Have I already written a blog about my room flooding? I’m sure I have since its happened twice before. So my room has now had at least an inch of shit water in it not once, not twice, but three different times.
I’m minding my own business in Lakeview shoveling empanadas and milkshakes into my face when it starts to downpour. We decide to try and wait out the rain at Potbellys until we realize that this rain is not quitting any time soon. So, Mark does the brave thing and runs to grab my car, picks us up, him and Gina get dropped off at their car, and then Ana, Anika and myself are on our way home with the windshield wipers at full blast.
The closer we get to home, the more flooded the roads seem to be. A good portion of the ride home was “The Little Honda That Could” as my little car became part boat each time we crossed another swimming pool in the middle of the road.
If these driving conditions weren’t enough to send a person over the edge, we get a text halfway home letting us know that our basement, and more importantly my room, are flooding.
Oh good, so it’s not just every street I’m trying to drive down that’s covered in water, it’s also all of my belongings.
By the time we make it home I’ve completely given up on parking and pull into a part of the lake that I think is a somewhat legal parking space. We then jump out of the car and make a mad dash for the house. Once inside, we find Katie and Ryan in the basement ankle deep in what is most likely sewer water.
They’re angels and have moved all my stuff that was on the floor onto the stairs out of water harms way. Unfortunately my bathroom rug, which I’d washed the day before got nice and soaked. My makeup that was very much not on the floor, decided to make a jump for it and 80% of my makeup, primarily my prized lipstick, were floating the nastiness. Though, this being my possessions third flood as well, you can’t really blame them for being like “fuck this basement” and diving head first into their destruction.
“I’m right behind you, favorite purple lip color!”
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Hannah is in town, and that means sushi.
A group of us decide to order an astronomical amount of it and then meet up at our house tonight to eat it. The task of ordering and picking up all the sushi was given to Anastasia, her poor poor soul. It being 2015 and all, we decide to plan what sushi we want to order via group text. Those of you who have ever tried to plan anything via group chat are probably already shaking their heads at us thinking this would be the quickest and easiest way to plan this.
Ana started the chat off with a list of rolls she suggested. They ranged in name from “Mexico” (very PC) to Negi Himachi. Along with a varying rolls that began with “crunch” and ended with a type of fish.
The rest of us then had to find the menu online and decide what we wanted to add to the list. The text stream then went something like this:
“More crunch rolls”
“super white tuna”
“I want ___”
“x amount. Is that enough?”
(back and forth about how many rolls we will need)
I was participating in this text group on an empty stomach so I was pretty much ready to order 10 of each.
By the end of the chat, that may have ended up being what we decided to order…
And wine, lets not forget the wine.
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NEWSFLASH: Turning 27 ended up being great.
Day of, I go to watch Hook in Wicker Park with friends who dressed up as pirates. Then some of us go to Big Star and have a conversation with the bouncer about letting us just sit on the patio and order our own drinks at the bar, which he eventually allows. The conversation to convince him took longer than the actual sitting on the patio and drinking.
The Saturday that follows, I have a bbq at my parents house and invite people over. I tell people the start time is 6, but no one really shows up until around 7. Which, is a completely normal party move. This doesn’t stop my father from making the joke, “is this a reverse surprise party!? Surprise! No one is coming!” over and over again between 6:15-7.
As people showed up, the moscow mules started flowing. And boy were they good. Even better was when Calvin, one of my nanny boys, and his parents showed up and all us twenty somethings spent most of the time tracking Calvin’s moments and smiling at him. Once Calvin left, we all went back to focusing on eating and drinking.
Belle, my dog, was also in attendance and as we decided to head to a bar, I decided to allow my parents the privilege of having a sleep over with her. So, it caught me by surprise when I get a call at the bar from a random man telling me my dog was following him home and this was the number on her collar.
Luckily, I rarely leave my comfort zone and the bar we were at was only a few blocks from my parents. In the typical dramatic fashion of drunk person, I ran out of the bar yelling, “BELLE IS OUT!!” thinking anyone would care. I’m sure most of the people who heard my screams thought I was coming out of the closet. Anika heard my cries of distress and together we ran, and then walked quickly, to where the men had her.
Once I had gotten her and brought her back to my parents house with a large guilt trip for my mother about not noticing the dog got out. Though, in reality it could’ve been the exit of 10 drunk people that caused her to slip out.
We’ll never know for sure.
The night ended with Ryan, Anika and I joining a picnic of strangers on our walk home. This picnic mostly included me shoveling the available food onto my plate and talking boisterously about how good it was. Additionally, I was handed a full cup of Hennessey.
I’m sure all of the attendants of the stranger picnic are now on the short list to be my future childrens godparents.
Three years til 30!
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Adult birthdays are weird.
When you’re little they’re all about celebrating milestones, so exciting.
From ages 4-12 it’s about comparing ages with your friends, “Oh you’re nine? I’m nine and three months.” (insert smug look)
13-18–the best/worst. You’re in the full swings of your awkward stage but you’re also like fuck you I’m 14.
19 and 20–pretty lame.
21–meet me at the bar, bitch.
22-24–can drink, can’t rent car. Some people start being in love and getting married, or something.
25–can rent a car. Unfortunately, I have no money to do this. Meet me at home, bitch.
26-29–am I an adult yet? No, no, the bottle of rose I finished alone last night proves I’m not.
30+–I’m an adult? Still going to drink an entire bottle of wine alone sometimes.
Here I am, on the eve of my 27th birthday, stuck right in the middle of that fun 26-29 range. But, instead of downing a bottle of rose last night, I have been downing antibiotics and snorting flonase. Guess whose got a sinus infectionnnnnnnnnnnnnn?
This almost 27 year old does!
I not only get into pass into my 27th year realizing just how pointless this age is, I get to feel like a balloon stuck to a rock. Though, I must say these meds are working their magic.
Whoever discovered flonase and antibiotics was definitely either 13-18 or 30+
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As has become my fashion, I put off buying Pitchfork tickets til it was too late in the hopes that someone close to me would end up winning two three day passes and would take me with them, as it’s what happened last year.
You probably predicted correctly that this did not happen for two years in a row. Luckily, I live with people who are equally as big of procrastinators as myself, and figured out a way on how to acquire tickets to the otherwise sold out festival.
BOO-YAH, GIRL POWER!
Katie and I go on Friday and we both avoid having a full scale heat stroke and make it in time for Panda Bear, Chvrches and Wilco. On top of these two successes, we also discovered the beauty that are “FLOR”s. What the hell is that, you might wonder… FLOR is this wonderful little square you can carry around with you to sit on instead of putting your butt right on the grass.
What are these wonderful little squares made of?
Aren’t they just carpet squares then?
What makes them so special?
Nothing. I don’t really know what the end game of this “FLOR” company is. I didn’t read the fine print, but I bet if I did they’d be labeled as “artisanal”.
I skipped Saturday of Pitchfork in order to babysit at a wedding, at which I knew no one except the woman I was babysitting for who I had also just met. But that’s a whole different blog…
For Sunday, Katie has acquired two VIP tickets and I’m all “gimme one of those”. Going in all we knew was that we had to go in a different entrance and that it allowed us free alcohol. What we learned upon entering the VIP area, was that the VIP section of Pitchfork was where I’d been destined to end up my entire life.
You got a shiny bracelet and as promised, there was free alcohol everywhere. The Goose Island tent even had different beers than were offered to the commoners outside of the VIP section.
I enlisted Katie’s help on getting two extra beers so we’d have enough to share with Anika and Ryan who were waiting for us just outside the pearly gates. We walked with our arms full of alcohol, making us the biggest sore thumb of the VIP section, down a path we thought would lead us into the general public area. We ended up at a dead end that also happened to be an exclusive area very close to the stage Jamie xx was currently performing at.
We gave up on getting out of our dream world for a second, and just enjoyed Jamie xx, as well as the alcohol we had intended to share among four people. Needless to say, we enjoyed the Jamie xx set very very much.
Take two, we decided to ask a guard how we got out of VIP and into the general public at the fest. It of course was absolutely nowhere near where we were or where we were headed, so we did a second large alcohol trip and then made our way out to find our friends.
After our initial entrance, we would revisit the VIP area one more time. It was a sad goodbye.
I’ll let you know when I’ve readjusted to normal society.
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Lately I’m realizing that my life’s work is figuring how to get properly caffeinated. I am constantly trying to figure out how to be somewhere between falling sleep every time I sit down and so strung out I start an extremely intense to do list and then pass out half way through. Many times my hunt for caffeine is a religious journey, after each americano, diet coke, or coffee I pray that the caffeine in these drinks will use their skills correctly and get me off my couch and get me outside.
Occasionally my praying pays off and I’m able to sit and concentrate on something besides the tv or my phone for more than 5 minutes, I go outside and take my dog for a long walk, or I make myself food rather than going to Marianos and getting food from their hot bar. Somehow getting out of my house and getting Marianos is seen as more work than staying inside my own home.
A lot of the time my praying does not pay off because who’s going to listen to a girl who only prays when she needs enough energy to not sleep all day. When the power of prayer fails me I usually end up feeling more tired than when I injected the caffeine into my system and if possible, I go to sleep. This usually tempts the caffeine into working while I sleep so that I wake up feeling like I just got rescued from an avalanche where I’d been trapped for 10 days without food, shelter or sleep. It’s a wonderful system.
What’s an under-energized girl to do? Stop drinking so often? Nonsense. Drink more water? Maybe. Have an almond milk latte, diet coke, and americano all in one day? Tried that. Not eat enough mac and cheese for two people in the middle of the work day? Too delicious to not. Complain about sleepiness to anyone who’ll listen? Duh.
I’ve considered just stopping caffeine all together and seeing if flushing it from my system helps it to have any effects when I drink it in the future. But, I have tried quitting caffeine cold turkey before and it only ended in my losing the ability to form sentences that made sense outside of my head, and a general feeling of anger 24 hours a day. These side effects of being under caffeinated are mended 50% by the ingestion on a caffeinated beverage. Unless I just end up getting the shakes and feeling an urge to strangle people for two hours before being tucked into bed.
The struggle is real, y’all.
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This past weekend was Fourth of July, which seems totally insane, but how many blogs have I written about my inability to keep track of time, so let me just skip to the details from my favorite place on earth: Twin Lakes, WI. More specifically, Lafen, a glorious house with a boat, a deck, and a large number of my friends.
Now, because all these friends come up to Lafen for Fourth of July weekend, some people stay at motels close by, myself included. The first year we came up to Twin Lakes, we stayed at Pink House. Which was ideal because it’s also the bar everyone ends up at anyway. It’s also ideal because it’s the Ritz-Carlton compared to Donovans Reef, where we’ve stayed for the last three years. See, the deal with Pink House is that you have to call absurdly in advance to get a room because it fills up for the Fourth very quickly. So, rather than calling absurdly in advance we’ve been like “Oh, whatever, if it’s full when we call we can just stay at Donovans Reef.”
I think this year was the year we learned our lesson.
We arrive on Friday, check into our room and are met with the strange stench we’re used to from a Donovan’s Reef motel room. Other typical things like wondering if the sheets have ever been washed and whether or not the bathroom doubles as a chemical waste dump (no pun intended) also occur. Did I mention that the water has that nice eggy sulfur smell? This year we got a few added luxuries.
A bath mat that is about five different shades of a yellowish brownish pukey color. Not only that, but it’s hanging over the side of the shower stall so it is aligned exactly at our eye line. What would you do if you were providing guests with a hot bed of bacteria as a bath mat? Would you hang it in their eye line? Would you hide it under the sink? Or would you fucking throw it in the garbage? Better yet, that thing needed to be burned.
The second luxury being a mini fridge. Is the mini fridge stocked with little bottles of alcohol? Fresh baby cheeses? Pop? Nope, none of those. Just a pile of orange goo left behind from guests of yesteryear. Nostalgia.
Now don’t let me completely rip this place a new one, it has it’s actual charms. The staff are friendly, the residents of this motel remember us which is both kind and terrifying, and they make the best bloody mary ever for $4. This last point being the most important to me, even more important the bartender doesn’t even blink when I order one at midnight. When I finish that one, she again has no reaction to my ordering another one to take to my room with me.
Unfortunately, my eyes were bigger than my stomach and my to-go bloody mary didn’t get finished once I got back to the room. I put it in the fridge to save for later, only to realize in the morning that it was probably now a living quarters for the next virus that will kill millions of people. So, I left it in there.
Remember me, Room 6…..
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