Thursday, December 25, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
Homemade Christmas
I've been spending most of my time crafting lately. Yeah, I'm crafty now. My family decided to do a homemade Christmas this year, except for two of my uncles who opted out of it because they wanted "real presents." So they'll probably exchange Cabela's gift cards or something else hunty. I thought it could be really funny, because no one in my family really MAKES anything normally, except for my grandma, who makes quilts, and my mom who sometimes takes pottery classes and makes things that eventually become cat dishes. So it'll be interesting to see what people come up with.
My aunt Bobbie drew my name and I can't WAIT to see what she has crafted for me. Will it be a TiVo, as I requested? Or adult Heelys, as I secretly requested? Or will it be a little doodad for my window sill?
I had to make something for my uncle Dan, and at first I drew a blank. I thought to myself, "What does my uncle Dan like? Computers and beer?" I instantly had a grand idea to make him his own beer—Danny Beer. I would order a brewing kit from the internet and, even if Danny Beer tasted like urine, it would Donald Trump all of the other homemade gifts. So I looked up brewing kits online, saw that they were $300, and immediately dropped that idea. Since my uncle is or should be a daily reader of my blog, I can't say what I ended up making, but I can say that it is a 24x36" self-portrait.
My aunt Bobbie drew my name and I can't WAIT to see what she has crafted for me. Will it be a TiVo, as I requested? Or adult Heelys, as I secretly requested? Or will it be a little doodad for my window sill?
I had to make something for my uncle Dan, and at first I drew a blank. I thought to myself, "What does my uncle Dan like? Computers and beer?" I instantly had a grand idea to make him his own beer—Danny Beer. I would order a brewing kit from the internet and, even if Danny Beer tasted like urine, it would Donald Trump all of the other homemade gifts. So I looked up brewing kits online, saw that they were $300, and immediately dropped that idea. Since my uncle is or should be a daily reader of my blog, I can't say what I ended up making, but I can say that it is a 24x36" self-portrait.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Holy effing snow
Last Tuesday we had a snow storm during the drive-home commute, and it took me two hours to crawl home. I cried. Yesterday we had an even worse snow storm and it took me two and half hours to get home. But apparently I was one of the lucky ones, because it took some people between three and SEVEN HOURS TO GET HOME HOLY HELL WHAT THE HELL. I don't know if there's something wrong with me—if I'm just overly sensitive to the idea of spending hours of my life in my car at least once a week, so sensitive, in fact, that while watching a light change twenty times without moving through it or even close to it, the idea of driving right into the lake makes more and more sense to me—or if people in the Chicago area are just used to this, but I seem to be the only one who is going insane. Everyone else is like, "Yeah, it took me five hours to go thirty miles! Crazy! So how about them Bears? Blagojevich! Hot dogs!" And I'm all, "I need a white wine IV and do not talk to me for a very long time."
Friday, December 12, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Happy Holidays
I took a sick day today and this is what I've done so far, besides watch the Hoda Kotb and Kathie Lee Comedy Hour. I don't know why they have their own time slot. The producers should just turn off the cameras and tell them they're still recording.
Send your own ElfYourself eCards
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Starved Rock and Holidazzle
Russ and I took quite an adventure yesterday out to Starved Rock State Park and Utica, the small town near there. I went to Starved Rock in the spring of '07 when it was green and warm. This time it was blustery and white, but beautiful and quiet. We had planned to hike around the park for a bit, then change into nicer clothes and see a holiday show called—wait for it, wait for it—Holidazzle, at the local Follies Theatre. It's fun to get out of the city and see what the small towns are up to. I'll tell you what they're up to: some crazy shit.
We got to Starved Rock at around 12:30 and checked out the visitors' center, where we watched a short film about the history of the park and land. The guy working there looked familiar, then I realized he was one of the instructors at my lady camp in September. We had brought hot dogs to cook somehow, somewhere in the cold, but the park's grills had been destroyed in the flood in September. So we checked out the restaurant in the lodge further up the hill, but it was pricey so we decided to go back to town to one of the five pubs on the main street.
After lunch we went back to the park and set out on the quiet, snowy trails in the cold. The park is named after a rocky bluff overlooking the Illinois River, where many moons ago one Indian tribe cornered another Indian tribe, or something, and Indian tribe #2 starved to death on top of the rock. There are also several canyons where many more moons ago the Illinois River charged through and carved into the stone. That's my favorite part of the park—the canyons. The waterfalls now have frozen into big daggers of ice hanging in mid-drop over the edge. In the caverns it is dark and quiet and sheltered from the winds off the river.
Early on our walk we came across four deer just ahead of us. I saw one in the woods and stopped and pointed. It crossed the path in front of us, stopped and stared back, then continued on to the other side. Then it was followed by a baby deer and two other adults. It was magical. I'd never been that close to deer before, outside of the car and for so long. They watched me and Russ and decided we were safe.
Later, at another bluff over the river—Eagle Cliff—Russ spotted a bald eagle. I'd never seen one before. It soared in front of us first, for a quick picture, then down the river and out of sight.
We hurried back to Russ's Jeep after the sun went down and changed into our evening clothes. It was dark by then and no one else was around. And although there was only a half moon last night, Russ got to see a full moon, if you know what I mean, I mean I mooned her.
We drove back to town and went to a corner pub called Duffy's for dinner. It was decorated—permanently, I think—for both Christmas and St. Patrick's Day. It seemed like a good local place. There was an old couple and the man was wearing a bolo tie. That's how I knew. (We later sat next to that couple at Holidazzle. I think that means we're locals now.)
After dinner we decided to walk the block of downtown in the cold, just to see what else Utica had to offer. Well, guess what else Utica had to offer. A wine shoppe. We had crossed the street and were ready to head back to the car when we happened upon August Hill Winery and peered inside at several people standing at a bar. Russ said, "Do you want to go in?" And I said, why yes, Russ, let's. So we popped in and a guy at the bar said we should do the six tastings for $2. Dear readers, I don't think I've ever moved faster to a bar in my life. They set us up with tasting sheets and we circled six. The guy who owns the winery and makes the wine was behind the bar, pouring our wines, and he was very nice. He told us the history of his store and about each wine in detail and about the good local food spots that we didn't hit. Russ and I both bought a bottle of our favorite wine from the taste, then went a few doors down to Holidazzle for a night of what we thought would be a one-part charming, one-part awful/hilarious small-town holiday show.
First of all, Russ and I were the youngest people there by about fifty years, which at first I thought was funny, then sad. The show was hosted by the theater's general manager, this cheesy 50-something washed-up, Vegas-looking lounge type named Don Grant Zellmer, with gaunty cheeks, frosted hair, and one of those creepy thin goatees. (Don, if you read this, which I'm sure you will, because you probably Google your name every day as part of your morning routine, like, "Okay, done with my Kool and the Gang karaoke, now it's time to Google my name...," don't take it too personally.) He was billed on the program as "Branson headliner Don Grant Zellmer." And he had more wardrobe changes than Carrie Underwood—blue jacket, striped jacket, red jacket, black jacket with tails.
The show started out bad-funny. This Don character acted and sang in the numbers, too—most of them solos—and he was awful, although clearly thought he was a suave crooner. The rest of the cast were, I'd say, around 20—three women and two men. They were well on their way to being equally as cheesy, and sweaty. Luckily Russ and I were seated at a table at the back of the room, because I kept laughing. Then it took a turn from bad-funny to just bad. Some of their numbers were appalling, and we kept looking at each other like, "WHAT is going ON?" Like the number where the tall sweaty one dressed in a sombrero and sang "Jingly bells" in a horrible accent. And when the scary-eyed girl sang "I want a boob job for Christmas." Utica—Don Grant Zellmer—do you live in a air-raid shelter?
Then some of it was just weird. There was a "holiday in the tropics" act that included not-at-all-holiday-related songs "Get On Your Feet" by Gloria Estefan and "Living La Vida Loca" by Ricky Martin. WHAT? DON! SERIOUSLY, come out of that shelter.
I felt bad for the girls, too, because they had to wear these awful Rockettes-like costumes with giant headpieces and bottoms that were like granny panties that went up past their belly buttons. And I'm SURE some of the old guys in the audience were ogling them, BUT THEN the girls were playing to the old guys, like sitting on their laps and stuff, and oh my god, show, why?
And, people, I swear to god I thought this show would never end. It was the longest show of my life. I don't know how the director, if there even was one, thought it was a good idea to have a three-hour-long holiday show that ends at 11pm when the entire audience is old people.
You know what it was like? It was like Don Grant Zellmer was performing this show in his basement, and everyone in the audience was just a figment of his imagination. Sort of like when Kramer finds the set of the old Merv Griffin Show in the dumpster and sets it up in his apartment. Like Don forced his daughter and her friends, or the neighborhood teens, to perform with pained cheesy grins in this show he wrote. Because he's insane.
Listening to my iPod in the car, because Russ's radio has been stolen.
I think this sign is warning black people not to swim? Because they don't know how?
Downtown Utica—we ate dinner at that pub on the corner, Duffy's.
Lunch at Canal Port.
Coffee and Bailey's—a wintertime staple.
From atop Starved Rock.
Bald Eagle at Eagle Cliff.
We got to Starved Rock at around 12:30 and checked out the visitors' center, where we watched a short film about the history of the park and land. The guy working there looked familiar, then I realized he was one of the instructors at my lady camp in September. We had brought hot dogs to cook somehow, somewhere in the cold, but the park's grills had been destroyed in the flood in September. So we checked out the restaurant in the lodge further up the hill, but it was pricey so we decided to go back to town to one of the five pubs on the main street.
After lunch we went back to the park and set out on the quiet, snowy trails in the cold. The park is named after a rocky bluff overlooking the Illinois River, where many moons ago one Indian tribe cornered another Indian tribe, or something, and Indian tribe #2 starved to death on top of the rock. There are also several canyons where many more moons ago the Illinois River charged through and carved into the stone. That's my favorite part of the park—the canyons. The waterfalls now have frozen into big daggers of ice hanging in mid-drop over the edge. In the caverns it is dark and quiet and sheltered from the winds off the river.
Early on our walk we came across four deer just ahead of us. I saw one in the woods and stopped and pointed. It crossed the path in front of us, stopped and stared back, then continued on to the other side. Then it was followed by a baby deer and two other adults. It was magical. I'd never been that close to deer before, outside of the car and for so long. They watched me and Russ and decided we were safe.
Later, at another bluff over the river—Eagle Cliff—Russ spotted a bald eagle. I'd never seen one before. It soared in front of us first, for a quick picture, then down the river and out of sight.
We hurried back to Russ's Jeep after the sun went down and changed into our evening clothes. It was dark by then and no one else was around. And although there was only a half moon last night, Russ got to see a full moon, if you know what I mean, I mean I mooned her.
We drove back to town and went to a corner pub called Duffy's for dinner. It was decorated—permanently, I think—for both Christmas and St. Patrick's Day. It seemed like a good local place. There was an old couple and the man was wearing a bolo tie. That's how I knew. (We later sat next to that couple at Holidazzle. I think that means we're locals now.)
After dinner we decided to walk the block of downtown in the cold, just to see what else Utica had to offer. Well, guess what else Utica had to offer. A wine shoppe. We had crossed the street and were ready to head back to the car when we happened upon August Hill Winery and peered inside at several people standing at a bar. Russ said, "Do you want to go in?" And I said, why yes, Russ, let's. So we popped in and a guy at the bar said we should do the six tastings for $2. Dear readers, I don't think I've ever moved faster to a bar in my life. They set us up with tasting sheets and we circled six. The guy who owns the winery and makes the wine was behind the bar, pouring our wines, and he was very nice. He told us the history of his store and about each wine in detail and about the good local food spots that we didn't hit. Russ and I both bought a bottle of our favorite wine from the taste, then went a few doors down to Holidazzle for a night of what we thought would be a one-part charming, one-part awful/hilarious small-town holiday show.
First of all, Russ and I were the youngest people there by about fifty years, which at first I thought was funny, then sad. The show was hosted by the theater's general manager, this cheesy 50-something washed-up, Vegas-looking lounge type named Don Grant Zellmer, with gaunty cheeks, frosted hair, and one of those creepy thin goatees. (Don, if you read this, which I'm sure you will, because you probably Google your name every day as part of your morning routine, like, "Okay, done with my Kool and the Gang karaoke, now it's time to Google my name...," don't take it too personally.) He was billed on the program as "Branson headliner Don Grant Zellmer." And he had more wardrobe changes than Carrie Underwood—blue jacket, striped jacket, red jacket, black jacket with tails.
The show started out bad-funny. This Don character acted and sang in the numbers, too—most of them solos—and he was awful, although clearly thought he was a suave crooner. The rest of the cast were, I'd say, around 20—three women and two men. They were well on their way to being equally as cheesy, and sweaty. Luckily Russ and I were seated at a table at the back of the room, because I kept laughing. Then it took a turn from bad-funny to just bad. Some of their numbers were appalling, and we kept looking at each other like, "WHAT is going ON?" Like the number where the tall sweaty one dressed in a sombrero and sang "Jingly bells" in a horrible accent. And when the scary-eyed girl sang "I want a boob job for Christmas." Utica—Don Grant Zellmer—do you live in a air-raid shelter?
Then some of it was just weird. There was a "holiday in the tropics" act that included not-at-all-holiday-related songs "Get On Your Feet" by Gloria Estefan and "Living La Vida Loca" by Ricky Martin. WHAT? DON! SERIOUSLY, come out of that shelter.
I felt bad for the girls, too, because they had to wear these awful Rockettes-like costumes with giant headpieces and bottoms that were like granny panties that went up past their belly buttons. And I'm SURE some of the old guys in the audience were ogling them, BUT THEN the girls were playing to the old guys, like sitting on their laps and stuff, and oh my god, show, why?
And, people, I swear to god I thought this show would never end. It was the longest show of my life. I don't know how the director, if there even was one, thought it was a good idea to have a three-hour-long holiday show that ends at 11pm when the entire audience is old people.
You know what it was like? It was like Don Grant Zellmer was performing this show in his basement, and everyone in the audience was just a figment of his imagination. Sort of like when Kramer finds the set of the old Merv Griffin Show in the dumpster and sets it up in his apartment. Like Don forced his daughter and her friends, or the neighborhood teens, to perform with pained cheesy grins in this show he wrote. Because he's insane.
Listening to my iPod in the car, because Russ's radio has been stolen.
I think this sign is warning black people not to swim? Because they don't know how?
Downtown Utica—we ate dinner at that pub on the corner, Duffy's.
Lunch at Canal Port.
Coffee and Bailey's—a wintertime staple.
From atop Starved Rock.
Bald Eagle at Eagle Cliff.
Wildcat Canyon
Follies Theatre stage (notice the audience demographic)
We were all smiles at first (can't say the same for Old Lady back there).
Then I literally tried to sleep during the show by leaning my head back against the wall.
We weren't allowed to take pictures during the show, and Russ was yelling at me not to. So I had to sneak a blurry picture of Don (in the red) during intermission while he was visiting with his cronies.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Thanksgiving on the mountain
I returned on Monday from my southern Thanksgiving vacation. It was a gas as usual (and not just because I kept putting the whoopee cushion under Robert's chair at the dinner table. Whoopee cushion! Never not funny!).
I flew in on Thursday, so we had Thanksgiving on Saturday—that way the uncles could join us, too. Friday I went with Amy and Cheri to the tattoo parlor so Amy could get a tattoo. It was an... interesting place, with all lady tattooers, which is fine and all—more girl power to you—but one lady had tattoos on her forehead. I thought only Carly Smithson's husband was allowed to have face tattoos. Friday my uncles Bill and Kent also arrived for the weekend, with a case of wine and we wasted no time with that.
Saturday Miss Bobbie and her men folk arrived late morning and we (everyone but me) started making dinner. Miss Bobbie made her famous 9 O'Clock Stuffing, so renamed because when my grandma heard Bobbie was making stuffing she said, "The last time Bobbie made stuffing, we didn't eat until 9 o'clock!" Which no one remembers ever happening. So we had planned to call Grandma on Saturday at around 3 or 4 and ask her for her stuffing recipe. Unfortunately she was on to us making fun of her.
We breaked for a Fireplace Family Foto Shoot. We shot all couples first, which left PLENTY of room for jokes about me and my cousin Michael dating. (Cousins dating! Never not funny!) Then Amy and Cheri arrived, we took more pictures, watched football (which I'm starting to maybe enjoy, I SAID MAYBE), and sat down to a lovely dinner. My plan to eat more than I've ever eaten before went swimmingly, and I only had mind-numbing gas pains for about five hours.
Sunday the mountain was cloaked in thick fog,so we took a drive down to a historic geyser, which was not turned on. It was cold and rainy. We stopped for lunch at a cute cafe in Black Mountain and again I ate more than I've ever eaten before.
It was good to be in the house with everything moved in. It felt like home. Home on top of a mountain, with nothing but trees and bears and wild turkeys. When I move in (inevitable with two spare beds and a DVR), it will become like Grey Gardens—after we phase Robert out, to Llama Vista, a local condo community overlooking the neighboring llama farm. Big Edie and Little Edie together again, just like old times.
This was before she nearly fainted and Face Tattoo (not pictured) sprung into action.
Having just a smidge of wine at the Secret View.
We burried Charlie at the Secret View, so his dadas (Robert) can sit with him while he has some winey bits. He was a good boy.
Fireplace Family Foto Shoot:
I flew in on Thursday, so we had Thanksgiving on Saturday—that way the uncles could join us, too. Friday I went with Amy and Cheri to the tattoo parlor so Amy could get a tattoo. It was an... interesting place, with all lady tattooers, which is fine and all—more girl power to you—but one lady had tattoos on her forehead. I thought only Carly Smithson's husband was allowed to have face tattoos. Friday my uncles Bill and Kent also arrived for the weekend, with a case of wine and we wasted no time with that.
Saturday Miss Bobbie and her men folk arrived late morning and we (everyone but me) started making dinner. Miss Bobbie made her famous 9 O'Clock Stuffing, so renamed because when my grandma heard Bobbie was making stuffing she said, "The last time Bobbie made stuffing, we didn't eat until 9 o'clock!" Which no one remembers ever happening. So we had planned to call Grandma on Saturday at around 3 or 4 and ask her for her stuffing recipe. Unfortunately she was on to us making fun of her.
We breaked for a Fireplace Family Foto Shoot. We shot all couples first, which left PLENTY of room for jokes about me and my cousin Michael dating. (Cousins dating! Never not funny!) Then Amy and Cheri arrived, we took more pictures, watched football (which I'm starting to maybe enjoy, I SAID MAYBE), and sat down to a lovely dinner. My plan to eat more than I've ever eaten before went swimmingly, and I only had mind-numbing gas pains for about five hours.
Sunday the mountain was cloaked in thick fog,so we took a drive down to a historic geyser, which was not turned on. It was cold and rainy. We stopped for lunch at a cute cafe in Black Mountain and again I ate more than I've ever eaten before.
It was good to be in the house with everything moved in. It felt like home. Home on top of a mountain, with nothing but trees and bears and wild turkeys. When I move in (inevitable with two spare beds and a DVR), it will become like Grey Gardens—after we phase Robert out, to Llama Vista, a local condo community overlooking the neighboring llama farm. Big Edie and Little Edie together again, just like old times.
This was before she nearly fainted and Face Tattoo (not pictured) sprung into action.
Having just a smidge of wine at the Secret View.
We burried Charlie at the Secret View, so his dadas (Robert) can sit with him while he has some winey bits. He was a good boy.
Fireplace Family Foto Shoot:
Miss Bobbie and her beau, David.
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