That's My Bix!

After much nagging (and then enlisting Mopie as a hired gun to do additional badgering) Esteban went into the doctor and got his blood tested. The results are good. He’s up two full points since the transfusions, which means that the change to his medications (and the horse’s dose of iron he’s taking, in addition to extra, er, stuff to make sure that he doesn’t suffer the side effects of said iron) (but maybe if he weren’t taking the extra, um, stuff, I could write about the zany side effects on the internet and then we could both quit our jobs) he is currently making more blood than he is losing. Which is sort of awesome, because it buys him time to figure out what he wants to do about his condition. There are some lifestyle changes he can make (which, when I hear it, always makes me think he’s going to start wearing designer clothes, J.Lo sunglasses and making out with truly beautiful boys) (which, aside from those obvious side effects would be, quite frankly, awesome) (and hot) but he needs to wait until he’s had one more month of solid improvement and gets that count up just a little more before he starts making any big changes. Which means that we aren’t moving to the Castro quite yet.

Go, little Esteban red blood cells, go!

The great thing about this is that Esteban is back to being Esteban. His blood loss was such a gradual thing that I sort of didn’t realize how much of a constant prick he was, sort of like I am during my princess time each month, except he was that way pretty much all the time. But now, he’s not. Now, he’s being silly and a little manic because he has so much energy and he’s making me laugh over and over again. It’s really awesome, actually.

I have an inexplicable headache this morning. I blame spring, or the insurgence of it. There are trees with buds and those buds are little capsules of misery. Those buds mean that the four sweet months of not needing to take Zyrtec have come to an end. Now I will be hyper and vaguely caffeinated from thirty minutes after I swallow a pill until exactly twelve hours later. Forget to take a pill? Try to soldier it out until the allergies kick in at noon, all hardcore? It’s a guaranteed TaiPei session in my pajamas until 2 am. Granted, it means that I can pretty much forget that I am severely allergic to dairy and have a slice of pizza without mentally calculating how much dairy I can have before I can’t breathe anymore, but still, it’s annoying. And I think the headache is somehow related. Either that or I’m getting sick.

Esteban and I had a productive weekend. We both had some projects to finish up, his for his day job and I had some freelance and schoolwork. He pulled a work table into my office and sat in the recliner. It was a warmish day, so we opened a window and let some of the stale winter air out of the house. It was a pleasant afternoon. We worked all day, punctuated by rotations of the (fucking) laundry, and then when we started getting hungry, I made dinner. A few nights ago, I slow cooked a chuck roast with adobo and chipotle for the sole purpose of having burrito stuffing. I did a quick check of the pantry and yes, we had everything I needed to make burritos, so I didn’t have to go out to the store. I shredded the beef, then grabbed two open packages of flour tortillas. One had been left open, so the tortillas were stiff and gross, and the other only had four very large tortillas in it. Normally when I make burritos, I make at least ten so that we have leftovers to eat through the week, because it’s one of Esteban’s favorite meals. It’s just a bunch of different packages of things thrown together, and I find it rather artless. They are just tortillas, an open can of refried black beans, some kind of meat, pre-shredded Colby and Jack, and a can of red enchilada sauce, it certainly doesn’t take any kind of talent or inspiration. It always reminds me of those little cheap boxes of pizza kits, where the crust is in a pouch and the cheese is actually powder. It seemed like every time I babysat as a teenager, the parents would leave one of those kits to feed their kids. The making aspect was fun with the kids, but the actual finished product was disgusting. And certainly the burritos are not disgusting, but just the same, it feels like cheating in a way. Perhaps if I could make an enchilada sauce that tastes better than the stuff that comes in a can, but really, I’ve tried and it’s just not happening. The best I can do is mess around with the beef and throw extra garlic into the sauce. This time, I used some adobo seasoning and a ton of cilantro as well.

However, with only four tortillas and a ton of filling, I made perhaps the biggest, heartiest burritos known to mankind. These were definitely porntastic burritos, primed for the money shot. Because of their girth, they took forever to finish cooking. Esteban has been absolutely starving since he’s no longer anemic, so he placated himself with Girl Scout Cookies while he waited. Finally, they were done, so we each had a half of one and caught up on the TiVo backlog. They were so good that we split a second one, and I declared them the best burritos I had ever, um, assembled.

After dinner, Esteban spontaneously made chocolate chip cookies (from a tube, left over from MoPie’s Birthday Sushi and Cookies extravaganza on Monday), and man, they were super good too. We worked until late in the evening, munching on cookies and extolling joy for living in a time when we have access to not horrible semi-homemade food. Except don’t let Sandra Lee know that I said that, because I hate that woman and her permanently erect nipples swinging low in her tight white sweaters.

(Which is just ridiculous, me taking attitude with Sandra Lee. The woman takes time to set a table, while we pretty much only eat in the living room. Maybe if she didn’t spend so much time making tablescapes, she would have time to throw together some bread dough from scratch though. Tablescapes! See what horror that woman has wrought? The lexicon has been semi-infected!)

Still have the headache. I had more to write, but instead, go here. We’re going to Milwaukee next week, which is very exciting, and going to meet up with Jen, Poppy, Hausfrau among others. I had to write a bio today for my reading, because apparently there will be a pamphlet of some kind, informing the audience of our biographies, or perhaps a town crier, which would be sort of cool. I ended up writing about my love of toast because everything else sounded way too pompous and annoying. When in doubt, go to the toast. That is becoming my creed. It has yet to fail.

I have to say, I am so proud of my senator, Russ Feingold.

I’m about to be all left wing political for a moment. Skip ahead to the next section if you hate that stuff.

I even am proud to be able to say ‘my senator Russ Feingold’. Yeah, I voted for him. If you have the February issue of Vogue lying around, check out the feature on him. Yes. Vogue. They call him the Man of the Moment (and I think writer John Powers has a bit of a crush on him as well). I don’t blame him. Russ is funny and smart and yet really humble and attractive in a very normal, every day kind of way. I’ve shaken the guy’s hand while he was walking in a Seymour Hamburger Days parade. I later read in the paper that Russ refused to ride in a convertible, instead content to walk the sidelines and shake hands. He came after a really large corn combine, and gracefully hopped over a rather large deposit made by the 4H horses that came before him. Sure, that might be pandering. I don’t have to tell you how the people of this area value hard work and humility, how they immediately dislike anyone who puts on airs or thinks they are better than anyone else. I’m willing to admit that it might have been political styling, but I also know that the other candidates sent their cars away and walked the parade route too, after finding out that Feingold was doing it.

Wisconsinites aren’t known for their unconventionality, so it’s hard for me to fathom the conviction it must have taken for him to be the sole Nay against a sea of senators voting for the Patriot Act. And this new request for censure? If I haven’t seen him walking around with my own two eyes, I’d wonder if he walked with a limp due to a set of abnormally large brass balls.

I always said that I’d probably have a bias toward a strong female presidential candidate, just for the sake of trashing the patriarchy, but as much as I feel Hillary is a woman who, in another twenty years, will be lauded as a visionary, Russ would still have my vote. The guy who acts his conscience despite what it may do for him politically? Who doesn’t cave to peer pressure? That’s the guy I want in the White House. He’s the senatorial version of Jon Stewart, people. How can you not love that?

Of course, the Republicans are calling him all sorts of names. How dare he question the president? You’d think this country’s government was a system of checks and balances or something!

Give ’em hell, Russ. Excuse me, Mr. Bush, your check just came back marked Insufficient Funds.

And now we return to the standard Dumber than a Box of Rocks fare. Whatever that is.

For the folks in the comments who mentioned the swimsuit potentials, my current non-supportive suit racer’s is from Junonia, and that’s also where I got the underwire non-supportive bikini top. I got a Land’s End suit two years ago, which I had modified for my long torso, but it doesn’t support either. They now make underwire suits, so I may go that route. Thank you for your suggestions!

As for Esteban’s illness, thank you also for your support and well wishes. He’s loath to admit that anything is wrong right now, and doesn’t really like to talk about it, but we’re pretty sure that he’s going to be OK. Or in his typical clipped response ‘It’s being taken care of’

If you give blood on a regular basis, I would like to thank you. If Esteban hadn’t received the transfusions when they checked him, the doctor gave him a 25% chance of going into cardiac failure within 72 hours. If they had had more B positive, they would have given it to him, but they didn’t, so they couldn’t. Luckily, they had enough to get him out of danger, but I can’t imagine what might have happened if he had been in a car accident or if there were several people who had needed his blood type that day.

I have no doubt that by donating their Type B Positive blood, six strangers saved Esteban’s life. It’s hard to imagine all of that when you go to the Red Cross and they stick you and then you eat cookies and drink juice. It seems so cheery and nonchalant, such a stark contrast to the family that standing on one side of a steel-mesh hospital window, trying to keep their shit together because if they don’t they’ll be throwing up with worry. Every pint that you give is one step closer to changing the worst day of someone’s life into an amusing story told at cocktail parties about the day that someone almost died but it’s all better now and really, what’s did you put in this dip, because it’s just fantastic?. That’s the difference, right there. That ishy bag hanging beneath the lawn chair. That’s the key. So thank you. Each and every time you give blood, thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

I notice that I’ve picked up a new habit in the absence of my old fingernail biting routine. Somewhere along the line, I’ve become a hair twiddler. I’d like to think it looks cute, sort of like something a teenager would do while flirting over her locker door, but I also suspect that it looks a little insane (Does anyone remember the 80’s music video where, in the end, the female singer is locked up in a padded room, twirling her hair? Was it the Motels maybe?) I dislike habits, particularly ones of stress. I managed to fix a lot of my broken relationship with food in that I rarely binge eat, but I’ve traded it for hair twirling, headaches, irrational thoughts, a tendency to lash out verbally, and I still have a fat ass. Clearly, I am not the poster girl for self actualization.

I read somewhere that fidgeters burn twice the calories of non-fidgeters, so I keep trying to remind myself to release the stress by tapping my foot. However, I’m just not a perpetual motion type. I’m all about the stillness, a talent taught to me as a child by an Native American shaman who chastised my sister for fidgeting too much while we were walking in the woods. I can approach skittish animals in the woods without scaring them while my sister gets to shop at the Gap. Brilliant strategy.

Thanks to the new hair twiddling, I have a permanent section of hair on the left side of my face (because even though I write with my right hand, I do almost everything else with my left) that hangs apart from the rest and is starting to look ratty. Why aren’t there any nervous habits that don’t destroy one’s appearance?

Other than recreational shopping, of course. That just makes one look fabulous.

I mentioned a month or so ago that I will be participating in a reading at the end of the month in Milwaukee. The story I’m reading is going to be in a lit journal this summer, so at least one person thinks it doesn’t suck. If you are interested in attending this reading, e-mail me for details! It’s rumored that there will be several online persona types in attendance, so it’s one stop blog stalking. How convenient.

What do you get when you combine two online diarists, three bottles of wine, Pad Thai and American Idol? A blog.

And yes, I am that ladylike in real life. At least when I’ve been hitting the Framboise.

Weetabix, out.

wearing sun glasses. Hit it! It’s amazing how a week away from home can run together, despite the absence of daily routines to homogenize each day. The only working day that stands out was Thursday, because I was as jumpy as a blonde slutty girl in a horror movie. I had purposely kept Wednesday night free so that I could work on my project with a coworker, but then his wife drove down so instead I went to Mitsuwa (mmm… freeze-dried tiny fish to eat like popcorn!) and Ikea (mmmm… um, storage boxes!) and then drove around in the rain, fretting and plotting elaborate kidnapping scenarios wherein I wouldn’t have to present the next day. Or maybe faking an injury. A groin pull, perhaps. There was a moment of zen when I pulled into a wet parking lot, the rain cascading in the spotlights, and the radio kicked out a Smiths song. God, what I wouldn’t do for a decent alternative radio station instead of the local stations which play “Photograph” twelve times during my morning commute. Then I stayed up late on Wednesday, cursing my need for steamed red bean buns, and sweated over my presentation.

Before the presentation, I actually started using stress management techniques including creative visualization and memorization. It’s sort of ridiculous that I’ve suddenly developed stage fright after so many years of theatrical performances. My family wouldn’t even believe me if I told her how freaked out I was, because they remember the four-year-old who played the adorable little Virgin Mary and didn’t even flinch over the line that contained the word “Centurion.” But later, my mentor told me that my presentation was fantastic compared to the rest and when the committee had questions or suggestions, I either rolled with them or explained why we had taken their concern into context and it wasn’t applicable in this situation. In reality, apparently they couldn’t hear my voice shaking for the first five minutes or see the moment in which I felt like I was going to faint, so looked at the drop ceiling grid, took a deep breath and willed myself to not faint. I kept talking through the rushing sound in my ears and then it went away. And the big important guys liked it, or didn’t fire me anyway. Which is really great. Or sort of sucks, because now I have to make fourteen thousand graphs and not one of them about zombies. Hi. My career is a TPS report.

On Friday morning, I packed up and checked out of my yucky pseudo-suitey mid-range hotel (where I swear they must have bed bugs because I’ve been getting progressively itchier all week, but it might have been their burlap sheets or lye soap in the shower) and went into the office for a few hours of busy work until they dismissed us. It was very “Last Day Of School” when I hit the parking garage and jumped onto the highway. My One Flight Stand and all around beautiful person really wanted me to come down and see his magazine’s headquarters, but he had meetings until 3 pm. I called Esteban, told him I’d be late getting home, and then headed toward the city, where I was bound and determined to find the Stuart Weitzman and Kate Spade stores.

The weather had warmed up considerably compared to the beginning of the week, and by the time I was halfway to the Gold Coast, I opened my sunroof and enjoyed the warm glob of yellow for the first time in months. I forget sometimes how good it feels, even though it’s bad for you and undoubtedly encouraging countless melanomas to get together and form a cheerleading squad. Traffic was a bit hellacious, but nothing too dreadful and I made it into the city in half an hour. For the record, driving in downtown Chicago during the weekday makes me insane. The cabs are a health hazard. They are insane. I wouldn’t have cared as much had I been driving a rental, but driving my own car was a little scarier. I drove around on Michigan Avenue, but couldn’t find a reasonable place to park. I ended up driving until I found a place on the street. As I was getting out of the car, I heard brakes squealing on pavement and then a big bang. Thirty feet away, two cabs had smacked into each other, throwing pieces of cab everywhere. The passersby were shrugging and going on with their day and as I was getting into my own (unharmed) cab, the last thing I saw was one disgusted cabbie throwing a piece of his car through his passenger window.

I memorized the cross streets and then headed to 900 North Michigan, which is, quite frankly, much like Satan’s Corner in San Francisco. Gucci. Weitzman. Max Mara. Bloomies. Up the block: Hermes, Kate Spade, Armani, Ralph Lauren, Saks. I could have spent all afternoon there, but I only had two hours on the meter and had to leave to meet David anyway. I blew through the mall to use the restroom (passing three ladies wearing fur… hello, 60 degrees outside!) and then hit on my boyfriend Stuart. When I asked where they kept the giantess shoes, Mimi said she had a few size 12s up there, but she could bring me to the shoe vault and just let me go crazy. Which is what she did, only I was crazy in a very proper, ladies who lunch kind of way. While we were in the vault, she once again diagnosed me with a high arch and instep, and then took foot measurements and said that I am not really a size 12, but only need it for the room in the instep. Which is why some size 11s fit perfectly: it all depends upon the cut of the shoe. I did find a pair of black loafers that fit like a dream though, because they avoided the instep issue completely. And then she let me in on a secret: Stuart Weitzman is having a trunk show in May, at which point they will make the shoes to my specifications, so if I need to accommodate for the instep, they can do it. She wrapped up my shoes and told me that she’d ship them, so that I wouldn’t have to pay the sales tax. Love Mimi!

I then sashayed up the street to Kate Spade. I haven’t been having a lot of luck with Kate recently. Aside from the imperfect zebra print that caught my eye last December, nothing but the cute basket purse (and really, who is going to pay $300 for a lime green basket? Not this girl.) has really caught my eye. And in truth, I really have needed a new purse for a long time, but the past few purse seasons have been really awful. I hate hobo bags and things with too much stuff on them.. In fact, I’m so desperate for a new purse that I almost (ALMOST!) got seduced by a silver Coach bag, and as a rule, I despise most Coach bag offerings. I don’t despise them on other people, but rather, they are just not my style. I don’t want dangly bits on my purse. I don’t want it to look like it might be seen at a biker rally. Just give me classic lines and quality hardware and I am a happy girl. While I’m not married to Kate Spade, her line’s fashion mantra most closely matches my own. However, lately most of her cutest things have flappy closures and my propensity to fling my purse around demands a zipper

I walked around Kate’s prissy Oak Street showroom with an arched eyebrow. The staff was very courteous and I give them props for dressing to appeal to the aesthetic of their customer, as there were circle skirts and Anthropologie hair accessories and scarves tied jauntily around lithe throats. But then I spied the sweetest aqua purse and fell in love, ready to eschew my zipper requirement all together. But wait, there was a zipper! Would my wallet fit? It did! And wait!

ON SALE.

Did I just hear a choir of angels? No, that was actually coming from my own mouth. So sorry, Kate Spade Employees, please forgive my moment of rapture and resume prancing around the store on your kitten heels.

They must know that the average Kate Spade enthusiast enjoys matching, because as soon as they brought out the aqua leather accessories, they had their upsell quota in the bag. (HA! Sorry, that was completely unintentional but it amused me). I caught another cab, went back to my car and immediately switched everything out of the old Kate and into the new. And then I may have squealed, but only because I realized that it matched the t-shirt I was wearing under my sweater. I am broken, but in a very girly twee way.

I hit Lake Shore Drive (which is apparently a no man’s land of cellular reception) and found my way to Andersonville, which looked really familiar to me. I later figured out that it looked familiar because Chiara, Jessamyn, Jen, Kelly and I had all met for brunch at Ann Sathers up the street last year. After finding a place to park, I phoned David and told him that I was standing outside of his office’s locked front door. He chuckled and sent one of his employees to let me in. I recognized Jason immediately from his picture on his byline and was excited to talk to him because he’s the guy who sends me comp issues. Jason got me some water, set me up at a Mac and encouraged me to surf while waiting for David to finish busting balls or whatever he was doing on the phone. As he was walking back to his desk, Jason pointed at my new Kate and said “LOVE the bag!” In my possession for less than an hour and already scored points with a gay guy. Totally worth it.

After David got off the phone, we both did little excited dances and then he introduced me to his staff of hot gay men. He needed to take another call, so I just sat back and listened to the drama and the banter around the editorial office. It was very entertaining. After his last call, he announced to everyone that he had a very important meeting with me and then we walked up the street and had tea and scones and talked about sex, San Francisco and products as the setting sun through the windows cast us in a rosy glow. Or maybe it was all the sex talk.

David really wanted me to stay the night, but I already knew that Esteban was putting on an Ophelia act three hours to the north, so I had to decline. However, I did stay until 6, figuring that had I left at 5, I would have been sitting in traffic until at least 6 anyway, and it was much nicer to sit in a cafe chatting with a multi-millionaire. By the time I had to leave, he was adding me to the guest list for a launch party in San Francisco in two weeks. I’m never going to be able to get the time off to fly out for it, but it’s still very cool to know that my name will be on the same list with a handful of Bay Area luminati. At some point, my real life and my rock star existence are going to catch up with each other and when that happens, my head may explode.

After several kisses and hugs, we parted, and I walked back up the street to my car, and headed back to Lake Shore Drive, this time automatically employing the directionally clueless method of going backwards in order to go forwards. The outer areas of Chicago proper confuse me, but downtown, I am golden. I got stuck in a bit of traffic once I hit downtown, but contented myself with looking out over the dark undulating waters of Lake Michigan. The ferris wheel at Navy Pier was winking at me, and the lights to my left were guiding the way home. I really love large cities: the hum and energy is exuberating. Even though I don’t so much enjoy Chicago the way that I love San Francisco, it has its moments. While San Francisco is a lithe, slightly aging woman sipping tepid green tea while looking out across the hills, Chicago is a plump grandmother of twelve singing in a Gospel choir before going home to cook up a nice plate of ribs. Or maybe Chicago is a beefy guy who smells a bit like sauerkraut and a bit like cigar smoke who wants to know how you like your dog. Chicago is a tough old broad, with visible roots and a harsh voice but she means well, really she does. Or maybe it’s a 110 ton mirrored metal sculpture meant to reflect everything right back at you, only upside down and twisted until everything ugly becomes beautiful. I zip up Michigan, up to whichever street it is that runs parallel to Ohio, and then hit 90/94 at 65 miles per hour. In my rearview, the city is fighting the dying light with everything she has and the John Hancock building is throwing rock and roll devil hands in victory. Chicago knows that it will never be first in my heart, but it also knows that I’d never turn it down. The Morton Salt building squats along the side of the highway and then it was all behind me much too quickly, the city of broad shoulders. I can’t say that I don’t feel a bit sad to be leaving. Chicago, Chicago, when you’re good to Mama, Mama she’s good to you.

I am once again in Shermer Illinois. Y’all got a lot of geese here, man. Seriously. What’s with the geese?

Already there are two marked differences between this trip and last trip. First of all, I’m staying in a hotel with free wireless internet. It’s closer to my office (and also Starbucks) and still gives me a suite with a refrigerator so that I can have my glass of 1% organic chocolate milk each night before bedtime, heated in the microwave to help me sleep.

Secondly, I found the head office’s computer geeks (who were, by the way, rather hot). I accosted them while they were coming in from lunch (or maybe smoking, because they were hot and probably never eat). “You!” I said, fixing them with a steely gaze. “I can see a wireless access in this building but I don’t have the password. Help? “And then I gave them a pretty smile. “Can it wait until I take off my coat?” One said, hating life for passing the conference rooms. “We have ten minutes.” He sighed and followed me in, plugged in the top secret access code to the wireless and then I was suddenly on the web. He tried to fix another guy’s access, but since he had one of the two network cords at that moment, he said “You do not have a need. I will not give you access.” And then walked out of the room. Thank you, Geeky Yoda. I probably should have gotten his name or mentioned to any of the other chatting trainees what was happening, but when they returned from break, everyone realized that I could access the network without one of the precious cords. Then, there were accusations and improper suggestions, and finally, a bitter “How come you’re so special? Why did he give it to you?” and I shrugged and suggested that maybe he liked my smile. I gave someone else an old wireless card that has been floating around in my bag and they had to call the IT desk and ask for access. I heard that it’s like a golden ticket, though, in the office, and someone grumbled that they heard you had to be on the top floor with a corner office to use the wireless. I still don’t know why they gave it to me without so much as a peep, just a friendly smile and a clear intent that I would not let him walk back to his cubicle to take off his coat. I suck.

On Monday night, Poppy and I went shopping, although for me it ended up being one of those weird No Dice shopping nights. Nothing was hitting. I did find a fun retro print cashmere scarf on clearance for mere pennies, so maybe that’s not true. I almost bought a pair of Dior sunglasses, but they were a little much for something that I can’t really see myself wearing every single day. I was really aching to buy a new Kate Spade, but nothing appealed to me. Paula, on the other hand, found the best fucking shoes I’ve ever seen. We spotted the pink version first. Paula tried them on and we both agreed that they were awesome, but then when we saw them in black’. Oh fuck me, they were hot. You know of course that I do not enjoy feet but even wearing the sandals over grey socks, her feet were fucking gorgeous. Given that her toenails were perfectly polished with arctic silver, it was clearly destiny. I even tried shoving my giant hooves into a pair, and since I normally refuse to wear anything that unstable, you have to know that it was gorgeous. I took a picture of her wearing them, but until I get home and can upload it, you’ll have to content yourself with the link in her entry.

Then on Tuesday night, I hit the highway. Really, I could easily see myself living in this area (and honestly, if Esteban would consent, I could probably transfer to the Chicago office and increase my salary in the process, but would it make up for all the MUST HAVE THIS NOW sightings at the various retail opportunities? Probably not) but for the traffic. I thought I had enough time to get to the city but then spent most of my drive sitting in traffic, staring out at the landscape of identical suburban crapilizations. The traffic! I cannot stand the traffic. I get nervous and start pounding my ever-present bottle of Dasani and by the time I reach my destination, I can taste urine in the back of my throat. Oh and CB Outlet? What kind of Crate and Barrel doesn’t have a bathroom? Thank you Trader Joes. You rule. It made me late for my rendezvous with Paula, but hopefully she doesn’t hate me too much. She introduced me to her very cool friend Megan (One of the perks of knowing cool people is getting to meet their cool friends) and we went shopping at the Crate and Barrel outlet and then followed it up with an orgasmic session at one of the two CB2 stores in existence. I kept thinking that maybe I wasn’t cool enough to be in that store, although really, I want to be that cool. We followed up with dinner at an awesome Mexican restaurant and met another of her friends, Tam. Who was cool. It goes without saying.

I ended up getting a little lost on my way back to the highway (despite excellent directions, because I was talking on the phone to Esteban, who was regaling me with boring but worrisome insurance issues) and then zipped randomly through various neighborhoods until I hit the razor wire areas and decided, you know, maybe just drive downtown where I know exactly how to get to the highway. It was a good plan. When in doubt, look for the big Hancock. Ha! If you are eight years old, you’re snickering right now.

I forgot to mention: my very solid and upstanding coworker and I were walking out of dinner one night last time I was here and he said “Wow, that’s a big Dick’s!”, meaning the giant sporting goods chain. I did a mental stop, because he’s as squeaky clean as Mr. Rogers. I recomposed and replied “It definitely is. I might even call that a giant Dick’s.” And then he said “No, seriously’Have you ever even seen such a huge Dick’s?” And I replied “I’ve seen some pretty big ones, but no, never one that big. That’s probably one for the…um… record books.” And then I had a stroke and died.

Work during the day is sort of like some weird kind of limbo. Yesterday, I had to actually ask someone if it was Tuesday or Wednesday, because it just seemed as though we would always be here in Shermer, always be looking at geese through half closed mini blinds on tinted windows. It probably seems extra surreal because when I got here on Sunday, I drove around a mostly deserted downtown and looked to a pristine Christmas landscape in Grant Park, where the statues were all wearing goose down, but last night as I was lost in the Windy City, it was pouring rain, the streets slicked and reflective, the El making zither sounds that bounced off of wet pavement. I said “We’re on a mission from Gahd” to an empty car.

I have a giant presentation tomorrow, to something like forty million people, all of whom could probably fire me by pressing a secret button programmed on their Blackberries. I don’t know what to wear and I blew my wardrobe wad today wearing a skirt and awesome black sweater. For practice on my statistics, I did an entire graphical representation on zombie fashion and how it relates to the probability of being bitten by them and subsequently turned into a zombie yourself. Suffice to say, the corporate people were not impressed. Somehow I think it doesn’t matter what I wear tomorrow. If I start to stumble in presentation, I’m totally going to the zombie data.

This morning, while leaving my daily voicemail greeting, I had to seriously suppress the urge to say ‘Hello, my name is Indigo Montoya. Today is Thursday, March 2 and I will be in the office all day. At the sound of the beep, please leave a message and also please prepare to die.’ I suspect there’s only one person listening to my voicemail anyway, and never my clients. My clients don’t care. One day, I might just say ‘And I’m not wearing any panties.’ Just to see if I get fired. They raised price of bottled soda in the cafeteria by a quarter. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Pie came over last night to christen the new season of Amazing Race. We like the nerds and their nerd theme music, with its peppy clueless piano tinkling. I especially like the nerd girl, because she runs with this silly little arm swaying thing. One of the members of Team Alpha Male reminds me of Ethan Embry and reminds Mo of Luke Perry. By the end of the episode, we were calling them Team Nipple Ring. I was disappointed by the gay guys, because they imploded about three seconds out of the gate. Also, why go on the Amazing Race if you don’t like to fly? Have you WATCHED the show? Did you think that all 40,000 miles would be traveled on the back of a yak?

In honor of Ash Wednesday and the fact that Pie works for Pope Hilarius University, last night I made saut’ed tilapia to go with the South Beach approved brown rice, steamed asparagus and tossed greens. I always forget how easy it is to make tilapia. I think it freaks me out because of the spoilage factor. I’m always certain that everything is going to hell within seconds of buying it, and the fact that they put it on ice JUST TO GET IT HOME is frightening. It’s like you’re carrying a cooler and someone is waiting for a transplant. I can’t deal with the stress, this ticking time bomb of delicate white fish.

I have to spend next week in Shermer Illinois again. I’m staying at a different hotel, which should be interesting. I got really accustomed to my made-to-order mushroom and cheese omelet each morning, so I hope this new hotel also has mushroom and cheese omelets. They will have internet access, damn it, that’s one thing I’m certain. Also, I’m taking my own car this time. No stinking Pacifica. Not that my car is better but–oh never mind, it’s totally better.

I guess this is what you talk about when you don’t know how to talk about something. You fill the space with words and hope you can sort it out by the end of the page. And sometimes, you don’t quite manage it.

Hello. My name is Indigo Montoya and there’s a Minicon recap to come. Until then, there’s 77,000 new words on the Flickr page and I’m wearing a very cute pair of pink boy-cut panties.