Greetings!

We had spotty internet connection while in DC, and I have to sit on the deck of this lodge here in northern Minnesota to get a decent connection. In all honesty, why would I be blogging when I could be drinking beer in kayaks with my brother, which is what I'm about to go do. The weather is absolutely gorgeous, the lake is beautiful, I've got trashy magazines and Fat Tire. So, you won't hear from me that much, if at all, until next week. But changes are afoot. So don't quit me just yet. Just hate me for being on an incredible vacation.

Off to those aforementioned kayaks...

Gone Fishin'

Right now, Chris is in the shower and I'm getting all the final ducks in a row for our two-week trip that begins today. We're off to Washington DC for one of my classes; this one is on federal policymaking. I'm excited--we're meeting with congresspeople, lobbyists, congressional staffers, NGOs, and visiting two museums (Holocaust Museum and the Newseum), the Library of Congress, and the Supreme Court. We're meeting a Holocaust survivor, as well. Our days are pretty packed, but we will hopefully have some time at night to do the touristy-monumenty stuff as well. The best part is that my professor, who is also my advisor, is letting Chris come along for everything. We're staying with our good friends, the lovely Charlie and Kim, who are aiding us in saving a few (read: shitload) bucks by opening up their futon to us.

We're there until Saturday, when we fly to Minneapolis. My brother and his girlfriend will pick us up at the airport and we're heading to Black Duck Lake in northern MN for a week at a lake house with my family. My family hasn't taken a family vacation that didn't involve a soccer tournament since before I could drive. Now that we can all drink together legally, it should be a good time. I plan on doing not much but reading for fun, solving Sudoku puzzles, and writing. And getting a tan. And fishing. Or watching other people fish. But eating fish. Definitely eating fish.

Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. Chris started blogging again, and if you're a pinko hippie like me, you might like to read his politically-themed blog. He wrote about soldiers coming home after tours in Iraq. I think he's the bee's knees. Give him some clicks.

Gone Fishin'

Right now, Chris is in the shower and I'm getting all the final ducks in a row for our two-week trip that begins today. We're off to Washington DC for one of my classes; this one is on federal policymaking. I'm excited--we're meeting with congresspeople, lobbyists, congressional staffers, NGOs, and visiting two museums (Holocaust Museum and the Newseum), the Library of Congress, and the Supreme Court. We're meeting a Holocaust survivor, as well. Our days are pretty packed, but we will hopefully have some time at night to do the touristy-monumenty stuff as well. The best part is that my professor, who is also my advisor, is letting Chris come along for everything. We're staying with our good friends, the lovely Charlie and Kim, who are aiding us in saving a few (read: shitload) bucks by opening up their futon to us.

We're there until Saturday, when we fly to Minneapolis. My brother and his girlfriend will pick us up at the airport and we're heading to Black Duck Lake in northern MN for a week at a lake house with my family. My family hasn't taken a family vacation that didn't involve a soccer tournament since before I could drive. Now that we can all drink together legally, it should be a good time. I plan on doing not much but reading for fun, solving Sudoku puzzles, and writing. And getting a tan. And fishing. Or watching other people fish. But eating fish. Definitely eating fish.

R.I.P. Finger Nub

When I met Chris, he had a little callous, a bump, if you will, on his right index finger. He had it for many years.

This spring, Chris starting teaching himself how to play slap guitar. I heard this Andy McKee song approximately seven thousand times.

All of this stimulation made this negligible bump grow. So much so, that when Chris came to see me in Minnesota, it looked like this:



This is not a very good picture, nor does it truly demonstrate how big the "nub" got. It started to take on a life of its own. It looked like a little alien being birthed out of the flesh of Chris's finger.

I was afraid he would accidentally rip it off, spewing undoubtedly noxious nub juice, pus, and blood, all over me, probably into my mouth and nose. That would be the grossest thing ever. Consequently, the sight of the thing grossed me out, and Chris knew it. There are very few things as disturbing as watching Twin Peaks eps on your couch and feeling a fleshy, mutant nub stroking your thigh. But this happened to me. Twice. No wonder I'm slightly odd.

Finally, Chris paid a visit to the dermatologist, who shot the finger up with lidocaine, then dug that sumbitch out, leaving Chris with a small hole on his fingertip. It looks like this:



Sexy.

This Aggression Will Not Stand...

While watching Last Comic Standing, the last female contestant had a bit about butch lesbian P.E. teachers. At commercial, Chris said, "Oh, hell yeah, our P.E. teacher was a lesbian."

"Me too!" I said. Then I reminisced on the ghastly elementary gym experience that was Ms. Bonnie Bell.

Yes, lip gloss fanatics, my P.E. teacher's name was Bonnie Bell.

Bonnie Bell was a 5'2" slim, greyish blonde Walter-Sobcheck-meets-Mary Martin that took her job way too seriously. She even had those tinted glasses so you couldn't see her eyes.

At Garton Elementary on the East Side of Des Moines, Iowa, when your homeroom teacher took you to PE twice a week, you were expected to sit in your assigned seat. We had designated rows with designated seats that rotated periodically. Ms. Bell was prone to making a late entrance, like pressing matters existed for her outside the gymnasium, a P.E. G8 summit that kept her a few minutes past the bell. She would stroll in, deliberately nonchalant, twirling her massive keychain. She'd lean against the wall that we all faced, sitting cross-legged and quiet.

Then she's start calling eight-year-olds out like a Maury Povich paternity test.

"Respect." Pause. "Apparently some people in here feel it necessary to socialize with classmates that are not seated near them. Apparently shouting across the room is acceptable gymnasium behavior. Apparently 'respect' is not something they see as acceptable gymnasium behavior."

Everyone would look down at their hands, nervously twisting in their laps. They dared not make eye contact as it may somehow lock them in as the culprit. Then she'd use the old proximity tactic. She would walk slowly around the gym, stopping by whoever she deemed was plotting an anarchist revolution. She would stop by you and you wouldn't look up, instead staring at her navy blue Roo's. She had posters of words, a foot and a half high, on the walls with behavioral words, words like "respect" and "responsibility".

"Kelli Best is choosing not to 'respect' when she yells across the room at her classmate." The class would sigh a collective sigh, out of the line of fire. Then, Ms. Bell would throw out the curveball.

"Kyle Wilkinson thinks it's okay to socialize across the room with Kelli. Hallway."

25 eight-year-olds hum the familiar "Ummmmmmmmmmmmm!!!" of someone being disciplined.

In the hallway, Kyle and I both protest and, almost immediately, turn on each other.

"He was making fun of my hair," I say.

"Kyle," Ms. Bell said. "Just because Kelli's hair is out of style right now, doesn't mean that in ten years, people will get perms again."



First of all, this is NOT a perm, motherfucker. Take one look at Big Ed and you will know that a bitch did not sit under a dryer with some spiral rods since age three. Do I look like a pageant kid? No, I look like an alien fucked a q-tip. So not a perm. Second, it is 1988. Don't tell me there aren't a million ladies out there getting perms. Third of all, aren't you supposed to refrain from making fun of eight-year-olds in passive-aggressive ways? Like, isn't that the first thing they teach you in teacher school? Fourth, is this Peter Pan-looking bitch really trying to flip the switch like that? You have a bowl-cut and a quilted sweatsuit. Fuck no.

Then it hits me. This bitch just straight doesn't like me. I'd never really noticed an adult show complete contempt for me. Most adults have to fake it.

Long story short, this bitch gave me Cs constantly through elementary school. I got Cs in elementary school gym class. Who does that? My ass played four years of college soccer and she gave me the only Cs I ever got in elementary school.

So, yeah, I had that gym teacher.

Vroom.

Of note:

1) While walking Asher yesterday, two pre-pubescent girls were riding around the neighborhood on a four-wheeler, an honest-to-god, ride-on-trails-in-the-country four-wheeler. A) Who was supervising these girls? B)Can you ride full-sized four-wheelers on the sidewalk in the city? Keeping it hoosh in Epiphany Parish.

2) Three places to whom you should give your dining bidness in STL: Stellina Pasta Cafe, The Pitted Olive, and Niche. Through the good fortune of recently celebrating my birthday, I dined at all three in the past week. All three have insanely delicious food and are run by truly outstanding people who understand what friendly, attentive service is all about. I don't think there are nicer people out there in the restaurant business in STL than Mike and Melissa Holmes at the Pitted Olive. Every time I go there, Mike himself asks about our meal. Stellina is just a few blocks from our house, and it's been wonderful to see a cafe flourish in our neighborhood (and have a non-chain place to grab a latte). I had a lovely lunch there today with this lady. Niche, well, Niche speaks for itself. Truly a dining experience worth every penny. If my bar-and-grill loving, white-tablecloth hating husband can inquire as to when our next special occasion is so we can return, right after proclaiming Mathew Rice's infamous semifreddo s'mores dessert "the best dessert I've ever had", well, you have done me a bigger favor than you know, Gerard Craft.

3. Not going to BlogHer, unlike practically every other lady blogger in STL (boooooo), but I am going to DC on Monday for a week-long class on federal policymaking. The whole thing is hands-on, Capitol Hill-schmoozing, which will be cool, but the more I read about the behind-the-scenes action in DC, the more BS I think it is. Maybe this trip will change my mind, maybe I will take my hippie ass to Canada. Who knows? After DC, we're going straight to Minnesota, where we're spending the week at a lake house with my family. Upon my arrival back home on August 1, I will panic that I am still unemployed. You may or may not see me bartending at the Hideaway. Bitch got bills, bills, bills.

4. Not to mention a broken air conditioner. I'm not going to even go into how pissed I am about this. We're afraid to even call someone to come look, since when my good friend's AC shelled out, it was like 2Gs. As AI can attest, it's not too bad in our house, particularly in the basement, but I'll be damned if I start sweating the minute I get out the shower.

Things to twist panties about, probably tomorrow: RFT's Cougar article, The Dark Knight, Project Runway, what shows I want to go to (The Pageant just puked up my iPod on shuffle), the election.

Two Degrees

I'm in Chicago at my lovely friend/former soccer teammate/former roommate JP's bachelorette weekend. We ate some sushi and drank some beers. This information is irrelevant in light of other information I gathered while at dinner.

I made a passing comment earlier about how my brother's girlfriend's parents' names were Jim and Cindy ala 90210 Walsh style. This prompted my old friend Ashley, whom I've known since my very first day in college when she lived two doors down from me on the third floor of Ryle Hall, to say, "Speaking of 90210..."

Long story short, via her good friend's boyfriend, Ashley has partied on multiple occasions, with Ian Ziering, i.e. Steve Sanders from 90210.

"Bullshit," I say.

"Call him," she says, whipping out her phone, sporting a 323 area code.

You're telling me that I can prank call Steve Sanders if I so desire? Seriously?

"Do you know Mike 'The Miz'?" she says.

"Um, durr," I reply.

"I met him, too."

"So you're telling me that not only have I cut my Real World degrees of separation to TWO, but my 90210 degrees of separation?"

"Yeah."

She's acting casual as a motherfucker. What?

So right now, as I type this, we're chilling at JP's condo in Lincoln Park, watching TLC, and I'm looking at pictures of my old pal with Ian Ziering at a Cardinals game. Not just a pose-with-a-fan picture, but several chilling-all-night pictures. Motherfucker was on Dancing With The Stars and you didn't text me immediately when you were with him at Paddy-O's? Proof positive.

Locked and Loaded, Dad

What the fuck is up with this commercial?



Is the courtroom in heaven? This thing is an instant classic.

Hot or Not

Briefly, Things That Are Awesome:

1. Going to Niche for my birthday dinner with Chris tomorrow, then to the Muny. I've never been to the Muny, but I've been to Niche before (also for my birthday) and hopefully I won't lick the plate and embarrass myself in front of those fancy pants people.

2. Lush reissued Potion Lotion, which I purchased today.

3. The movie War Dance. A hopeful, beautiful, moving documentary following school children living in a refugee camp in Uganda who are competing in a national music competition. Get thee to your Netflix queue.

Briefly, Things That Are Not Awesome

1. Clothes shopping. Ugh. I feel like such an idiot. Will someone tell retailers everywhere to rid themselves of fluorescent lights in fitting rooms. They'd sell a lot more clothes.

2. The humidity of St Louis. But I don't have to tell you that.

3. Lady cramps. Sorry.

4th of July, Iowa-Style

I am back from Iowa, and I'm still recovering. This is due to:

1. Practically non-stop drinking. Both brothers work in the alcohol industry, three major parties and a concert. You tell me.

2. Lips show rocked my face off. Mad props to the organizers of 80/35. It was a really nice festival. Des Moines is much hipper than it used to be. I can't imagine an event like this happening while I was living there. Also saw Andrew Bird, who was awesome.

3. Other than aforementioned concert, every party I went to--two 4th parties and my mom's 50th birthday bash, played almost continuous country music. No one thought this was odd except Chris and me.

4. Two words: Lee Greenwood.

Big Ed put up a darn near circus tent in the backyard for my mom's party. I half thought he was going to walk a tightrope. My parents own more red, white, and blue serving platters than is necessary for any ten households, let alone one.

My parents also bought me a shirt with this guy on it:


which you wouldn't understand unless you grew up in Des Moines during the 80s or earlier.

On tap for this week: I turn 28, JP's bachelorette party in Chicago, writing a paper on Curriculum and Ideology, pontificating.

On The Road Again...

Didn't I just get back from a two-week road trip? I'm fairly certain I'll be gone more this summer than I'll be around.

Thursday we're heading to Des Moines, my hometown, for our family's traditional Fourth of July celebration. The 4th is my mom's birthday, this year the big 5-0, and we probably have more beloved family traditions around the 4th than any other holiday, other than the traditional Talk-Shit-On-Hoosier-Family-After-Christmas-Car-Ride-Home, which is equally awesome in a different way.

No, the 4th is all about Americana. As in, my parents live in a creatively-titled suburb called Urbandale. Think "Little Boxes", but smaller houses than Agrestic. Agrestic's homely younger sister fifteen years ago. Our traditions involve the annual parade, fireworks, and barbeque. My dad and his buddy Tim stake out the area in front of the old library, where they set up tents, chairs, and start making lip-burning bloody marys, which we drink copiously during the parade. Although fifteen years ago, I may have fought small children for candy thrown from floats, but I'm giving that up this year. Instead, I'll have both hands free for bloody marys, washers, hoosier golf, and smacking my brothers when they yell at my former boyfriends and point at me, which they still do. Other things of note at the parade: people watching, endless floats of little league teams, hopefully Shriners on go-carts, baton-twirlers, carnies, insult-hurling, and cadging for bathrooms after copious bloody marys.

After the parade, we go to Tim's house where our two families, plus whoever else shows up, will grill, eat, drink beer, and play in a huge bocce tournament. This is also where I will catch up on gossip from neighborhood moms, grit my teeth and grin and make it sound okay that I'm currently unemployed when people ask. This will all culminate with some type of shenanigans with my brothers and their friends and then fireworks. Saturday is the big 50th party for my mom. Good times.

Okay, off to pack up the car, take Asher to Chris's mom's, and get on the road. Happy 4th, America. I'm glad you were born. Now pick on someone your own size.

Ten Thousand Thumbs Down

The other day Chris and I were getting movies at Blockbuster. They didn't have what we wanted, really, so we weren't very enthusiastic about our choices. We usually get three, and I told him just to pick one that he wanted to see because I didn't want to argue about our third pick.

He picked 10,000 B.C

"I heard the special effects were good."

Sweet Jesus.

The chick at Blockbuster said, "Yeah, some movies are like awesome bad." Pause. Blink.

After drinking two glasses of Pinot Greezsh to, you know, get in the mood, we set out to watch this piece of shit.

Here's the plot, which can succinctly be summarized in this brief outline:

1. Dreadlocked mother-fers live in cold dirty village, which is pillaged by dudes on horseback.

2. Hot white chick gets kidnapped; local hot and white (but cowardly) dude vows to save her, her cherry, and his people.

3.They pick up some vaguely African black dudes and go fight some vaguely Middle Eastern dudes who claim to be descendants of Atlantis survivors (?).

4.They triumphantly defeat Atlantis survivors et al, largely due to:
a. ability to harness power of woolly mammoths
b. long-distance spear throwing
c. Orion-shaped scar on hot white chick's wrist (again, ?).
d. Crusty, old slave owners and their four-inch-long Advanced
Nail Tech claws

5. Local hot and white (now brave liberating warrior) dude and REVIVED FROM THE DEAD hot white chick return to dirty village and happily make cave babies.

Like I said: piece of shit.

First of all, these motherf-ers spoke English. But the white dudes had a vaguely Euro accent, the black dudes had vaguely African accents (or spoke made-up language), and the bad guys (i.e. the swarthy Middle Eastern dudes) spoke with vaguely Middle Eastern accents. Please. You seriously made the white dude the hero, the black dudes the trusty sidekicks, and the brown dudes the enemies? And they all live within walking distance of each other? Is this 10,000 B.C.: Epcot? If you're going to be completely random, inaccurate, and arbitrary with your attention to historical detail, can you not be so ridiculously stereotypical with your choice of character race?

Sigh.

THEN, hot white chick had some hot white chicklet teeth. For real, her prized possession was a necklace made of bone and she was eating dried woolly mammoth non stop. You expect me to believe this chick had some Whitestrips? And, as a slave, she had time to rock a thick eyeliner?

Oh, and the dreadlocks? I felt like I was at Wakarusa again. They just looked so obviously fake and ridiculous, just like hot white chick's "sexy" indigenous clothing. You're making that sabertooth skin look fierce, girl, Betty Rubble-style.

Did I mention that the humans fight dinosaurs/killer birds? And make friends with the sabertooth tigers?

I couldn't even watch it in one sitting. It was that shitty.