Annabelle Speaks

A New Header, Green Beer and Shoe Shopping

First, I have to draw attention to the awesome new blog header made by Maria, via Sweet Blog Design.  I'm sure a lot of you view these entries via an RSS feed, but you should totally click over to see the banner.  Because it is pretty and I said so.

Next, I want to wish all my fellow Irish peeps (even those of you who are only Irish one day a year) a happy St. Patrick's Day!

That is indeed the Chicago river, and no it isn't always quite that green.  They dye the river green the Saturday before St. Patrick's Day (which I call Fake Patrick's Day) because this city is insane with the Irish Pride.  Also, they really, really, really like green beer.  Possibly the later has more to do with it than the former.

This, however, did not have anything to do with any green beer consumption I may or may not have taken part in:

I have to wear it all day when I'm sitting AND overnight, alternating left foot one day, right foot the next.  It is just as awesome as you think it is.  But after six months of this my doctor has started to bring up surgery and cutting tendons and OH that does not sound like a good idea.  So the leg brace thing it is. 

Thanks to the above, I am also on an epic quest to find shoes that a) can pass for business casual, b) are flats/very, very low heals, c) are not boots/do not come up over the top of my ankle, d) have some sort of removable foot bed to fit my prescription orthotics, and e) do not look like grandma shoes.  This is a shockingly difficult thing to manage, and there may have been a tear and Xanax filled hour of on-line shoe shopping on Sunday night when I couldn't sleep.  The shoe-shopping gene that women are (stereotypically) born with clearly skipped me, and I am finding this process to be pure torture.  If anyone wants to do my shopping for me, I wear a size eight and a half.

Lastly, while the snow has been gone from Chicago for a week or two, I keep forgetting to post this picture of my back yard.  In the Midwest the snow melts sideways.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, all.  

May your thoughts be as glad as the shamrocks.
May your heart be as light as a song.
May each day bring you bright happy hours,
That stay with you all year long.

Have I Ever Mentioned I'm Part French Canadian?

When the Olympics rolls around every two years I am always a little sad at first that it isn't the other Olympics.

Oh, it's the winter Olympics?  Meh, I like the summer Olympics better.

After watching .005 seconds of competition, I change my tune.

OMG I LOVE THE WINTER OLYMPICS.

(In two years you can substitute "Summer" for "Winter", I do this for both).

The winter Olympics appeals to the Midwesterner in me.  Much like the majority of the athletes who participate in the winter Olympics, I am descended from a bunch of morons who decided that living in an area that is frozen solid for months at a time was a good idea.  (News Flash:  IT WAS NOT A GOOD IDEA.)  And yet despite the advent of many forms of transportation that could get us to warmer climates, we continue to live here.

 

But living in a completely uninhabitable climate is not enough for some people.  No.  They need to challenge Darwinism on multiple levels, so they take up truly idiotic sports like ski jumping, luge, skeleton, bobsled, moguls, and half pipe.  Cross-country skiing wasn't dangerous enough so they gave the skiers rifles and called it a biathlon, or they made them complete a ski-jump before they raced cross country and called it the Nordic combined.  Of course there are sports like ice dancing that look all pretty and gentle until you realize that the woman is allowing herself to be lifted up above the man's head while they are both hurtling across a very, very hard surface with blades strapped to their feet.  Who first thought that was a good idea?

 

So, in summation: winter Olympic athletes are not very bright, but DAMN if they aren't a lot of fun to watch.  These are my kind of people.

I Have The Best Wife EVER

T and I have never been big on celebrating Valentine's Day.  When we were dating our anniversary was February 8th and that was close enough for us to not want another day of Forced Romantic Schmoopyness right away, so we skipped Valentine's Day entirely or gave each other deliberately cheesy gifts.  One year I literally gave her a bunch of cheese.

Sometime last week the morning show we listen to on the radio was discussing gifts you should never, ever give to your beloved for Valentines Day.  The list was pretty run-of-the-mill - full of I've-heard-this-before items and dumb jokes.  So, you know, like every other morning radio show in the country.  And yet I have nothing else to occupy my brain while I dry my hair, so I continue to talk back to the radio.  I'm ranting about how this is the dumbest list ever, because if you're going to give someone a gift it needs to be something THEY want, and not everyone wants the same THING, dammit.  Their example of The Worst Valentine's Day Gift Ever was a KitchenAid Mixer, which T knows I lust after regularly.

Me, muttering in the general direction of the radio: I would love a KitchenAid mixer!  And I have no desire to receive flowers!  Bite me, contrived radio show segment!
T:  *Continues ignoring me*

Fast-forward to Saturday, the day before Valentine's Day.  I had worked a long day and a longer week, nearly 70 hours of work in six days.  After work on Saturday I had gone out to run errands and managed to procure cat food and groceries despite long since having lost my will to live.  I was tired and cranky and still didn't know what I was going to make for dinner except I was positive it was going to involve tater tots because OMG PMS.  In other words, I was going to be a delight for the rest of the night.

Then I spotted it.  On the counter.

A picture of a KitchenAid mixer, taped to the coffee grinder.  My heart skipped a beat.  Intriguing.  Was it...just a picture?  Was it a hint of a real mixer that was on the way?  I got a little fluttery and excited as I turned to T.

"Did you get me a KitchenAid mixer?  FOR SERIOUS?"

She barely looked up from the television.  "I thought you'd like the picture, since you don't have a real mixer.  Sorry it is purple, I think our printer is running out of ink."

"Oh.  Okay then.  Haha, nice joke."

I proceeded to mope around the apartment for another ten minutes muttering to myself how that wasn't funny and I've had a long day and of course I didn't expect anything for Valentine's Day but I was so surprised by the picture and I thought was getting surprised by a mixer and now in addition to cranky I was sad about not having a mixer and WAAAH.  (See:  PMS) 

T noticed my moping and tearing up and started laughing at me.  How dare she laugh at me when I've got PMS!  She rolled her eyes and went over to her desk, where a KitchenAid mixer was hiding.

Best. Valentine's. Day. Eve. Ever.

It isn't often someone can surprise a control-freak like me.  I drop hints like anvils and nearly always know what I'm getting and when I'm getting it ahead of time, even if the gift-giver thinks it is a huge surprise.  But this?  She totally surprised me with something I really wanted and didn't expect.  She didn't do it for any reason other than she is nice and she loves me and wanted to give me a special treat in the middle of my most stressful time of year.  Really, it had nothing whatsoever to do with Valentine's Day.  It is on every list of stereotypical bad-idea-gift list, but it was perfect for me.  Thanks, love.

It's All About The Cake

I know it is Wednesday, and I really ought to have gotten around to posting about last weekend sooner, but work busyness jumped up and smacked me in the face.  Life goes on.

 

But this weekend!  Oh, this weekend.  YOU GUYS.  It. Was. Awesome.  Let me back up.

 

A few weeks ago ModernMatriarch asked on Twitter for Chicago pizza recommendations, and because people in Chicago are positively CRAZY about pizza preferences I added my two cents.  I also asked if she happened to be coming to Chicago for some reason, because why else would she be looking for Chicago pizza recommendations?  (I am a GENIUS at reading context clues, I tell you.)  Anyway, she checked out my blog and decided I wasn't actually a serial killer and invited me along to a gathering of blogger types here in Chicago.  Not a BlogHer size gathering, just a small group of online people (ten, including me).  I accepted, and then proceeded to worry about it for two weeks because HELLO, I am a worrier with social anxiety.  It is what I am best at.

 

Despite my advance fretting and worrying, I had an absolute blast.  I could give you a step-by-step account of everything we did, but I suspect that would be less fun to read than it was to live, so I will just bring out the highlights.

 

• Tapas at Cafe Iberico. I don't remember all of what we ate (see: alcohol), but I do remember a lot of garlic and mayo on some potatoes, and something involving goat cheese that was so good I wanted to marry it.
• Polenta fries, cheese fondu, and all manner of good food at Quartino. Pseudostoops ordered for the table and I think I need to hire her as my personal food-orderer at restaurants, because OH MY WORD.
• Much alcohol consumed at four different bars. Fado, Butch McGuires, The Hunt Club, and The Hang Uppe. There were Irish Car Bombs, there was dancing, and ModernMatriarch beat some poor 21 year old boy from Milwaukee in a chugging contest in front of his friends.

• Shared-cab rides both Friday and Saturday night with SaraBellePlane (and Saturday with Pseudostoops), both rides full of easy, comfortable conversation.
• An hour or two of post-bar conversation one of their hotel rooms.
• Cass. Cass deserves her own highlight point here, and not only because she considered making out with me. That woman is outgoing and flirtatious and hilarious and I'm pretty sure I hired her to take pictures of me/T when we (SOMEDAY) get pregnant. But all of those things are not why she gets her own highlight point in this post. No. She gets that because she aquired a sculpted cake for us that was delivered at the end of dinner at Quartino.

 

Yes, that is a cake sculpted to look like balls.  BALLS.  I missed the part of the day that was the source of the quote, but I believe that came from ModernMatriarch.

 

I really have nothing that can follow the ball cake.  How can anything be better than a ball cake?  Really.

 

These ladies?  All awesome.  I wish I could have brought them all home with me and kept them here.

 

Belle Plaine Living (Who lives close enough for me to stalk be IRL friends with, I hope!)

Cass.  Just Curious. (Who I will see at BlogHer! I SO wish she lived closer, if only so we could order ball cakes all the time.  What?)

Chez Rougie  (Made me laugh probably more than the rest of the group combined)

Harmzie (I liked her enough to lend her my iPhone for half the night. THAT'S friendship, y'all.  Also, I stole the pictures in this post from her, because I didn't bring a camera.)

lilsaej (Who is so cute I wanted to put her in my pocket and take her home with me.)

ModernMatriarch (Who reminds me so much of my friend Tina it is terrifying[ly awesome])

McMama's Musings (Pink hair! What's not to love?)

Pseudostoops (Best. Food. Picker. Ever.)

Back To Me (Even cooler in person than online, and I didn't think that would be possible.)

 

I Am Afraid Of The Dumbest Things

Girl Talk Thursday this week is "What are you too chicken-shit to do?"  Of course I could go for the big things, like cliff diving.  If I can't see FOR SURE that there are no pointy rocks on which I may impale myself, I am NOT JUMPING IN.  It took me years to work up the courage to jump off the high-dive in the pool at the YMCA, cliff diving is so not happening.

 

But more entertaining are the more mundane things I'm afraid of doing.  Because I am a big scaredy cat.

 

1.  Drink Guinness.  Yes, really.  Beer in general makes me nervous, because it so often gives me rockin' hangovers.  Ten vodka cranberries?  NO PROBLEM.  Three beers?  I'M GOING TO DIE OMG.  But even worse than that, Guinness is DARK and I can't SEE THROUGH it and there could be sharp rocks hiding in there and I wouldn't know.  Okay, probably no sharp rocks.  But it is filtered through fish bladders, and EW EW EW.  And yet ModernMatriarch is going to try and get me to drink an Irish Car Bomb this weekend and how can I say no to her?  The woman is learning to box, she could totally kick my ass.

 

2.  Eat mussels, clams, lobster, or anything that comes in its own shell.  I'm not afraid of the taste of any of these things, but of not knowing how to properly open and eat them.  Can I just smash them with a hammer?  I have no idea.  I need someone to take me out to a seafood restaurant and teach me how to eat these things so I don't make a fool of myself.  Because if  tried on my own other diners would point and laugh at me trying to claw my way through the lobster shell. Obviously.

 

3.  Drive someone else's car.  I just won't do it.  I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've even driven my Mom's car after getting my own when I was 17.  I don't know how the headlights work and the break might be more or less sensitive and what if I get into an accident and break their car OMG?  Oddly I have no problem driving rental cars.

 

4.  Ask someone out on a friend date.  How in the world do people make friends as an adult?  If I was seven I could just ask someone if they wanted to come over and play.  Now there are children and spouses and jobs and I feel terribly awkward trying to ask someone to hang out.  It is harder than dating ever was.  I would rather go home and sit on the couch.  See also: email people I've exchanged blog comments/tweets with.

 

5.  Exercise in public.  I have an elliptical in my apartment, a Wii Fit, and exercise videos.  I cannot imagine going to a public exercise class of any sort or working out in a gym.  Besides the fact that I am not in "good enough" shape to feel confident exercising where other people can see me, there are quirks in my body and how I move that make me super-extra self conscious.  I recently figured out/was diagnosed as having femoral outward twisting with the added joy of bone spurs in my right hip, which changes how my hips and legs can bend and how I can and cannot stretch.  This is most obvious day-to-day in that my feet point outwards, particularly the right leg, which is the worst.  I remember being SO embarrassed about that as a kid that I hated walking in snow because people could see my footprints behind me and KNOW how much my feet pointed out.  I remember dragging my backpack behind me on the ground to wipe out my footprints because they embarrassed me so much.  While I can talk about that here, in everyday life it seems I'm still not over it.

 

6.  Go to a non-gas station car wash.  If the car wash is not 100% automated where I pay and then type in a code and pull in, I WILL NOT GO.  There is a huge car wash near my house where actual people take your car through the wash and clean the inside windows and dry it off and such, but I am too afraid to go there.  What if I pull in the wrong part of the lot/line?  I don't know how it works!  WILL NOT GO.  See also: my enormous dread every three months when I need to get my oil changed and have to actually interact with Car People.

 

7.  Eat sushi.  I know.  I KNOW.  I've actually eaten sushi several times, but it just stresses me the hell out.  And not because it is raw fish.  No, I'm stressed out and refuse to eat it because I have a small mouth (shut up, I DO TOO) and the sushi roll pieces are too much for one bite without gagging on it, but they can't really be cut apart to make smaller bites without messing everything up and having it fall to pieces.  So I just don't eat it.  Avoidance works!

 

So what strange things are you afraid to try? 

Six More Weeks Of Winter, Or: Thank You, Captain OBVIOUS

I have never understood Groundhog Day.  What a bizarre tradition that just keeps on going, energizer-bunny style.  Men in top hats messing with a large rodent in front of dozens of television cameras?  Every radio station and website and television show reporting that the groundhog saw his shadow like any of us care?  Who are we reporting this for?  Every news person involved seems to be rolling their eyes, everyone watching seems to be rolling their eyes, and yet we keep doing it.  NEWS FLASH:  With all of those television cameras?  I guarantee he sees his shadow, and also he hates us all.  I heard lately that PETA wants them to use a mechanical groundhog, since it is unhealthy to wake any animal during hibernation just to ask him if he sees his shadow or not.  That I might actually care about.  Especially if someone could make the robot groundhog flip us all off when they wake it up.

 

Okay, I have to interrupt this very important post about groundhogs (shut up) because I just burped a CLOUD of cinnamon dust out of my nose, and I just cannot let something like that happen without telling someone.  I take cinnamon capsule pills, among other vitamins, and this morning it seems it dissolved up in my throat somewhere so when I burped (fifteen minutes after taking the pill) a no-shit CLOUD of cinnamon came out of my nose.  Aren't you glad I have a blog so I can update you all on such interesting developments?

 

I don't know how I could possibly top that, so I will leave you with a picture of my new Jumbo Cat: Now With More Tubby.

Who you callin' tubby?  I ARE CUTE.

Don't Mess With My Football, Yo

Since I first heard that CBS is going to air an anti-abortioncommercial during the Superbowl, I've been trying to find a way to explain why this pisses me off.  On any normal day I don't particularly care if a network runs paid advertisements on political hot-button issues, whether I agree with the point of view in that commercial or not.  Heck, when I lived in Minnesota for the presidential elections of 2000 and 2004, Minnesota was considered a "swing-state" and I saw more than my fair share of soap-box type commercials, from both sides.  I don't particularly enjoy them, but I deal.  If this commercial were running any other time, I likely wouldn't bat an eye, nor would anyone else.

Is it unfair that CBS is accepting this ad, while they turned away a more liberal-leaning ad in 2004 because of their policy "prohibiting advocacy ads, even ones that carry an 'implicit' endorsement for a side in a public debate"?  Yes, I think it is.  And that is the main reason, as I understand it, that my wife and others are choosing to not watch the Superbowl this year.  But that isn't what makes me grind my teeth over this.

Me?  I'm just mad they are throwing politics into something that in my mind should be politics free.  The biggest thing I want to debate that day is who should be the MVP, or which commercial was the funniest.

There is an awesome post about this on a (not safe for work) blog that I read that you can see here.  (Seriously, don't go there at work though, it is a sex/sex-toy related site.)  (Hi Mom!  Hi Dad!  Sorry about that link.)

For convenience, here are parts of that post that I find myself nodding at the most:

Hey Gary and CBS advertising execs – here are some thoughts to chew on:

1. On Super Bowl Sunday, I want to watch funny commercials and a fucking football game.

2. Correction: my boyfriend wants to watch funny commercials and a fucking football game while I cook up something delightful in the kitchen and run in when a funny commercial airs.

3. Some dudes spend the entire year planning their Super Bowl party – do you really think they want to hear about abortion between downs and dips in the chili con queso?

4. There is NO ONE who tunes into the Super Bowl to hear “a story about love between a mother and a son.” They tune in to watch football, for the ritual, hang with friends, drink a shitload of beer and fart in a room so full of people that no one notices.

I’m disappointed simply in the poor marketing decision made by FOTF and the equally polarizing decision made by CBS. At $2.5 million a pop for Super Bowl ad time, wouldn’t their ad met with less resistance, more acceptance and reach a more tractable audience had they chosen a prime time network show with an agreeable viewing demographic? If you’re looking to drive brand or message affinity, why do it in a way that you’re going to piss off the most people possible during an event meant to unite, not divide? And CBS – you’ve finally come out of your discretionary shell, pimping one side of the God ride on this one. If I were another advertiser on this year’s Super Bowl Sunday, I’d be pissed. No one’s even going to watch my ad. They’re going to be waiting for the God Bomb. If I were Anheuser Busch, I’d be digging through my advertising agreement and telling CBS to get fucked in a very out-of-wedlock way.

Do I care if Tim Tebow’s mom had an abortion or not? NO.

Do I care if he’s a kickass football player? NO.

Am I “offended” by the ad (seen or unseen)? A preemptive NO.

Does Tim Tebow’s presence in this world make my life better? NO.

Am I disappointed by the choice of a network to interrupt my upcoming Sunday filled with more junk food and camaraderie than you can shake a stick at by dropping the abortion elephant in the middle of my fucking living room? YES.

Gregg Doyel of CBSsports.com: “If you’re a sports fan, and I am, that’s the holiest day of the year. It’s not a day to discuss abortion. For it, or against it, I don’t care what you are. On Super Bowl Sunday, I don’t care what I am. Feb. 7 is simply not the day to have that discussion.”

Indeed, Gregg Doyel.  Indeed.

Stocking Up Food For The Alien Invasion

The last several weekends have been full of much cooking around these parts.  Being a CPA I spend most of late January through early April working a thousand hours per week with no real time for cooking anything resembling real food.  In the past I've subsisted primarily on adrenaline, Kit Kats, and chicken nuggets, which is clearly not in line with my recent attempt at eating line a reasonable adult.  So I've spent a few weekends cooking stock pots and crock pots full of food for the freezer.

This is how we always cooked when I was a kid.  Most of my family recipes start with instructions along the lines of "brown three pounds of hamburger".  As I'm an only child, you can imagine that such recipes were more for filling the freezer than anything.  Currently my freezer is full of pizza sauce, BBQ sauce, BBQ pulled pork, pulled chicken, chili, and pizza burgers.  YUM.

The key to successful freezing of food is to portion everything out in baggies and freeze them lying flat, like this.

Why is this important, you ask?  Because then you can have a nice, organized freezer, like this.

My anal-retentiveness knows no bounds.  I also have enough butter on hand for more baking than I'll do all winter.  IT WAS ON SALE.

I also cleaned the cupboards this weekend and had a little too much fun organizing my own little canned-good army.  (THEY WERE ON SALE.)

Now I'm ready just in case little gray men from outer space invade Chicago.  They'll be hungry after traveling that far, SOMEONE has to feed all of them.

This Is Why We Have Unlimited Texting

Actual text conversation I had with T yesterday afternoon:

 

Me:  Fuck, I just poked myself in the eye with baby spinach.  I think I'm going to die.

 

Me:  "Death By Spinach" is totally going to land me in some lame News Of The Weird book for all time, isn't it?  OR WORSE, The Darwin Awards!

 

T:  Only if you lose the eye, you dork.

 

Me:  Pretty sure I can still reproduce with one eye, natch.  Unless I die, in which case I can get a Darwin Award.

 

Me:  Unless I become an undead zombie that can reproduce.  Can zombies have babies?  That one woman in the Dawn of the Dead remake did.

 

T:  I'll ask Holly [anthropology professor friend].  Seems like the kind of thing she'd know.  If you reproduce when you have only one eye, would you have a cyclops baby?  Because I can't love a baby with only one eye.

 

Me:  You're going to hell.  Why are you racist against cyclops babies?  It's like I don't even KNOW you anymore.

 

Me:  Are cyclops babies a race, or a species?  Can one be "species-ist"?  That is hard to pronounce.

 

T:  Maybe a mixed-race cyclops baby would be cute though...

 

Me:  Cyclops and zombie?  BTW - I am going to put this on the Internet and the cyclops supporters will be sending you some serious hate-mail.  Just FYI.

 

T:  Fuck them.  They're too scared to admit they hate cyclops babies, too.

 

Me:  Whatever.  If I die and have a one-eyed zombie baby, you'll love it.  Because I'm thinking that is not the kind of baby you want to piss off.

 

What you don't believe me that we actually text like this?  Fine, be that way.  Proof!



And yes, before you ask, I am highly amused every time she pops up on my phone that she is "T Cell".

Organizational Overload

First, thank you all for the comments and emails and facebook messages after my last post.  I love you all bunches and bunches and if I could send cookies through the Internet I so would.  My insomnia seems to be leaving, as I'm sleeping a bit more each night.  Shockingly, this is also improving my mood.  I know, right?  WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT?  Anyway, now we shall talk about something else, yes?

 

One of the most annoying things I've had to learn to live with since moving in with T is clutter.  STUFF.  My parents may be reading this and puzzling over their memories of the trash heap that was my bedroom from the time I was eight until I went off to college.  But really, as an adult I like things to have places and be put away.  If I'm in a cranky mood the best way to get out of it is to pick up the kitchen or fold the blankets in the living room.  I don't need things to be spotless by any stretch of the imagination, but I am a much more pleasant person if things are picked up and reasonably neat.  This is why I got rid of thirty or so garbage bags of STUFF earlier this month.  And I loved every trip up and down the three flights of stairs to the garbage/recycling/garage.

 

Since I'm running out of things to throw away, and sometimes I just have to learn to live with 8,345 of her crochet projects floating around the living room, I often channel my obsessive need for organization into other areas, like our TiVo.  I get a completely unreasonable pleasure from hard-deleting items from our "recently deleted' items folder and deleting shows I know we won't watch.  I don't know why a nice, short TiVo list on the screen pleases me so, but it really does.  I do the same thing with my email.  Both my personal email and my work email rarely have more than a couple of urgent emails sitting in my inbox; the rest are stowed away in folders or deleted as soon as possible.  T on the other hand probably has something like 400 emails in her inbox, 100 of which she continues to leave marked as "unread", which means I can never look at her computer for fear my head will explode.

 

Another outlet for my obsessive digital organization is our Netflix Queue.  We currently have 120 DVDs in our queue, and I am positively ITCHING to get home and force T to listen to me read them all off and see what I can delete.  I'm not opposed to having a queue of movies we want to watch, but she seems to be of the opinion that any movie we might want to watch again in the future someday should be stored in our queue, lest we forget it exists.  Which...no.  I see no reason why we have Marry Poppins in our queue.  Cute movie?  Sure!  But we've both seen it, we don't have kids, and as far as I can remember neither of us has expressed an interest in watching it again anytime soon.  And if we have the sudden urge for a spoonful of sugar sometime in the future we can always add it to the queue then, bump it to the top of the list, and voila!  Why does it need to sit there taking up space in the queue all the time?  Clearly she is trying to kill me.

 

I solved this problem by re-creating my own queue with only stuff I actually intend to watch.  At the moment that is composed entirely of Dawson's Creek (...shut up), which I intend to use as entertainment while I exercise.  Because nothing motivates me like reliving teenage angst through dated television shows.  Awesome.

 

Now I just have to resist the urge to create separate Netflix profiles for different types of movies, and different priorities...this organization thing could get out of control.  Maybe I should just go back to deleting stuff from the TiVo.

 

***************************

 

P.S.  Immediately after writing this, I signed into our Netflix account and set up a separate profile for the horror movies I want to watch.  The over-organization is starting!  I have the will-power of a...um...something without willpower.