Easter brunch and noodling

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God damn it, I love going home for the weekend. The weather finally cooperated, and it was glorious. I went to Maquoketa for some methfeather-based bedding (there’s an outlet there that has amazing comforters and whatnot for cheep).

When I got home, I found Jason, Anton, and my dad down in the timber tearing down an old shed. I ran around the timber happily, and we watched some Freaks and Geeks (my parents are hooked, and are watching them all too).

Saturday night we met up with two Lymans and hit the Davenport bar scene. It was mostly scary and depressing, but hey – I did see an old college buddy! We stole bar glasses for Lena, who wasn’t around until Sunday.

We had a brunch for Easter, but for the first time sans Grandma. She’s out with a nasty flu, so we had to function as a family without our matriarch. It’s not that she’s bossy, it’s just that she’s always been there.

All the food was really good – even though we didn’t have some of the traditional dishes that can be counted on for familial meals – but the best part was the bloody mary my uncle Jeff mixed. It was the tastiest version of that drink I’ve ever had. I’m now a bloody mary fan.

After brunch, Dad pulled out a tape of a show he caught on PBS. It was about noodling, and the men of the family (except Anton, who’d seen it, and me, who’s not male) sat around and watched this video of guys fishing for flathead catfish … with their arms. They catch fish by poking their hands into underwater holes. Water moccasins and beavers are also found in these holes.

It was funny, but seeing all the footage of guys wrangling giant catfish got us all antsy to go fishing. Anton, Jeff, and I went down to the pond and drowned some worms. Heh heh.

I really didn’t spend that much time with Jason over the weekend, me acting in an outside cat fashion, and Jason hanging out with the biggest inside cat I know, Leener.

On Sunday night, Jason and I got the honor of bringing leftovers up to Grandma’s house on the way out of town. She shooed us out because it was getting late, and we took the “shorter” but “slower” route through Clinton and Morrison.

Jason and I talked the whole way home, which is lucky, because my tape adaptor doesn’t work, and we would have been left with the hiss of middle-Illinois stationlessness. (It’s similar to the middle-Illinois cell phone lackage.)

Today, I’m out of the office. I’m sitting on Jason’s couch watching Ellen. They have swing dancers on. Oop. Now Ellen is dancing. Wow. Err.

Anyway, I’m going to walk around outside, since it’s gorgeous, and go up to Quimby’s for a big black bag of mystery mags.

You suckers who are all inside working, I’m sorry.

Pez MP3

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Someone threw together an MP3 player using a Pez dispenser. Now they’ve gotten permission to produce it legally.

Good GOD. I had no idea. I’m kind of upset that I didn’t think of it myself, but I guess this just means I need to create something else out of a Pez dispenser. Hmmm.

You may not know this, but I’m a pez aficionada. I started collecting in high school, with my mom. I have about 150 Pez, last I counted. In college, boys would woo me with a Pez dispenser. I’d laugh in their face and say “I already HAVE that one.”

There are Pez in production now, and there are Pez that are out of production. My attentions became fixated on the out-of-production Pez, like the Wounded Soldier (my favorite), or the Pez gun (candy suicide).

I used to have dreams where I’d be in some antique shop or flea market, and find a rare old Pez. See, this happened once – I found an original in an antique store in Welton, Iowa. I bought it for $7, and it’s worth much more.

Anyway, my Pez interests waned, probably because I have the purchasing power to buy much more expensive hobby items. Then again, this has given me a chance to go back and find all the ones that are on the market now.

I still have this incredible knowledge base of the old variations, and some surprising Pez facts. I think that should be another post on another day.

Friday lethargy

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I’m starting to get really geared up for the summer. This winter crap has gone on too long. I woke up, looked outside, and as a result of the inclimate weather, I put on my most springy, Sarah Jessica Parker/Gap inspired outfit. That didn’t seem to fix my desire for spring, so I put on makeup.

Now I’m full of free dessert from a lunch ‘n learn, and therefore passive and don’t care that I have three different things to do right now, or that Bush is still president, or that the mess in Sudan hasn’t been dealt with properly by the international media.

Mlarg.

Multi-tasking

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A long time ago, my friend Louie Hare told me the secret of working at Hyvee. He worked there during high school and breaks during college. He said that the most joy he had ever felt was taking a deuce on the clock. He explained that as an hourly employee, the 15 minutes he spent on the terlet at work were justified as nature’s calling and he revelled in knowing that he was being paid to poop.

I’ve always remembered Louie’s words. At work I will often take what I refer to as a “boy poop” and spend as much time leisurely defecating, with reading material or without.

Recently, I’ve been brainstorming a way to make sure I floss every day. As a nightly habit, I often forget because I’m too tired, and lazy. It doesn’t make sense to floss in the morning, because I haven’t eaten anything yet. It occurred to me that I ought to floss at work, after lunch. The benefits of daily flossing are aplenty. Flossing at work means that I’m spending that much more time in the loo, and I’m getting paid for it.

I’ve been work-flossing for about a week, and I’ve noticed that I’ve not missed a day. I think it’s Louie’s perspective on pooping that is gleefully sending me to the ladies room to floss. It’s like I’m a child and I’ve tricked myself into liking it.

(One thing that I’ve learned in the pooping/dental care realm is that I can’t handle pooping and brushing my teeth at the same time. I think it’s the combination of minty frothy cleaning action in my mouth, feeling like the opposite of having a good shit. Just in case you were wondering why I don’t floss and poo at the same time.)

Boo.

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Just because someone is due Monday does not mean they can unload their Christ-sized burden on me. I have 15 documents with 5 different sections to proof against 263 source documents – all numbers.

OK, I might be exaggerating a little, but I’m kind of miffed that I can’t spend my usual leisurely afternoon blogging.

I went and made a pot of decaf for the afternoon (psychosomatic effects) and noticed that there was no creamer. I looked around for an alternative to the powdered stuff, and realized that the best option was one of the cans of Similac sitting on the counter.

THAT’S what happens when you work at a diversified health care company. It’s one of our products.

(I went without creamer.)

Not unhealthy childhood focus.

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I’m finding it strange to get older. I’ve hit the age where I’ve had fully formed thoughts, and completely forgotten them. Much like Shippy, I’ve been coming up with some of these more and more lately. The most recent was shocked back into the frontal lobe by a Boing Boing post about a new Flickr genre – photographs of the contents of a purse, bag, manpurse, etc.

I’ve always really really enjoyed learning what was in other people’s wallets and purses. When I was a girl, I thought it was interesting what other little girls thought they needed to put in their little girl purses. I think I went through a brief purse phase (it was stone washed denim) but it was brief. Up until AmeriCorps, I never carried a purse, and the only reason why I did after AmeriCorps was because my roommate, Hottie Katie, gave me the one she had that I happened to like.

I also found it fascinating that although a wallet is supposed to be a succinct version of a purse, they often have just as much crap in them. Random things written down on paper are just as good as finding a small hammer or packet of McDonald’s maple syrup in a purse.

So, I’m excited about this Flickr page, and will take more pleasure out of it than the average bear.

Tuesday Morning Upload

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I really do want to blog about my weekend. It was extraordinary. It’s just that it’s Tuesday now, and I’ve already processed most of what the weekend held. Then again, my weekend extended an extra day, as I decided to drive down to Chicago last night. Jason spent yesterday cleaning his apartment, and that was a good enough reason to haul ass down 94 after dark on a Monday. Indeed, the place is much cleaner – both in the messy way and the dirty way. Jake, Jason, and I watched Barfly (if you didn’t know – it’s pronounced “BARF-lee”). We decided that we ought to drink while watching, so we cracked open what we had laying around – a bottle of champagne.

Back to the weekend. Yes. Saturday night I had made plans to go dancing with my friend Abbie. Back when we both lived in Rogers Park, we’d go to Big Chicks and dance the night away, drinking the free shots they give out at midnight, and not have to worry about being oogled or manhandled. (There was one time where I was accosted by an attractive but agressive woman, but that’s a rarity.)

I purchased a bottle of Smirnoff Cape Codder ($6 at the sto’ – it must be discontinued) and brought it along to have with dinner.

As I took off my coat, Abbie congradulated me on wearing black. She had Metromixed the closest clubs, and learned that there was a goth club, known for it’s cheap drinks, three blocks away. What’s better than dancing at a gay bar? Dancing at a goth bar called Neo.

As it turns out, a 750 mL bottle of the stuff will put two Irish Catholically educated women into a state that is west of Tipsy. (That’s a $3 drunk, if you weren’t paying attention.) We also drank port, which I found too sweet and good.

We put on too much makeup, and headed out. I wasn’t sure if my cute little brown peacoat was going to be a visual shibboleth, but there was a coat check. The drinks were not as inexpensive as Metromix had quoted, but it was still a great place to sit down (in a dark corner, naturally) and peoplewatch sulk.

There were six people on the dance floor, and it was obvious that their reason for dancing superceded the cultural more they were breaking. The majority of people were standing or sitting along the perimeter of the dance floor. Despite the lack of dancefloor excitement, there was plenty of fog machine action which continued into the night.

True to form, the dance floor filled up directly after midnight. Having pumped more cocktails into our systems, we were ready to dance as well. I’d like to consider myself a good dancer, if not an exuberant one, and I wasn’t sure how to dance appropriately. There seemed to be two styles: women in too-short skirts and heels dancing sexy, yet morosely; and guys dancing kind of house, but angrier. I chose the angry athletic style, and proceeded to shake my ass and show them what I was working with for about two hours.

It’s Tuesday, and I’m still sore.

That was the action, but the best part were the observations. This place seems to be a catch-all for outdated modes of style. I saw some Flock of Seagulls, I saw some ravers, I saw some City of Lost Chidren, and of course the high-end Hot Topic freaksluts.

Anyway, it was both a sociological zoo visit and a party night all rolled into one. The fact that it’s so close to Abbie’s means I’m putting on my Lydia outfit, getting predrunk, and going there again this summer.

Willkomen

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Tada! With only a little help (I took a nap and now this works) I now have a superblog where I can post pictures and mashups of songs that are really just 5 songs playing at the same time. The rest of the site, as indicated by the topside bar, is on its way. I just need a few more nights of sitting in front of the TV watching old 6′ Under.

I have actual work to do today, so I’ll post later this afternoon about my Saturday night goth club adventure and shocking discovery that two of my friends are engaged – via a screengrab.

Oh, I need to figure out how to make the fun sidebar stuff live at the top of the page – until then, go take a peek all the way down at the bottom of the page. If you’re bloggy and I didn’t add you – let me know. I’ll throw you on.

S A T U R D A Y – NIGHT!

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I’m looking forward to my weekend. I wasn’t last night, but after one of those phone conversations that in itelf is kind of gut wrenching but then provides a soporific and detoxifying effect I realized that this is going to be a great weekend.

The part that most concerns this here blog is that I’m planning on launching outsidecat.com, complete with blogness. That means no more livejournal. I’ll have photoability, and uh, a bunch of other neat stuff. Yeah, a Bedazzler. Two of them.

I’m also going bowling at an alley in Chicago that has four lanes. There are human pinsetters, and you tip them by rolling a couple bucks and shoving it into one of the holes of your ball. I simply cannot wait. What will I wear?

I’m also going to have brunch with Anthony and Kristin, and listen to some Sunday afternoon jazz at the Green Mill.

Perhaps Saturday night, pre bowling, I’ll have a launch party for outsidecat. Hmm. I wonder who would be around last minute, and I wonder if it will actually get done.

Last night I put together a sitemap image that I’m pretty happy with, and it really ties the site together. Literally and aesthetically. Now all I need are some model release forms back from some of my friends. Then I’ll be set, like Erector.

Best idea ever.

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I was listening to NPR (last Sunday?), and heard part of a piece about group – or a person – or somebody in some county in some state (are you with me?) who decided that

Geez. I’ve confused myself even. Let me start over.

There have always been problems with the foster care system. Children are in foster care in hopes of placing them back with their parents, instead of being adopted and staying with one family forever. Unfortunately, there are folks who host foster kids for the subsidy.

Placing kids with good families is a problem. Someone (and I don’t know who because I can’t freaking find the story) decided that part of the problem is the presentation of information about the children. The files with each kids history and whatnot comes with a passport style photograph.

This impersonal and mugshot-looking picture would never capture the true essence of a child.

Photographers volunteered to photograph the children, I believe in a gym on a Saturday, using their own backgrounds and lighting and whatnot. The county was able to sign release forms, since the children were under its legal care.

Warm, funny, heartfelt photographs of children really acting like themselves were taken. The children had all sorts of attention paid to them. One girl said that she felt like a movie star.

I don’t remember the numbers, so I’ll make them up. Something like 17 of the 44 children photographed were almost immediately placed with families.

The state of New Jersey has decided to do the same thing – photographing all of the children in its system.

Doesn’t that sound amazing? Can you imagine the difference a sweet personality-capturing photograph would make on people who aren’t sure if they want to be foster parents?

So here’s the deal. This NPR story has captured my imagination. What are the downsides? There isn’t the pain-in-the-ass consent form issue, because the state would provide that. A couple of photographers, a couple rolls of film, and you’d have images of children that would make you want to adopt them, not discard them.

The foster care system seems to affect the lives of children in a very negative way. Any child spared of this experience would be one more person less likely to be unhappy, unsuccessful, or even criminal.

It seems like a really simple solution to a problem that affects people for the rest of their life. Has anybody else listened to the story? I can’t seem to find it anywhere, and I’d like to listen to the whole thing, to find out if this is a nonprofit organization, or if this is a state-by-state effort. I’m down.