Hey You!

Yeah, you. I moved. New blog. Go here, immediately. OR ELSE.

Psst...I'm coming home...

Actually, I'm here. It's 12:35, we just got home, and I've never been so glad to feel the sticky humidity of St Louis. Actually, I'm a wee bit apprehensive about reentering the real world. I have things to do, namely find a job, and need to not be such a philandering lady bum. Onward!

Maybe the best part about coming home was finding two weeks worth of mail stacked up. And at the beginning of the month, meaning I came home to the latest issues of Bust, ReadyMade, and Saveur. I also got a package containing this shirt I won on Tweet2Win.com, and the latest in a line of recycled bags made by Act2GreenSmart, which are ultra eco, functional, and cute. I'll be writing those up somewhere on the GreenOptions network this week.

So, I plan on getting back in the STL swing of things by hitting up the Tower Grove Farmers Market tomorrow morning, then cleaning and spending some time with WordPress. Blogging changes afoot. All my lady friends are gone having a girls weekend--the thought of traveling more after getting home so late tonight just about put me over the edge, so I had to decline our annual sleepover in Piedmont--but I'll have time to recap my trip, as long as my lack of tech skills doesn't force me into a panic attack. And, of course, the job hunt. So come on back. I didn't mean to leave you out in the cold. It was the WiFi, the WiFi (or lack thereof) I tell ya'.

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.