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.”
(14:31:03) kaydaly88: now /that's/ art
(14:31:10) eamondaly1110: is that jay-z?
(14:31:16) kaydaly88: no, but close
(14:31:19) kaydaly88: joy-ce
(14:31:23) eamondaly1110: ha!
I wish we could say we were being deliberately clever, but we weren't.
Oh, and if you're wondering about that quote, learn more here.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #134: The part where Roxi is misidentified by a cab driver
Last night, Roxi joined me for a festive evening of watching the season premiere of America's Next Top Model, snacking on delicious snacks, and drinking Champagne in a can.
As the hour grew late and the hostess grew tipsy, Roxi decide a trip home in a taxi would be in order. She called later to recount her conversation with the driver, recreated here via email:
Cabbie: Where did you come from?
Me: I ran from over there. [pointing to your house]
Cabbie: You came from out of nowhere. Like a hooker.
Me: I'm not a hooker.
Cabbie: But it was like a hooker. Coming out of nowhere.
Me: I'm not a hooker. [laughing]
Cabbie: You are laughing a lot. Are you drunk?
Me: No, I'm not drunk. [laughing]
Cabbie: You had nothing to drink?
Me: Okay, I had two drinks. But I'm not really drunk.
Cabbie: Did you smoke hashish, too?
Me: No.
Cabbie: Are you sure?
Me: Pretty sure.
Oh, our Roxi. A giggling, hashish-smoking, drunken hooker, for sure.
As the hour grew late and the hostess grew tipsy, Roxi decide a trip home in a taxi would be in order. She called later to recount her conversation with the driver, recreated here via email:
Cabbie: Where did you come from?
Me: I ran from over there. [pointing to your house]
Cabbie: You came from out of nowhere. Like a hooker.
Me: I'm not a hooker.
Cabbie: But it was like a hooker. Coming out of nowhere.
Me: I'm not a hooker. [laughing]
Cabbie: You are laughing a lot. Are you drunk?
Me: No, I'm not drunk. [laughing]
Cabbie: You had nothing to drink?
Me: Okay, I had two drinks. But I'm not really drunk.
Cabbie: Did you smoke hashish, too?
Me: No.
Cabbie: Are you sure?
Me: Pretty sure.
Oh, our Roxi. A giggling, hashish-smoking, drunken hooker, for sure.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #133: The part where I encounter a telling indication of my location
As is well known to most, I'm currently in California, helping out my parents while my dad undergoes and recuperates from hip replacement surgery. (He's doing beautifully, in case you hadn't heard.)
So for the last three weeks, I've been residing in the glamorous environs of Sun Lakes community, located in beautiful, chapparel-ridden Banning, California. Sun Lakes, for those unfamiliar with this bastion of golf carts and bingo, is a retirement community, exclusively for those "55 and better," as the community motto puts it. In other words, you must be "this old" to enter.
The surrounding community, Banning, has experienced a sort of renaissance, thanks in large part to Sun Lakes and other copycat planned communities within the city walls. Once a bustling stagecoach stop between Arizona and points west, Banning has been reborn as the land of medical offices, pharmacies, golf-cart repair shops, and other services so necessary to the twilight years.
This key demographic has left its mark on the larger community, one telling example of which I found at a recent trip to the local supermarket. Like most stores, this particular market keeps certain key pharmaceutical items under lock and key to deter shoplifting. Where I come from, these items typically include condoms, pregnancy tests, and the like.
But at the Banning supermarket, what did I find under lock and key?
The full line of Olay regenerative cosmetic preparations.
Apparently, they are like unto liquid gold here.
So for the last three weeks, I've been residing in the glamorous environs of Sun Lakes community, located in beautiful, chapparel-ridden Banning, California. Sun Lakes, for those unfamiliar with this bastion of golf carts and bingo, is a retirement community, exclusively for those "55 and better," as the community motto puts it. In other words, you must be "this old" to enter.
The surrounding community, Banning, has experienced a sort of renaissance, thanks in large part to Sun Lakes and other copycat planned communities within the city walls. Once a bustling stagecoach stop between Arizona and points west, Banning has been reborn as the land of medical offices, pharmacies, golf-cart repair shops, and other services so necessary to the twilight years.
This key demographic has left its mark on the larger community, one telling example of which I found at a recent trip to the local supermarket. Like most stores, this particular market keeps certain key pharmaceutical items under lock and key to deter shoplifting. Where I come from, these items typically include condoms, pregnancy tests, and the like.
But at the Banning supermarket, what did I find under lock and key?
The full line of Olay regenerative cosmetic preparations.
Apparently, they are like unto liquid gold here.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #132: The part where I grammarize
In my role as grammarian extraordinaire (brought about, apparently, by that pesky PhD I earned some time ago), I am sometimes asked of my writing/language "pet peeves." Honestly, before such a question arose in a job interview, I'd not given systematic thought to such an issue.
Like most, I have a few things that annoy me for their pretension ("myself" used in place of "me" for no good reason) or misapprehension ("literally" used as an intensifier, "prototypical" thrown in as a way to say "really typical"). But it's only lately that I've decided to identify and canonize one grammatical mishap that will be my signature annoyance.
Are you ready?
"You guyses." As in, "We'll be coming over to you guyses house later."
When I hear this phrase, I always want to splay my fingers on my chest, a la Oliver Hardy, and reply, "Disguises?"
Like most, I have a few things that annoy me for their pretension ("myself" used in place of "me" for no good reason) or misapprehension ("literally" used as an intensifier, "prototypical" thrown in as a way to say "really typical"). But it's only lately that I've decided to identify and canonize one grammatical mishap that will be my signature annoyance.
Are you ready?
"You guyses." As in, "We'll be coming over to you guyses house later."
When I hear this phrase, I always want to splay my fingers on my chest, a la Oliver Hardy, and reply, "Disguises?"
Monday, August 27, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #131: The part where I am warned
Last Tuesday, I left for a long sojourn in Banning, California, home to my parents. My dad is receiving a long-awaited and much anticipated hip replacement, which promises to relieve some considerable pain he's experienced for far too long. I'm on deck to assist with groceries, light errands, transportation of the mother to and from visiting hours, and other duties as needed.
I apprised Jack of my impending departure, and he was scandalized.
"Really? Where?"
I vaguely explained California and hip replacements.
"I'll be gone two weeks."
Two weeks, of course, means nothing to a five-year-old. He's currently certain we're smack in the middle of June, and Halloween is sometime next week. When I tried to explain exactly how long two weeks was, he looked stricken and vaguely confused.
Upon the day of my departure, I arose early, and was out the door by 7:30 so as to make my 9am flight. As such, I was not able to give my final farewell to young Jack.
Later in the week, Eamon discovered a message left on our voice mail from young Jack. Later investigation revealed that he had wished to say farewell, and so his mother put him on the line. The message followed thusly:
"Bye, Kay. Um. You know, you should know that there's a real, alive werewolf in your basement. So BEWARE."
I am warned.
I apprised Jack of my impending departure, and he was scandalized.
"Really? Where?"
I vaguely explained California and hip replacements.
"I'll be gone two weeks."
Two weeks, of course, means nothing to a five-year-old. He's currently certain we're smack in the middle of June, and Halloween is sometime next week. When I tried to explain exactly how long two weeks was, he looked stricken and vaguely confused.
Upon the day of my departure, I arose early, and was out the door by 7:30 so as to make my 9am flight. As such, I was not able to give my final farewell to young Jack.
Later in the week, Eamon discovered a message left on our voice mail from young Jack. Later investigation revealed that he had wished to say farewell, and so his mother put him on the line. The message followed thusly:
"Bye, Kay. Um. You know, you should know that there's a real, alive werewolf in your basement. So BEWARE."
I am warned.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #131: The part where I realize I am doomed to go through the same thought processes over and over
Today, I'm working on a very fun project for one of my favorite clients, The Teaching Company. They produce video courses for adults on a fun range of academic enrichment courses -- topics such as "Masterpieces of the Louvre," "A Brief History of the World," "Italian City-States," and the like. In my capacity as freelance writer, I'm paid (PAID, mind you) to watch these courses and write long-form catalog copy explaining why these courses are so cool. Thankfully, they usually are, so it's not such a brain teaser.
My latest course is "The History of World Literature." As a result of the watching the course, I've been taking notes on new works I'd like to read and old ones I'd like to come back to and re-read. In the latter category is The Epic of Gilgamesh, an ancient Babylonian epic purported oldest piece of literature in the world. I read it back in freshmen year in college, but since it didn't depict any saucy maidens, haughty lords, or country cotillions, I wasn't terribly interested at the time. I'm curious to see if my tastes have changed.
So I pull my Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces off the shelf, thinking that, of course, it will have this first of all masterpieces. I check the table of contents, and not only is it not there, in the margin is scratched a little note, in my hand. It reads, "What? No Epic of Gilgamesh?"
Alzheimer's, here I come.
My latest course is "The History of World Literature." As a result of the watching the course, I've been taking notes on new works I'd like to read and old ones I'd like to come back to and re-read. In the latter category is The Epic of Gilgamesh, an ancient Babylonian epic purported oldest piece of literature in the world. I read it back in freshmen year in college, but since it didn't depict any saucy maidens, haughty lords, or country cotillions, I wasn't terribly interested at the time. I'm curious to see if my tastes have changed.
So I pull my Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces off the shelf, thinking that, of course, it will have this first of all masterpieces. I check the table of contents, and not only is it not there, in the margin is scratched a little note, in my hand. It reads, "What? No Epic of Gilgamesh?"
Alzheimer's, here I come.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #130: The part where there we glimpse the rarest of phenomena
August birthdays abound in our neck of the woods.
Exhibit 1: Megan
Exhibit 2: Sheila
Exhibit 3: Chris
Exhibit 4: Gareth
Exhibit 5: yours truly
We ladies decided to go out and celebrate. And since only the ladies were invited, Chris and Gareth didn't get to come.
Megan, Sheila, Rose, Ann, and I, however, were in full force. We took a rain-sodden stroll down to Viet Bistro, a local asian fusion hot-spot. We arrive, dump our soggy umbrellas in a bucket (including Ann's signature Spider-man parasol), and are shown to a seat.
What to our wondering eyes should appear but our seldom-seen new neighbor Rick, accompanied by his virtually unknown partner.
Megan, immediately recognizing Rick, cries out to him across to the room. "Hello! Neighbor!" He acknowledges our greeting, but make no further move. I check out his partner, all unbeknownst to Rick.
Later in the meal, I look up and notice our neighbors have fled, with nary a parting greeting.
What to make of them?
Exhibit 1: Megan
Exhibit 2: Sheila
Exhibit 3: Chris
Exhibit 4: Gareth
Exhibit 5: yours truly
We ladies decided to go out and celebrate. And since only the ladies were invited, Chris and Gareth didn't get to come.
Megan, Sheila, Rose, Ann, and I, however, were in full force. We took a rain-sodden stroll down to Viet Bistro, a local asian fusion hot-spot. We arrive, dump our soggy umbrellas in a bucket (including Ann's signature Spider-man parasol), and are shown to a seat.
What to our wondering eyes should appear but our seldom-seen new neighbor Rick, accompanied by his virtually unknown partner.
Megan, immediately recognizing Rick, cries out to him across to the room. "Hello! Neighbor!" He acknowledges our greeting, but make no further move. I check out his partner, all unbeknownst to Rick.
Later in the meal, I look up and notice our neighbors have fled, with nary a parting greeting.
What to make of them?
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #129: The part where Kristen takes exception to my discussion with Jack about the monocled cat
(In reference to this post)
(10:57:35) krispe22: please don't ever tell me
(10:57:36) krispe22: again
(10:57:37) krispe22: about this
(10:57:47) krispe22: i cannot hear about sacs
(10:57:52) krispe22: ever ever again
(10:57:59) kaydaly88: hey, i was trapped
(10:58:01) kaydaly88: trapped!!!
(10:58:04) krispe22: um
(10:58:06) krispe22: you have legs
(10:58:08) krispe22: you can run away
(10:57:35) krispe22: please don't ever tell me
(10:57:36) krispe22: again
(10:57:37) krispe22: about this
(10:57:47) krispe22: i cannot hear about sacs
(10:57:52) krispe22: ever ever again
(10:57:59) kaydaly88: hey, i was trapped
(10:58:01) kaydaly88: trapped!!!
(10:58:04) krispe22: um
(10:58:06) krispe22: you have legs
(10:58:08) krispe22: you can run away
Crazy Crap Item #128: The part where I find myself having a conversation I did not intend to have
My lovely neighborhood of Norwood Street boasts many attractions. Not least among them is a one-eyed black cat. I'm not sure where he actually lives; but I suspect he has a home on some other block of Norwood -- perhaps on the 1300 block, or maybe even the much hated 1400 block.
In any event, we know he has an owner. He seems to be well cared for. In addition to his one, jewel-like green eye, he boasts a collar and the kind of shiny, healthy coat of black fur and stocky physique you find only in a cat that eats early and often. He's also very friendly.
At our recent block party, we had occasion to discuss this cat. I'm not sure how it came up; I wasn't present for the start of the discussion. But by the time I came around, Eamon was suggesting that a cat with one eye would need a monocle. This led to speculation about the nature and personality of a one-eyed, monocled cat. It was suggested that his name was Thaddeus J. Churchill III, and that, perhaps, he thought himself a bit good for the likes of us, what with wearing a monocle and all.
Several days afterwards, our monoptic friend came to visit. As I've said, he's a friendly sort, and surprisingly unfazed by children. He minced into my yard and up onto my back steps, where he submitted himself to petting by James, Jack and myself. I recollected that Eamon had given the cat the name Thaddeus J. Churchill III, but that, in fact, said cat was a girl.
"How do you know?" Jack asked.
"I took a peek," I said, deliberately vague.
"A peek at what?" Jack inevitably asked.
"At the parts that tell you whether a cat is a boy or a girl," I answered, still vague.
"What parts?" Jack asked, undogged.
"Well," I hemmed,"Boys and girls have different part back here," gesturing vaguely to Thaddeus. "Boys have sacs. This cat has no sacs. So it's a girl."
Done, I thought.
"What sacs?" Jack asked, a tad horrified.
"Well, you know, sacs," I hawed. "Like you've got..." I trailed off, hoping he'd be distracted by something else.
"Where have I got sacs?"
Pause.
"You know. In your pants."
He twisted to look at the seat of his pants. "Where?"
"On the front."
"Oh, these?"
"Yeah, those."
In any event, we know he has an owner. He seems to be well cared for. In addition to his one, jewel-like green eye, he boasts a collar and the kind of shiny, healthy coat of black fur and stocky physique you find only in a cat that eats early and often. He's also very friendly.
At our recent block party, we had occasion to discuss this cat. I'm not sure how it came up; I wasn't present for the start of the discussion. But by the time I came around, Eamon was suggesting that a cat with one eye would need a monocle. This led to speculation about the nature and personality of a one-eyed, monocled cat. It was suggested that his name was Thaddeus J. Churchill III, and that, perhaps, he thought himself a bit good for the likes of us, what with wearing a monocle and all.
Several days afterwards, our monoptic friend came to visit. As I've said, he's a friendly sort, and surprisingly unfazed by children. He minced into my yard and up onto my back steps, where he submitted himself to petting by James, Jack and myself. I recollected that Eamon had given the cat the name Thaddeus J. Churchill III, but that, in fact, said cat was a girl.
"How do you know?" Jack asked.
"I took a peek," I said, deliberately vague.
"A peek at what?" Jack inevitably asked.
"At the parts that tell you whether a cat is a boy or a girl," I answered, still vague.
"What parts?" Jack asked, undogged.
"Well," I hemmed,"Boys and girls have different part back here," gesturing vaguely to Thaddeus. "Boys have sacs. This cat has no sacs. So it's a girl."
Done, I thought.
"What sacs?" Jack asked, a tad horrified.
"Well, you know, sacs," I hawed. "Like you've got..." I trailed off, hoping he'd be distracted by something else.
"Where have I got sacs?"
Pause.
"You know. In your pants."
He twisted to look at the seat of his pants. "Where?"
"On the front."
"Oh, these?"
"Yeah, those."
Crazy Crap Item #127: The part where I surprise myself be being able to spell a hard word
"Mediterranean." Got it right on the first try, even. Man, I rock.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #126: The part where my dad tells me a very amusing story
This, from Sailor Jack:
Mike was telling me a story the other day I want to share with you. His wild, high school, pal, Alan, is now a San Bernardino Deputy Sheriff. On patrol the other day, he spotted a stake bed truck, driving suspiciously, so he pulled it over. When he looked in the back he discovered a Mariachi band in full costume and with instruments.
He checked out the driver, who seemed to have had a drink, was on the safe edge of a DUI. He thought it over and said to the band, "I won't run in if you play me a song". At this, they climbed out and started playing. As he was enjoying the music, he got a call on his radio of a disturbing the peace complaint saying, "Somebody is playing Mexican music in the street !"
Sounds like Mike's bunch.
Love to both,
Dad
Mike was telling me a story the other day I want to share with you. His wild, high school, pal, Alan, is now a San Bernardino Deputy Sheriff. On patrol the other day, he spotted a stake bed truck, driving suspiciously, so he pulled it over. When he looked in the back he discovered a Mariachi band in full costume and with instruments.
He checked out the driver, who seemed to have had a drink, was on the safe edge of a DUI. He thought it over and said to the band, "I won't run in if you play me a song". At this, they climbed out and started playing. As he was enjoying the music, he got a call on his radio of a disturbing the peace complaint saying, "Somebody is playing Mexican music in the street !"
Sounds like Mike's bunch.
Love to both,
Dad
Crazy Crap Item #125: The part where 1500 Norwood bids 'Aloha'
It's that time again. Summer block party time. As is well known, we at 1500 Norwood thrive on the themed block party. Last summer, it was the Olympics. In the fall, it was the Old West. Previous themes include Christmas in July, Oktoberfest, and Mini-Golf. Festive.
This year, we had many hot contenders for the honor of block party theme. Bastille Day. Venetian Night. Star Wars. Around the World Tour. But the far-and-away winner was .... Hawaiian Luau.
In the spirit of island languor, this was a relatively low-key block party. The general tenor seemed to be, "Meh, it will be fun. Let's drink beer."
The day started at 9am, with a sumptuous breakfast of island and not-so-island treats. Ann Casey had the brilliant of idea of foisting upon us all "Hawaiian names," and provided a key so we could translate our names using the Hawaiian alphabet, plus name tags to promote said island names.
The morning was mostly taken up with low-key fun: the eating of pastries, the riding of small vehicles, the gyration of hula hoops, the drinking of coffee, the drinking of coffee, and the drinking of coffee.
I should also mention that in some instances, costumes were worn.
The most surprising source of ongoing fun, I believe, were some inflatable decoration I had purchased: a tiki statue and a large hollow pineapple to be used as an ice chest. Amusing, I thought. They will just sit there on my lawn, being attractive and Hawaiian. I was wrong. The tiki statue, I found, could variously be used as a hat, as a sort of faux train, and as a chaise lounge. It can also just be rolled upon.
The pineapple ice chest held equal wonders. It was used for one-person sack races, as a means to trap unassuming neighbors, and, of course, for rolling, rolling, and more rolling. Needless to say, it was popped long before it could be used as an ice chest.
We'd also arranged some deliberate island-themed fun, including:
* the stringing of sea shells to make lovely island necklaces
* a seashell hunt in the Cancilla sandbox, during which the marine booty could be traded for toys and candy at the Daly Outpost
* a volcano demonstration, headed by Eamon, involving small "pocket volcanos" and bottles of diet Pepsi spiked with Menthos
* island floral photo opps
At noon, we broke for lunch, a tasty repast of hotdogs, donated by Patio Beef and lovingly prepared by Megan and John Calto. Alfresco dining was enjoyed by all.
We also indulged in some non-island fun, including a visit from our beloved firemen and the unparalleled opportunity to swarm the firetruck. And of course, whether on the islands or the mainland, nothing can beat the joy of digging, digging and more digging, made all the more accessible by a recent visit from People's Gas (which entailed plowing up sections of all our parkways).
For the grown-ups, daytime fun (when it didn't include managing the aforementioned activities) consisted of dandling babies on knees, sitting on lawn furniture (sometimes joined by smaller folk), strolling, chillaxing, standing around, jawing, waxing sentimental, and, occasionally, scowling.
Things picked up again in the afternoon, with a performance by a local a cappella group (yes, my a cappella group), a fiddle serenade by Jim Casey, and of course, a lavish pot-luck dinner. As always, Eamon and I served our patented Louisiana whiskey slush, of which John O'Connor partook, perhaps to excess. I was proud to serve a much lauded Hawaiian meatball dish, which to me was the perfect typification of Hawaii by way of the 1950s Midwest. Jim Casey offered his supremely good pulled pork (which allowed for many jokes about how Jim had been pulling his pork all day. Ah, pork humor. Always fun.).
After dinner, competition heated up with a hula hoop contest and several coconut "broomball" bouts. Later, tiki torches were lit, a firepit was stoked, a guitar jam session played, and "Finding Nemo" was viewed on the big, middle-of-the-street movied screen, propped up against the one lone parked car on the street -- the leavings of some unlawfully parked and inconsiderate resident. Ruth decorated the malparked car with battery-operated tiki lights to striking effect.
The party cranked 'til midnight, at which point, we re-opened the street to more pedestrian pedestrian behavior.
A final note: Rick did not attend.
This year, we had many hot contenders for the honor of block party theme. Bastille Day. Venetian Night. Star Wars. Around the World Tour. But the far-and-away winner was .... Hawaiian Luau.
In the spirit of island languor, this was a relatively low-key block party. The general tenor seemed to be, "Meh, it will be fun. Let's drink beer."
The day started at 9am, with a sumptuous breakfast of island and not-so-island treats. Ann Casey had the brilliant of idea of foisting upon us all "Hawaiian names," and provided a key so we could translate our names using the Hawaiian alphabet, plus name tags to promote said island names.
The morning was mostly taken up with low-key fun: the eating of pastries, the riding of small vehicles, the gyration of hula hoops, the drinking of coffee, the drinking of coffee, and the drinking of coffee.
I should also mention that in some instances, costumes were worn.
The most surprising source of ongoing fun, I believe, were some inflatable decoration I had purchased: a tiki statue and a large hollow pineapple to be used as an ice chest. Amusing, I thought. They will just sit there on my lawn, being attractive and Hawaiian. I was wrong. The tiki statue, I found, could variously be used as a hat, as a sort of faux train, and as a chaise lounge. It can also just be rolled upon.
The pineapple ice chest held equal wonders. It was used for one-person sack races, as a means to trap unassuming neighbors, and, of course, for rolling, rolling, and more rolling. Needless to say, it was popped long before it could be used as an ice chest.
We'd also arranged some deliberate island-themed fun, including:
* the stringing of sea shells to make lovely island necklaces
* a seashell hunt in the Cancilla sandbox, during which the marine booty could be traded for toys and candy at the Daly Outpost
* a volcano demonstration, headed by Eamon, involving small "pocket volcanos" and bottles of diet Pepsi spiked with Menthos
* island floral photo opps
At noon, we broke for lunch, a tasty repast of hotdogs, donated by Patio Beef and lovingly prepared by Megan and John Calto. Alfresco dining was enjoyed by all.
We also indulged in some non-island fun, including a visit from our beloved firemen and the unparalleled opportunity to swarm the firetruck. And of course, whether on the islands or the mainland, nothing can beat the joy of digging, digging and more digging, made all the more accessible by a recent visit from People's Gas (which entailed plowing up sections of all our parkways).
For the grown-ups, daytime fun (when it didn't include managing the aforementioned activities) consisted of dandling babies on knees, sitting on lawn furniture (sometimes joined by smaller folk), strolling, chillaxing, standing around, jawing, waxing sentimental, and, occasionally, scowling.
Things picked up again in the afternoon, with a performance by a local a cappella group (yes, my a cappella group), a fiddle serenade by Jim Casey, and of course, a lavish pot-luck dinner. As always, Eamon and I served our patented Louisiana whiskey slush, of which John O'Connor partook, perhaps to excess. I was proud to serve a much lauded Hawaiian meatball dish, which to me was the perfect typification of Hawaii by way of the 1950s Midwest. Jim Casey offered his supremely good pulled pork (which allowed for many jokes about how Jim had been pulling his pork all day. Ah, pork humor. Always fun.).
After dinner, competition heated up with a hula hoop contest and several coconut "broomball" bouts. Later, tiki torches were lit, a firepit was stoked, a guitar jam session played, and "Finding Nemo" was viewed on the big, middle-of-the-street movied screen, propped up against the one lone parked car on the street -- the leavings of some unlawfully parked and inconsiderate resident. Ruth decorated the malparked car with battery-operated tiki lights to striking effect.
The party cranked 'til midnight, at which point, we re-opened the street to more pedestrian pedestrian behavior.
A final note: Rick did not attend.
Crazy Crap Item #124: The part where 1500 Norwood waits in vigil on the new neighbors
This past March, we at 1500 Norwood suffered an intolerable loss. The O'Connors moved away. To Milwaukee.
Yes, you read right. Milwaukee.
Why, you ask, would anyone leave the sylvan splendor and sophisticated city-style living of 1500 Norwood for the great unknown frontier of some border hinterland? Work, they tell us. Unavoidable. We mourn.
News of the impending move engendered surmises as to our new neighbors. Would they be fun-loving folk, eager to partake of our many hijinks? Would we get to screen prospective neighbors, ensuring only the best and brightest could join our ranks?
The answer to the latter was no. Apparently, the O'Connors were being "relocated," which means they sell their house to their employer, who takes it from there.
As to the former ... the jury is still, alas, out.
Not that we don't have new neighbors. At first, it seemed promising. A same-sex couple, we are told. A soon-to-be retired Army dentist. His partner, rumored to be a physical therapist. We keep our eyes peeled for activity.
A moving truck arrives. Items are delivered. Shutters remain shuttered.
I hear tell my neighbor Florence has delivered a gift of shortbread to welcome them. So they are, we are to understand, moved in. I bake a loaf of bread and purchase olive oil as a welcome. But the new neighbors make no appearance, so I am forced to eat the bread myself.
Livingroom lights are spied, and Eamon strikes up an actual live conversation with one of the new neighbors while mowing the lawn. Rick is his name -- the Army dentist. A pleasant fellow, Eamon tells me. They speak of lawn maintenance and the superiority of push mowers. Eamon describes the annual block party, and suggests coconut bras may be involved. Rick registers enthusiasm.
So I bake loaf #2, based on Eamon's report that neighbors are stateside. I deliver said loaf, and chat with Rick, as pleasant and enthusiastic as Eamon had reported. He can't wait for the block party, he tells me. I tell him of the afternoon gatherings of mothers at Ruth's benches, and invite him to join us any time. He seems pleased and eager.
And then I never see him again. Shutters remain shuttered. There are occasional lights on. Delores reports they are out of town often. Megan theorizes they are avoiding us. Rick's partner is still unnamed, unmet.
I deliver flyers for the block party planning meeting. Rick and unnamed partner do not attend.
But still, through it all, Eamon and I maintain our faith that Rick lurks within, just waiting to be coaxed out of doors. As we gather at Ruth's benches, we occasionally cast a rueful eye at the former O'Connor home, longing for contact. We plaintively cry out, "Rick, Rick!"
Our cries are unanswered.
Yes, you read right. Milwaukee.
Why, you ask, would anyone leave the sylvan splendor and sophisticated city-style living of 1500 Norwood for the great unknown frontier of some border hinterland? Work, they tell us. Unavoidable. We mourn.
News of the impending move engendered surmises as to our new neighbors. Would they be fun-loving folk, eager to partake of our many hijinks? Would we get to screen prospective neighbors, ensuring only the best and brightest could join our ranks?
The answer to the latter was no. Apparently, the O'Connors were being "relocated," which means they sell their house to their employer, who takes it from there.
As to the former ... the jury is still, alas, out.
Not that we don't have new neighbors. At first, it seemed promising. A same-sex couple, we are told. A soon-to-be retired Army dentist. His partner, rumored to be a physical therapist. We keep our eyes peeled for activity.
A moving truck arrives. Items are delivered. Shutters remain shuttered.
I hear tell my neighbor Florence has delivered a gift of shortbread to welcome them. So they are, we are to understand, moved in. I bake a loaf of bread and purchase olive oil as a welcome. But the new neighbors make no appearance, so I am forced to eat the bread myself.
Livingroom lights are spied, and Eamon strikes up an actual live conversation with one of the new neighbors while mowing the lawn. Rick is his name -- the Army dentist. A pleasant fellow, Eamon tells me. They speak of lawn maintenance and the superiority of push mowers. Eamon describes the annual block party, and suggests coconut bras may be involved. Rick registers enthusiasm.
So I bake loaf #2, based on Eamon's report that neighbors are stateside. I deliver said loaf, and chat with Rick, as pleasant and enthusiastic as Eamon had reported. He can't wait for the block party, he tells me. I tell him of the afternoon gatherings of mothers at Ruth's benches, and invite him to join us any time. He seems pleased and eager.
And then I never see him again. Shutters remain shuttered. There are occasional lights on. Delores reports they are out of town often. Megan theorizes they are avoiding us. Rick's partner is still unnamed, unmet.
I deliver flyers for the block party planning meeting. Rick and unnamed partner do not attend.
But still, through it all, Eamon and I maintain our faith that Rick lurks within, just waiting to be coaxed out of doors. As we gather at Ruth's benches, we occasionally cast a rueful eye at the former O'Connor home, longing for contact. We plaintively cry out, "Rick, Rick!"
Our cries are unanswered.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #123: The part where Jack and I ponder immeasurables.
Jack: What is 3,000 plus 3,000?
Kay: 6,000.
Jack: What is 6,000 plus 6,000?
Kay: 12,000.
Jack: What is 12,000 plus 12,000?
Kay: 24,000.
Jack: What is 24,000 plus 24,000?
Kay: 48,000.
Jack: What is 48,000 plus 48,000?
Kay: 96,000.
Jack: What is 96,000 plus 96,000?
Kay: Um. [Pause.] 192,000.
Jack: What is 192,000 plus 192,000?
Kay: Oh, man. Let me think. [Jottings in air with finger.] 384,000.
Jack: What is 384,000 plus 384,000?
Kay: It'll take me a minute to figure that out.
Jack: I know. It's got to be infinity. 384,000 plus 384,000 is so big, it has to be infinity.
Kay: That can't be right, because infinity is bigger than anything you can add together.
Jack: What? What do you mean?
Kay: Infinity is everything. It just keeps going. Because you can always add one.
Jack: Add one what?
Kay: I mean, you can always add the number one. Like, one plus one is two; two plus one is three, and so on. Since you can always add one, you can never get to the end. Infinity means you can never get to the end, because it just keeps getting bigger.
Jack: Is infinity everything?
Kay: Yes. It's everything. It's bigger than everything, because it just keeps getting bigger.
Jack: So God is infinity.
Kay: Yes, God is infinity. He's everything. Plus one. God is everything, plus one.
Jack: So is God you?
Kay: Yes, God is me. God is bigger than me.
Jack: So God is me?
Kay: Yes, God is you and me and everything.
Jack: [ponders]
Kay: God is everything you ever thought, plus one.
Jack: So what about the devil.
Kay: That's another story.
Kay: 6,000.
Jack: What is 6,000 plus 6,000?
Kay: 12,000.
Jack: What is 12,000 plus 12,000?
Kay: 24,000.
Jack: What is 24,000 plus 24,000?
Kay: 48,000.
Jack: What is 48,000 plus 48,000?
Kay: 96,000.
Jack: What is 96,000 plus 96,000?
Kay: Um. [Pause.] 192,000.
Jack: What is 192,000 plus 192,000?
Kay: Oh, man. Let me think. [Jottings in air with finger.] 384,000.
Jack: What is 384,000 plus 384,000?
Kay: It'll take me a minute to figure that out.
Jack: I know. It's got to be infinity. 384,000 plus 384,000 is so big, it has to be infinity.
Kay: That can't be right, because infinity is bigger than anything you can add together.
Jack: What? What do you mean?
Kay: Infinity is everything. It just keeps going. Because you can always add one.
Jack: Add one what?
Kay: I mean, you can always add the number one. Like, one plus one is two; two plus one is three, and so on. Since you can always add one, you can never get to the end. Infinity means you can never get to the end, because it just keeps getting bigger.
Jack: Is infinity everything?
Kay: Yes. It's everything. It's bigger than everything, because it just keeps getting bigger.
Jack: So God is infinity.
Kay: Yes, God is infinity. He's everything. Plus one. God is everything, plus one.
Jack: So is God you?
Kay: Yes, God is me. God is bigger than me.
Jack: So God is me?
Kay: Yes, God is you and me and everything.
Jack: [ponders]
Kay: God is everything you ever thought, plus one.
Jack: So what about the devil.
Kay: That's another story.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #122: The part where Kristen goes to Dickens World, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt. Also, this lovely description.
A report, from Kristen Freilich, on her recent trip to England's premiere new tourist attraction, Dickens World:
So on July 3 in the year of our Lord 2007, Shaun and I made passage to Dickens World, the premier vacation destination in the county of Kent (other than the historic docks of Chatham, which for all I can tell are...docks....but, older).
We hopped the tube to Char Crossing (or Crossing Char, I can never remember) and switched to the National Rail for an hour long ride to Chatham Station. The London suburbs looked a lot like the average burbs outside any other major American city. Than we took a one pound bus to Dickens World.I wasn't sure which bus to take as none of them said DICKENS WORLD on them, the way buses at the Magic Kingdom do. A bit of advertising *might* help. Each time a bus pulled up to the Chatham stop I would run up to it and ask the driver if their bus stopped at Dicken's World.
(door opens)
(Kristen runs up to bus)
Kristen: Does this bus stop at Dicken's World?
Bus Driver: (heavy sigh) No.
After the third try, we found the right bus! Finally a sign on the way there. Shaun and I agreed that Dicken's World should use the Wall Drug advertising schema...(Just 20 more Kilometres to Dicken's World!!). This would have prevented me from asking the driver (at each stop) if this was the Dicken's World stop. After 1.5 hours of traveling through English Countryside by rail and road, I was NOT about to miss Dicken's World because of poor signage.
Finally, we arrived at the historic docks of Chatham, where there were docks, a discount mall, and (trumpet sound effect) Dickens World, which promises the time of their lives! What did I think it would be like? I was hoping for an Oliver! sing along, or Oliver! singing contest!Tickets were $25 for adults, which is certainly less than Disney! Please note fabulous marketing flyer, which features Dickens in a boat with some of his beloved characters:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/706731447/in/photostream/
We climbed a staircase from the very modern looking lobby and were then transported (through a door) to a very Dickensian world where everything was dark and wooden looking. We were greeted by a costumed wench who asked if we would like our photographs taken in Dickens garb. Dickens garb, for a man, means a chimney sweep costume and prop, which prompted Shaun to ask if Charles Dickens had written Mary Poppins.
I was FAR more excited about the photo than Shaun was.Then we were transported (through another door) into a very Dickensian world. Please note warning sign. This door opened into what looked like an extremely large Christmas Carol set, complete with alleys and shops:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731164094/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731163726/in/photostream/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731157264/in/photostream/
Two wenches (costumed characters) greeted us. I was hoping they would be all Dickensian and I could do my British dialect with them, and complain about that mean old Bill Sykes, but instead they just told us were the bathrooms and exits were. Then a costumed man ran up to Shaun and started drawing what looked like a beard on his face with a ball point pen. We asked what he was doing and he didn't answer- he just laughed and ran away.
Dicken's World has 2 floors. The first floor is the town and has a boat ride, a school room, and a haunted house. The second floor has a restaurant and a 4-D exhibit.
We first ventured on the boat ride which takes you around the entire theme park. There was no wait for the boat ride, but we passed signs that read "1 hour wait from this point, 30 minute wait for this point", etc. I bet they were DREAMING of the day were those signs come are appropriate.
The boat ride took us through the filthy Thames, where we witnessed an anamotronic boy urinating in an alley. There were no big splashes, no falls. During the final moments of the ride, spotlights came up on some really scary mannequins: Bill Sykes, Madame DeFarge, and finally Wet/Dry Vac. OH NO THE CURSED WET DRY VAC!
Next a visit to the Haunted House. It featured four stops, and at each stop a group of about 20 visitors peered from a hallway into a room where projections appeared via mirrors. There was no guide for the groups, so after the narration ended, we all kind of looked at each other awkwardly and shuffled to the next exhibit. We saw glimpses of characters from all novels in the projections. And they had about 100 fire extinguishers that were not masked at all. Is Dickens World really that flammable? How can it be that I have never noticed a fire extinguisher at Disney?
At the School House, we were finally spoken to by a real character. School Master, wearing a graduation robe and cap, yelled at us for being late and made us take our seats. I was horrified to find out that at each seat in the room there were TOUCH SCREENS where we could play SNAKES and LADDERS, a Dickens trivia game. TOUCH SCREENS? REALLY?? Then the school master yelled at us when we left, but I didn't care. The touch screens had broken my spirit.
Our last stop was the gift shop, where they had run out of adult sized t shirts. Apparently they didn't realize how popular Dickens t shirts would be, so I was forced to buy a Dickens World pencil. A Dickens World Pencil has Dickens World written on it and has a metal Dickens bust on the top where the eraser should be.
Upon leaving we were caught in a horrible thunderstorm, so we ran to the outlet mall for Burger King. Then Shaun bought some underwear at Marks and Spencer and I bought a 3lb bag of Misshapen chocolate at the Cadbury Outlet.
I had fun at Dickens World, but only because I think things that are kind of lame can also be fun. I'm not a fan of the Tony and Tina's interactive theater-type world, but Dickens World might be cooler if there were actual Dickens characters running around.
Cheers!
Kristen
So on July 3 in the year of our Lord 2007, Shaun and I made passage to Dickens World, the premier vacation destination in the county of Kent (other than the historic docks of Chatham, which for all I can tell are...docks....but, older).
We hopped the tube to Char Crossing (or Crossing Char, I can never remember) and switched to the National Rail for an hour long ride to Chatham Station. The London suburbs looked a lot like the average burbs outside any other major American city. Than we took a one pound bus to Dickens World.I wasn't sure which bus to take as none of them said DICKENS WORLD on them, the way buses at the Magic Kingdom do. A bit of advertising *might* help. Each time a bus pulled up to the Chatham stop I would run up to it and ask the driver if their bus stopped at Dicken's World.
(door opens)
(Kristen runs up to bus)
Kristen: Does this bus stop at Dicken's World?
Bus Driver: (heavy sigh) No.
After the third try, we found the right bus! Finally a sign on the way there. Shaun and I agreed that Dicken's World should use the Wall Drug advertising schema...(Just 20 more Kilometres to Dicken's World!!). This would have prevented me from asking the driver (at each stop) if this was the Dicken's World stop. After 1.5 hours of traveling through English Countryside by rail and road, I was NOT about to miss Dicken's World because of poor signage.
Finally, we arrived at the historic docks of Chatham, where there were docks, a discount mall, and (trumpet sound effect) Dickens World, which promises the time of their lives! What did I think it would be like? I was hoping for an Oliver! sing along, or Oliver! singing contest!Tickets were $25 for adults, which is certainly less than Disney! Please note fabulous marketing flyer, which features Dickens in a boat with some of his beloved characters:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/706731447/in/photostream/
We climbed a staircase from the very modern looking lobby and were then transported (through a door) to a very Dickensian world where everything was dark and wooden looking. We were greeted by a costumed wench who asked if we would like our photographs taken in Dickens garb. Dickens garb, for a man, means a chimney sweep costume and prop, which prompted Shaun to ask if Charles Dickens had written Mary Poppins.
I was FAR more excited about the photo than Shaun was.Then we were transported (through another door) into a very Dickensian world. Please note warning sign. This door opened into what looked like an extremely large Christmas Carol set, complete with alleys and shops:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731164094/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731163726/in/photostream/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731157264/in/photostream/
Two wenches (costumed characters) greeted us. I was hoping they would be all Dickensian and I could do my British dialect with them, and complain about that mean old Bill Sykes, but instead they just told us were the bathrooms and exits were. Then a costumed man ran up to Shaun and started drawing what looked like a beard on his face with a ball point pen. We asked what he was doing and he didn't answer- he just laughed and ran away.
Dicken's World has 2 floors. The first floor is the town and has a boat ride, a school room, and a haunted house. The second floor has a restaurant and a 4-D exhibit.
We first ventured on the boat ride which takes you around the entire theme park. There was no wait for the boat ride, but we passed signs that read "1 hour wait from this point, 30 minute wait for this point", etc. I bet they were DREAMING of the day were those signs come are appropriate.
The boat ride took us through the filthy Thames, where we witnessed an anamotronic boy urinating in an alley. There were no big splashes, no falls. During the final moments of the ride, spotlights came up on some really scary mannequins: Bill Sykes, Madame DeFarge, and finally Wet/Dry Vac. OH NO THE CURSED WET DRY VAC!
Next a visit to the Haunted House. It featured four stops, and at each stop a group of about 20 visitors peered from a hallway into a room where projections appeared via mirrors. There was no guide for the groups, so after the narration ended, we all kind of looked at each other awkwardly and shuffled to the next exhibit. We saw glimpses of characters from all novels in the projections. And they had about 100 fire extinguishers that were not masked at all. Is Dickens World really that flammable? How can it be that I have never noticed a fire extinguisher at Disney?
At the School House, we were finally spoken to by a real character. School Master, wearing a graduation robe and cap, yelled at us for being late and made us take our seats. I was horrified to find out that at each seat in the room there were TOUCH SCREENS where we could play SNAKES and LADDERS, a Dickens trivia game. TOUCH SCREENS? REALLY?? Then the school master yelled at us when we left, but I didn't care. The touch screens had broken my spirit.
Our last stop was the gift shop, where they had run out of adult sized t shirts. Apparently they didn't realize how popular Dickens t shirts would be, so I was forced to buy a Dickens World pencil. A Dickens World Pencil has Dickens World written on it and has a metal Dickens bust on the top where the eraser should be.
Upon leaving we were caught in a horrible thunderstorm, so we ran to the outlet mall for Burger King. Then Shaun bought some underwear at Marks and Spencer and I bought a 3lb bag of Misshapen chocolate at the Cadbury Outlet.
I had fun at Dickens World, but only because I think things that are kind of lame can also be fun. I'm not a fan of the Tony and Tina's interactive theater-type world, but Dickens World might be cooler if there were actual Dickens characters running around.
Cheers!
Kristen
Crazy Crap Item #121: The part where I am ashamed
I just discovered i have no idea how to spell "Ophthalmology." It has way more letters than I thought.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #120: The part where Sailor Jack shows his silver screen roots
It is well known that my father is a Casablanca fanatic. It is useless to count the number of times he has seen this fine film. Hundreds of times?, you ask. Nay, I say, most likely thousands.
As an illustration, it should be noted that there was an extended period during which every day my dad would come home at 2pm from his post-retirement gig working at my cousin's plumbing supply store, pop in his well-worn video tape of Casablanca, and watch till dinner. At dinner time, he'd hit stop, then start it up the next day, post-plumbing. When the tape ended, he'd hit rewind and start over.
And thus it went, every afternoon, for years. One summer, I worked with him at the plumbing store, and often joined him in his Bogey-fest. I reckon I'd seen the movie several times over by the end of the summer, but never in sequence.
That little illustration serves as a prelude to my most recent email from Dad:
"The other day I got the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to quote Casablanca. We were at the motel about to take a cab to the airport when I decided to use the men's room. It was poorly marked, with just a tiny outline of a man. Mom thought I had gone that way to the cab and tried to follow. There was a rattling of the door knob and knocking. To this I said '...Where I'm going you can't follow. What I'll be doing, you can't be any part of...'"
An excellent use of all his Casablanca expertise, I say.
As an illustration, it should be noted that there was an extended period during which every day my dad would come home at 2pm from his post-retirement gig working at my cousin's plumbing supply store, pop in his well-worn video tape of Casablanca, and watch till dinner. At dinner time, he'd hit stop, then start it up the next day, post-plumbing. When the tape ended, he'd hit rewind and start over.
And thus it went, every afternoon, for years. One summer, I worked with him at the plumbing store, and often joined him in his Bogey-fest. I reckon I'd seen the movie several times over by the end of the summer, but never in sequence.
That little illustration serves as a prelude to my most recent email from Dad:
"The other day I got the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to quote Casablanca. We were at the motel about to take a cab to the airport when I decided to use the men's room. It was poorly marked, with just a tiny outline of a man. Mom thought I had gone that way to the cab and tried to follow. There was a rattling of the door knob and knocking. To this I said '...Where I'm going you can't follow. What I'll be doing, you can't be any part of...'"
An excellent use of all his Casablanca expertise, I say.
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