Owning a house is hard work. Actually, owning the house is pretty easy- you just write a check to the bank every month and occasionally moan to whoever will listen about your property taxes. Anyone can do that. It's MAINTAINING the house that's hard. Okay, correction. It's not the maintenance that we're struggling with, because we never seem to get to the actual point of doing any work, but the THINKING about the MAINTENANCE- well, that's positively draining.

Let's talk about my lawn for a second. The phrase "growing like a weed" doesn't make any sense until you have a yard that you notice only, say, once a week. My lawn and I are in that level of our relationship where we're somewhere between "perfect strangers" and "barely on speaking terms." Sometimes I glance over it while I'm pulling in or out of my driveway. Sometimes I do this and I think, "Someone should really do something about all that." But, most of the time, I'm too focused on getting out of or into the house that our lawn could be covered with trillion dollar bills and I'd walk right past it. While complaining about my property taxes.

This week, though, I happened to notice the lawn one day and was overtaken with a wild panic. Suddenly, my lawn had become like a neglected child that DCFS could come over and claim. Could my lawn be placed into protective custody? Be placed next to a better home with caring, thoughtful homeowners who would take time out of their action-packed, couch-laden evenings to actually mow the damn thing or pull out some - not even all, just some- of the weeds? Would I have visitation with my lawn? And, if they did grant visitation, would I ever actually go visit it? Of course I wouldn't. It's just a lawn, and one that I don't even care about that much.

It's disgusting, though, to think that our lawn may be the shame of the neighborhood. I always counted on having an unkempt lawn, because I knew landscaping could never possibly be a priority in my already rich and full life. But, I thought for sure that someone in the neighborhood, anywhere in the neighborhood, would have a worse lawn than us. To be fair, I haven't walked around the entire neighborhood, because I am pretty lazy. But, judging from what I've seen from my car, when I've bothered to look, everyone else has a neat and manicured lawn. Everyone cares, but us.

But, like I've said, it's hard work thinking about maintaining things. Hard work imagining mowing the lawn and yanking the weeds. It's exhausting, and nobody told me it would be this exhausting, and that's why I'm going straight for the couch when I get home, to unwind.

It's the little things that make me snap. Yesterday, Chris made himself a grilled cheese and pear sandwich for dinner. He did this after he came home to discover that I had purposefully, and gleefully, devoured his gourmet mac and cheese leftovers from TGI Fridays. I watched him make his grilled cheese and pear sandwich- watched as he layered the sandwich with two slices of cheese, some sliced pear, two more slices of cheese, some sliced pear, and then two more slices of cheese. Six slices of cheese and what amounted to about two-thirds of a whole pear on two flimsy slices of white bread. He did this layering calmly and methodically, and as I watched, I was overtaken with a kind of rage. THAT'S TOO MUCH CHEESE, I wanted to scream in his face. IT'S NOT EVEN GOING TO TASTE GOOD! IT'S GOING TO FALL APART! ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL YOURSELF? I CAN HEAR YOUR ARTERIES CLOGGING EVEN AS YOU STAND THERE MAKING IT. YOU ARE SO UNBELIEVABLY STUPID.

I didn't scream any of that. I managed to refrain from screaming, because I have excellent self control, and instead, I simply stated all of the above in my regular, everyday, thinly coated with bitchiness, speaking voice. That's too much cheese. It's not even going to taste good. It's going to fall apart. Are you trying to kill yourself? I can hear your arteries clogging even as you stand there making it. You are so unbelievably stupid.

And Chris, good-natured as always, just responded, "No way, it's awesome." And he took the sandwich, in all of its disgusting, floppy, oozing glory, along with a gigantic glass of red wine, upstair so that he could enjoy his dinner in peace while he watched the Cubs game. I stayed downstairs thinking about him enjoying his dinner- enjoying life, really- and I just fumed. I got angry and angrier. It was partly that I thought he was digging his own grave with every extra, unneccessary slice of cheese. Partly because I love him and worry about him and want to make sure he's taking care of himself. But, mostly, it was because he seemed so happy preparing his delicious little dinner. And I couldn't stand it. How do people walk around on this planet being happy with such small things while all around us, the world is falling apart? How can you deal with all the idiots at work and in traffic and- let's face it- at home without just fucking losing it? And how can you not be pissed off that someone ate the leftovers that they knew you were specifically saving for yourself? HOW IS IT POSSIBLE TO SO EASILY RECOVER FROM SUCH A THING?

Here are the things that you should take from today's blog entry.

* I'm a miserable person and do not deserve love.
* I am easily angered for no good reason.
* Chris should probably just divorce me and remarry someone nice and sweet while he's still young.
* I will eat your leftovers without feeling even remotely sorry about it.
* Six slices of cheese is too much cheese for one sandwich.

"My Sister's Keeper" is coming soon to a theater near me. The novel was one of the most heart-wrenching books I've ever read, right up there with that one Sweet Valley High saga that told the story of the Wakefields over several generations. There was something about that Young Adult novel that really turned my faucet. Anyway, in honor of "My Sister's Keeper" coming to theaters, there was an article about the author, Jodi Picoult, in the NY Times today. And the article ended with these two sentences:

"In so many of her books children seem like more work than most ordinary people can handle. If Picoult's fiction means to say anything, it is that parenting undoes us perhaps more than it fulfills, and it makes a thousand little promises it can never keep."

Man oh man. It is very true of her work, but is it very true of life? So many of Picoult's characters have children that they cannot handle or partially do not want. So many mothers abandon their babies in search of an easier life. And, as I enter the final year of my twenties, the year in which I hope to make a baby, I can't help but see these two sentences and think, "Am I fooling myself? Is there something to be learned in the fiction of Jodi Picoult?"

Probably not. I think, at moments, I may be talking myself out of this whole "thing" out of fear that something's going to go terribly wrong, or terribly right. So, reading those two sentences gave me pause. Yet again.

In other movie news, I watched a documentary over the weekend called "Helvetica." It's about the font, Helvetica. I'm not sure why I chose to watch it in the first place- it sounds terribly boring, doesn't it? In fact, it was wildly interesting. So interesting, that I'm eagerly awaiting the movie about Times New Roman that is coming out sometime next year. You think I'm joking. I'm not.

Since I'm on Facebook now and can record the inane minutiae of my life almost simultaneously with the occurrences of said minutiae, I haven't felt that much of a need to blog. Entire paragraphs and blog entries have now been whittled down to one or two quick sentence fragments. And there it is- what's going on in a nutshell without having to exert any actual, typerly effort. There you go.

The thing about Facebook is that I kind of love it, kind of hate it. The instant gratification of spying on my friends is pretty great, I will admit. Oh, look, so and so just closed on a house. So and so's sister made a real kick ass pasta salad. So and so seems to have gone from "in a relationship" to "just fucking around, yo." But the hate is there, strong as ever. The same quick updates that I love, I also hate. While I certainly have my fair share of boring "Jackie is doing her taxes" type posts, I get quickly irritated by everyone else's dashed off posts. There are things I need to know and things I don't. Here is a post I just read. Names and stuff have been changed, but you'll catch the drift.

Sarah Smith had a very productive day! Cleaned up the living room, went by Melanie's apartment, shopping at Dominicks, back to Melanie's place, then built a book shelf! Now chilling at home! Tomorrow: washing the windows, cable guy, and then shopping for a futon.

Seriously. At least make your Facebook updates mildly interesting. Snorefest, yo! Add a little something something to keep my interest. I don't give a fuck about cleaning up the living room, building the book shelf, and futon shopping. Not even in the slightest! But, here's something I might care about.

Sarah Smith hates her life and will likely seduce the cable guy tomorrow just as a way to break up the day.

Now that's worthy of my time! Or how about:

Sarah Smith is building a bookshelf while wearing a blindfold and having a stiff drink.

Sarah Smith slipped on a banana peel at Dominicks.

Sarah Smith had a very productive day but still feels the urge to choke herself a little.

I don't know. So, there's the super boring posts and then there are the posts designed to make others envious of how great you are. Such as:

Sarah Smith gets hit on all the time!

Sarah Smith just got complimented on how funny she is.

Which is ironic, due to the complete lack of humor in said post, wouldn't you say?

Then, the melancholic posts designed solely to beg further poking and prodded (pointed out in a succinct, interesting little post by my pal Brian).

Sarah Smith will be okay with time.

Sarah Smith is being strong. Today's a new day.

Sarah Smith is hanging in there and wishing upon a star.

Also, we can't forget song lyrics!

Sarah Smith This is radio nowhere. Is there anyone alive out there? This is radio nowhere.

Sarah Smith Goodbye ruby Tuesday. Who could hang a name on you?

There you go. Love, then hate. Then hate. Then love. But boy is Facebook convenient. I haven't spoken to any of my friends face to face in weeks! And there's no need to! My hermit ass is in seventh heaven.

Kind of.

So my itty bitty little sister and her boyfriend went down to Mexico for a vacation, and last night, they got engaged! I forget sometimes that she's old enough to even drive, much less to be getting married. I've been humming "Sunrise, Sunset" all morning- I'm pretty ver klempt!

Honestly, though, where do the years ago? I wonder how my parents are holding up- my sister still lives at home, but she'll be moving out soon with Mark. They started looking at houses even before the trip to Mexico. So now my parents are sending off yet another daughter, and they'll have a new son-in-law in the not too distant future.

I told Chris he was going to have a new brother-in-law. To which he replied, "That's not how in-laws work. Marcia's not my sister, so Mark won't be my brother-in-law." He's such a jackass sometimes. Just the other day, he denied his uncle's "We're related!" request on Facebook because they're not related by blood, only marriage. Always with the semantics.

So, Marcia's getting married, my cousin Lisa's about ready to pop out her baby, and, AS I TYPE THIS, four men are out back laying down the bricks for our new patio. See, folks? Marcia and Lisa aren't the only ones with big impending life events.

Now I get to be a maid of honor. I've never been a maid of honor. Actually, I think the technical title is "matron of honor" since I'm married. (Semantics). Matron of honor sounds awful. It sounds fat. I think I will still demand to be a "maid" of honor. This may be the first of many demands I make for the wedding. Now excuse me while I write my toast. It's going to be hilarious.

Had the day off today, accomplished nothing. I took the day off because my new windows were being installed, finally, after cracking almost in half during that awful cold snap back in January. The window guys seemed hilariously incompetent, though, which was mildly entertaining. The one guy came running in the house yelling to the other guy, "The garbage men just took my stool! That was my favorite stool!" This after the window guy obviously set the stool right next to my can of garbage.

And that's been the highlight of my day so far. I'm leaving soon to go play bunco, which I am wildly embarrassed about. My neighbor got me in this "league," and if it wasn't for her, I'd have politely resigned after the first game. Bunco has got to be the most asinine game I've ever played. It's completely random, it's boring, and it's not even fun. On the upside, bunco seems to be the lady's version of fishing, by which I mean there's copious amounts of beer involved. So, heck, I guess it's not all that bad.

Hmm. I've sat here now for ten minutes not typing, just staring at the screen. Listening to Travis' "Re-Offender" on repeat. I'm pretty sure I owned this CD at one point, but the song still somehow seems new to me. I am losing brain matter by the second.

I am turning into a creepy old lady. I knew it would happen, I just didn't know it would begin before I was even thirty. I should probably specify that the creepiness only relates to little kids. I'm talking to strange little kids all the time- in the bank, at the grocery store, while I pump my gas, etc. And each time I get the same reaction- they hide from me. And I can't blame them. Why am I talking to them? What do I want? On some level, am I actually considering kidnapping one of these cute little kids? I think I might be. Somebody put a baby in me already!

Yesterday was Bring Your Daughter To Work Day, and one of my bosses brought his two little girls with him. And I let the girls sit with their daddy for all of ten minutes before I finally gave into my urges and approached them. "Who wants to see where we keep the money?" I cried out to the little girls. "Who wants to see the vault??" And they shyly exchanged glances with each other, and daddy, then clasped hands with each other as to create a metaphorical alliance, and proceeded to follow me back to the vault. Then I showed them how to make copies, and it was all over- the kids were mine for the rest of the morning. We mailed out some letters together, and I want to pre-emptively apologize to the recipients of these letters. These letters were not folded, they were simply crammed into the envelopes by adorable little girls who have never had to stuff envelopes before. "Why don't you tape the envelopes shut?" I said to them, sliding over my tape dispenser and then turning to do something else. A second later, I look back and notice that they've used my whole roll of tape, each envelope circumferenced several times with yard-long strips of unevenly applied tape. "That's okay, good job," I said, and then I asked them to put stamps on the envelopes. Which they did, upside down. But who am I to correct somone else's children? We walked over to where the outgoing mail went and I just prayed that my client wouldn't think that their banker was too retarded to properly mail a letter. Whatever, man! I kind of am.

And so the fun continued.

Seriously, though, I need to tone it down a bit.

I have been busy pretty much nonstop, which is so unlike me. I've had something going on every weekend since we got back from Austin, and this weekend is no different. Tonight, drinks with Gail and Rob and this guy Tim and tomorrow night more drinks with Jess and Tara. Next week, Lisa's baby shower, which for sure should be an interesting time, all things- and I do mean, all things- considered. Last weekend was Marcia and Mark coming up for a trip to the comedy club and a sleepover party, and the weekend before that was two days of binge drinking in Lake Geneva with Dan, Mike, and two girls named Meg. And Chris- Chris was there, but I never mention that he's there because I simply, mentally, include him when I say "I." We've morphed into one. That's what happens after three years of marriage. Which, by the way, we celebrated this past Tuesday. Craziness. How it's lasted this long, I can't explain. I'm not easy to live with. In fact, if I could break up with me, I would. But here I am, living the dream. Living the dream.

I'm worried about the economy. And I'm pissed off that I bought a house right before the start of the recession. Here are three things I got fucked on:

1. No $8,000 tax credit for me!
2. My house is now worth about 15% less than what we paid for it.
3. Mortgage rates are at an all time low, and it's next to impossible to refinance due to #2.

Obama has his "Make Housing Affordable" plan which should, in theory, help a person like me refinance, but I've called my mortgage servicer- Countrywide, which is being absorbed by Bank of America, which will in turn negatively affect me somehow, I'm sure- and they keep telling me that their call volume is too high, they have way too many requests, and they'll most likely call me back. I don't trust them to call me back, and that's why I keep calling them. Conversations go like this:

Me: Hi, it's Jackie again, and I was wondering if I should still be considering my current mortgage situation as "fucked."

Rep: Let me take a look at your statement... Seems you're paying on time each month, therefore you are not a priority. We'll call you in six weeks.

Me: Fine, I'll call back tomorrow.

I really hate the fact that paying my mortgage on time each month means that Countrywide doesn't care to help me. If I weren't such a financially responsible individual, I would cease all payments immediately until I qualified for one of those programs that meant I got to keep my home and also have a portion of my current mortgage balance forgiven. Once again, the solidly middle class gets screwed. Once again, doing things the right way gets you nothing but a swift kick in the teeth.

It's not just my current mortgage problem, though- it's the fact that stores and restaurants are going out of business left and right, that I know a whole bunch of people who have lost their jobs, and that the field of my choice- banking- is suddenly a heck of a lot less stable than it used to be. And our list of past due and delinquent loans has doubled, tripled.

Of course, I'm lucky to currently have a job at all. The nice thing is that my husband works for a prominent, upscale chain of liquor stores, and they're doing phenomenal. Sales are through the roof! They're opening new locations and growing like wildflowers, drunken, wine soaked wineflowers. So, as long as he keeps doing his job well, it's safe to say that he'll be just fine, employment wise.

Because people drink when the economy's in the tank. Also, according to one of my customers who makes engraved dies for the cookie and cracker industry, cookie consumption always goes up when times are tough. I know those two things are holding true for me. Wine, cookies, and for some reason I've been on a big fruit-and-nut granola bar kick. I've been eating, like, two a day. But that has nothing to do with the recession, I'm just trying to get more fiber in my diet.

I draw in my eyebrows. It's not that I don't have eyebrows, it's just that they're faint and sparse and almost completely blend in with my skin. Every morning, I take an eyebrow pencil and outline the shape and color them in with gentle, even little strokes. I've been doing this for ten years, ever since I had my eyebrows waxed when a co-worker of mine- who happened to be a part-time beauty school student- decided to play make-up doll with me. The waxing, that was okay. Painful in a a way that only progress can be, and I've been tweezing ever since in the same general arc. She also taught me how to use concealor, which I had never used before, and to use three different colors of eye shadow for contouring and shading. She picked out blush for my cheeks and instructed me on the art of applying it with a huge brush she'd purchased at the hardware store. She curled my eye lashes and lined my eyes in black. She confided in me that real women don't just use lipstick on their lips- they use a shiny gloss and a matte color and liner for good measure.

I followed through with her complex make-up regiment for a few months after her lessons, and then, bit by bit, the whorish, clownish, acne-inducing layers started falling by the wayside. It was more of a time management thing. It was more because I was lazy. And then, after a while, it was because I simply didn't care. However, the one thing that I am diligent about is the eyebrow coloring. If somebody knocks on my door in the morning, the first thing I think is, "Are my eyebrows on?" I don't look like ME without them properly shaped and colored. I look like a space alien. I look like I've gone back in time and almost prevented my parents from getting married, and instead of my hand disappearing while I play the guitar at their prom, it's my eyebrows that are fading out first. And I'm scared.

Anyway, everything's been fine with my eyebrows for the past decade, but recently something happened. The company that carried the eyebrow pencil in my specific, particular shade of brown simply stopped creating that color. I searched several stores while my panic built up to a crescendo. Then I did what I had to do and bought another shade of brown. I forgot about the dire situation until I used my last shade of Perfect Jackie Brown pencil down to its nub and opened my new pencil and began to apply. Oh... fuck. Oh...no. The new pencil was more green than brown, somehow, and my newly painted eyebrows were like two olive caterpillars slapped carelessly over my eyes. This would simply not do, I told myself as I drove to work with my green eyebrows- as green eyebrows are better than no eyebrows.

And so the search for the right color began. In the past few months, I've used every shade of brown I could find. The results have been as follows:

Too green, like caterpillars.

Too red, like my eyebrows bled for a few days and then just scabbed up.

Too yellow, like my face was oozing two strategically symmetric curves of puss.

Too tan, blends right in with the whole Mediterranean glow I've got going on.

Too dark, makes my eyebrows POP like that baby on The Simpsons with the one black eyebrow.

I'm at the point where I don't know what to do. I'm wondering what the people who see me everyday must be thinking. Do they wonder why my eyebrows change every day? Why they always look different and never look right? Do they think I've got severe emotional issues and I'm choosing to express my angst and depression through the colors etched above my eyes? Do they think that I must be BLIND to leave the house with those twin disasters beneath my forehead? Sometimes I want to simply interrupt people when I see their eyes wandering to the brows. Listen, I want to say. I know. It's a disaster. But until I can find the right shade of brown, I'm going to be looking a little wierd, so get used to it.

Instead, I say nothing, and then escape into the bathroom where I can closely examine my face and wonder where it all went wrong. Was it really just recently when my personal color got somehow discontinued? Or was it ten years ago, when the part-time beauty school student made me aware of the many, many issues surrounding this face of mine? Ignorance, they say, is bliss. Not knowing that your eyebrows can look any different? Ecstasy.

There's an opening in management at a location closer to my house, and the head of the HR department spoke to my supervisor about whether or not I'd be interested in transferring. My supervisor then mentioned it to the man I work for directly (there are a whole lot of people I answer to at my place of work, as you can see), and today he asked me if I was happy working for him. "Yeah," I replied, super professional as usual, "Why?"

He explained the conversations and said that he hadn't wanted to say anything to me because he didn't want me to think he wanted me to leave him. However, he wanted me to know that my name had been thrown out for the position and to see how I felt about it. I looked at him, and then away, and I said, "No, I'm not interested in that right now. I do want to stay here right, and I'm happy here. However, I'm going to be completely honest with you. I'm thinking about starting a family, and when and if that happens, I will want to find a position closer to home. It might be within the next year or so." I could feel myself turn beet red and grow sweaty. This conversation was already awkward, and it had just begun. This conversation was already the worst conversation I've ever had, and it wasn't even that bad yet. Just two adults talking about procreating and the job changes that it might entail.

We talked about me having kids, me and my boss. About how it would affect my career, about how I was already aware of myself growing older, about how I thought I was ready, and about how my husband felt about this life-changing decision. At one point, ridiculously uncomfortable, I blurted, "I'm sorry if this is too much information." And my boss replied, "No, it's not. I like talking about this kind of stuff, it's interesting." And suddenly everything was even more uncomfortable, as if that was even possible.

I was scheduled to leave to meet my friend for lunch at 12:30, but at 12:15, right after my boss said he enjoyed talking about "this kind of stuff," I sent her a quick email. "Leaving now to meet you, super awkward here, can you leave too?" And I put on my coat and basically ran out of the office.

The thing is, I'd already thought about applying for that position. Last week, I thought that there might be a chance I was pregnant. For the record, we're not even trying now, and we're not going to try for a few months. But, there was a scare of sorts, an exhilarating, awful, wonderful scare, and when I saw the posting for the position located closer to my home, I told myself that I would apply if I found out I was indeed knocked up. Turns out, I'm so not knocked up that I've already convinced myself that I'm completely barren. Thus, no need to apply for that position, because even though my commute sucks ass, I like my current job. I like my co-workers and clients, and I like my boss, all terrible awkward conversations aside. So why leave now when I have nothing to worry about except for impending plans that may or may not be realized?

The time between thinking I might be pregnant and then finding out that I wasn't was one of the strangest times of my life. It was equal parts joy and terror, and right now I can't fathom feeling like that for a full nine months. I can't look down at my flat belly and imagine it growing round and hard with a new creation. I can't help thinking of all the things that go horribly wrong, or of all the things that could be miraculously normal, which is inexplicably and equally frightening. This is how we all got here, though- all of us dependent on a mystifying process that could go wrong at any second but somehow usually doesn't.

The truth of the matter is that I want a child. That when I think about the life still before me, I can't see any meaning without one. It hit me like a freight train sometime not too long ago, and now I feel like I've been run over by the need and desire. I walk around feeling the burn from the rails. Everything else seems inconsequential, and while I hate myself for thinking that way, I can't help but think that that's how we're programmed. As a woman, I may be hardwired to start feeling this way here in my very late twenties, here after three years of marriage with a wonderful, loving husband, here after owning a house with a "guest bedroom" that is empty save for three, maybe four weekends a year.

And I am so fucking scared. And thrilled. It's nothing right now- it's an idea, and in me I hold only emptiness. But I've put a face to what might fill the emptiness, a vague composite of the things I love about Chris and the pieces of me that I might want to pass to another. There are no guarantees, and I know it will not be easy, ever. It's not even worth talking about right now, because there's nothing to talk about. This, however, is what I am feeling, and it's coming out in the strangest ways. Tears in the bathroom, waking dreams while I lay in my bed, twinges out in public places, all the things right about how I grew up and all of the things wrong. Family portraits and movies and growing old and staying young. And, yes, conversations about my career that ultimately revolve around an idea of a spark of life.

If you've been missing me, here's where I've been:

You Don't Wanna Know Jack.

Long story.

Austin, Texas= wonderful.

San Antonio, Texas= kind of a dump.

No offense, San Antonio, but our day trip to your fair city was not the highlight of our vacation. Sure, the River Walk was kind of cool, but seeing as Chris and I were exhausted from our partying on Austin's Sixth Street the night before, the River Walk for us was more a of a River Trudge. We went from bench to bench like a couple of old folks, sitting in silence and watching the younger kids dash by from exciting place (been there) to exciting place (done that). We did have some County Line BBQ on the River Walk, however, which was something I had wanted to do. When my big plate of sloppy ribs arrived, however, I began to wonder if the whole vacation, or possibly my whole life, was one big mistake after another.

The definite low-light of San Antonio was the Alamo. It sucked. The only reason that I'm glad we went to the Alamo was because Chris and I both took poops there in the Alamo restrooms (vacations always mess up my "schedule") and now we can say, with pride, "The Alamo? Yeah, I've been there! I took a dump there." And that's just plain funny. Other than that, lame. The Alamo is a gift shop and a building with nothing in it except for a couple of flags and a guest book. Whatever.

The highlight of San Antonio was probably the McNay art museum. Art was a big part of our trip- in Austin, we went to both Austin Museums of Art and also the Blanton Museum of Art on the UT campus. At the downtown Austin Museum of Art, we saw an exhibit that we won't soon forget: Lordy Rodriguez's States of America.*

There was a lot of bar-hopping and live music in Austin. We stayed at Texas' most famous hotel (according to one website), the Driskill. Our room would have normally cost $550 per night, but due to the state of the economy(?) we got it for a low, low $240. Probably the nicest hotel we will ever stay in. Did you know that's where President Lyndon Baines Johnson met his wife, Lady Bird? In the Driskill? Well, you do now.

Austin is just a wonderful place. It's compact and hip and full of independent shops and restaurants and bars and art galleries. It's clean and warm (!) and although I think they might have a small homeless problem, I'd go back in a heartbeat. I would love to live there, I think, and would move in a heartbeat if I was the kind of person who actually moved to places outside the Chicago area. As history has shown, I'm not.

I did get homesick thoughout our trip. I always get homesick. I missed my bed, my TV, cooking my own food, reading on my couch, showering in my own bathroom. I don't travel particularly well. I don't do a lot of things particularly well, including putting on a bright face when inside parts of me just want to lie down and give up.

Now we're back, and work has been nuts. I feel like I've been working four times as hard to make up for my vacation, which is always the rub. But today will be a good, relaxing Saturday afternoon. Leaving soon to meet Bethie for some Noodles and Company and some He's Just Not That Into You. At the end of the day, that's the kind of vacation I'm equipped to handle: a cinematic vacation.

Although we will go back to Austin. How could we not?

* http://www.stretcher.org/archives/r4_a/2004_07_01_r4_archive.php

* http://www.artdaily.org/index.asp?int_sec=2&int_new=28289

Another Valentine's Day, another bunch of wild flowers from the grocery store, and another homemade dinner. Dinner's scheduled to be made in a couple of hours or so, after my funny Valentine finishes slaying beasts in the newest Kongregate game. Dinner is yakisoba, of course, my all time favorite meal of the many that Chris has in his repertoire. We went to the Japanese grocery store earlier today where we purchased not only the ingredients, but also a small tray of sushi, which we ate like burgers and fries during the car ride home. That was a first. Probably a last.

We're also going to watch "W" tonight. "Is that really a Valentine-appropriate movie?" Chris asked me while we drove to our first Valentine's Day stop- the always romantic public library. It is, of course, a Valentine-appropriate flick. Our aligned political views are one of the many things that define us as a couple. Other things in the couple-defining category include our shared love of bricks of cheese, our general aversion to crowds, and the fact that we both really like that Killer's song, "Spaceman." Is "Spaceman" a Valentine-appropriate song? Considering that it's about a failed suicide attempt, I'd say yes. The key word there would be "failed."

Anyway, that's what we have going on today, this fourteenth of February. Now excuse me while I dive into a novel I've been waiting months to read. I could have bought the book, sure- but instead, I waited patiently for the library to eventually meet my needs. Which might just be a metaphor for love. Don't worry though- the library always comes through.

We have a serious honeybee issue. Why wasn't I told about this sooner? The honeybees are disappearing, our food supply is in danger, and Einstein said that humans will only have four (or was it five?) years of existence left if the bee goes the way of Pepsi Blue. Honestly, I'm worried. I want to help. What can I do? Can I donate money to the honeybee foundation? Should I plant bee-friendly flowers in my yard? Is there some kind of petition I can sign to bring the bees back? Whatever nature needs me to do, I will do it. As long as nature requires only about $20 of my cash and 20 minutes of my time.

There's a lot to be worried about. If it's not the end of the Mayan calendar in 2012 that does us in, it will be this dang honeybee problem. And if it's not the honeybee problem, it will be the bird flu or SARS or just good old fashioned cancer. How am I expected to get anything done when I'm surrounded by nothing but eminent doom?

In other news, Chris went to the wild game store the other day and bought elk burgers, lion burgers, kangaroo jerky, and brown bear steak. All we've had so far are the elk burgers (juicy) and the kangaroo jerky (ridiculously chewy). I'll keep you updated on the lion and the bear.

We're going to a wedding tonight at the Wellington, which is the same place that we had our wedding reception almost three years ago. I haven't been back there since that fateful night, but as I prepare for the evening ahead (is it wise to dye your hair the morning of a wedding as opposed to a few days prior?), it's all starting to come back.

You know what still bothers me about my wedding? Perhaps I'm being petty, but the three people who proposed a toast at my reception- Chris' uncle, Chris' brother, and my sister- all neglected to mention me at all. Nothing. It was like I, the bride, wasn't even there at all, and that it was just Chris' night. Now, my sister probably did the right thing by concentrating on welcoming Chris to the family, but why didn't Chris' brother welcome ME to THEIR family? Or why didn't anyone say anything about how beautiful I looked, how I'm the best thing to ever come into Chris' life, how I'm just an all around awesome human being? The only reason I can think of to explain this conspicuous absence of niceties is that none of it would have been true. Maybe I wasn't a beautiful bride, maybe I'm the worst thing to have ever happened to Chris, and maybe I'm not nearly as awesome as I apparently seem to think I am.

It didn't bother me the night of the wedding, mainly because I was concentrating very hard on JUST GETTING THROUGH IT. But as time goes on, it bothers me more and more. True, I didn't want the big wedding. True, I would have much rather eloped or run down to the courthouse during my lunch break. True, I did nothing but bitch and complain during the entire two years of "planning." But, come on. I was the bride. I should at least have been mentioned during the toasts. Instead, everyone went on about how great Chris is. And that makes me hate Chris just a little more than I probably should.

No doubt, the toasts tonight will be all about how wonderful JoAnne is. As they should be- she is pretty wonderful. But everyone going on and on about tonight's bride will no doubt flare up my anger even more- the pissiness that has since turned to a mild rage in these past three-ish years. Lucky for me, there's an open bar.

Our power went out at four this morning. The second the power went out and my bedroom fan whirred to a stop, my eyes flew open and I knew that something was wrong. I climbed out o bed and peered out the bedroom window to see if the rest of the neighborhood was without power as well. It was hard to tell; either the rest of the neighborhood was without power as well or everybody was simply fast asleep in the dark. I put on my robe, walked around the darkened house for a bit, and resisted the urge to open the refrigerator. You're not supposed to open the refrigerator when the power is out. I know this. And yet I always want to, just to see what the food might be up to in the dark.

I found my cell phone in my purse and brought it back to bed with me. I lay under the covers for over two hours, my cell phone in my hand, unable to fall asleep without the comforting white noise of my fan. At long last it was 6:20, time to get up, and I tried to figure out how I could get myself ready for work without the use of electricity. Like a true pioneer girl, I lit a scented, decorative candle and brought it into the bathroom where I took my shower in a soft candlelit glow. Thankfully, lack of electricity doesn't affect hot water. Thankfully, you can still flush a toilet without electricity. Thankfully, I actually enjoyed showering by candlelight. It was a soothing, strangely romantic-feeling situation, and I think I may make a habit out of it. Bathroom lights are just too harsh first thing in the morning.

Putting my make-up on proved a bit more difficult than showering, but thankfully I got through it without using eyeliner instead of lipliner, or vice versa. Finally, it came time to go to work. And suddenly, I had a huge problem. The garage door opener uses electricity, I realized. My heart started pounding, and I thought to myself, "Am I going to have to call off work? What am I going to do??" I woke Chris up and explained my quandary. Like a good husband, he said, "I'll take care of it." I followed him down to the garage and waited for him to do something fancy and complicated, such as hooking up a battery to the garage door opener, maybe using tools and machines, a series of levers and pulleys. Instead, he walked into the garage, lifted up the garage door (by hand!) and, that was it. I was free!

I am assuming the power will be back on when I get home, the clocks all anxiously flashing 12:00, waiting for me to make things right. If not, I will go into full panic mode. So many things in my life require electricity. First and foremost, sleeping.

I am bloated. Big time. Somebody told me that your metabolism slows down every seven years, which, at 28, would mean that I've recently passed another seven year mark. Maybe that's why I feel fat. Either that or my devil-may-care diet or complete and utter disregard for exercise and/or activities that involve moving. Whatever it is, I'm not liking it. I feel like I'm full of jelly. I feel like I'm dangerously close to splitting my pants. Which pair of pants, you ask? All of them. Even the ones I haven't worn in weeks.

I even took one of those gas pills on Saturday, the gas pills that Jessie bought for Chris for his thirtieth birthday as a way of saying ha ha, you're old as sin and will soon have a need for these. The gas pill did nothing. As a sidenote, Jessie purchased a bottle of senior citizen vitamins for Chris (as part of that same joke) that I've also been diligently taking. Why let vitamins go to waste? Why should senior citizens have all of the nutrients and the rest of us, none?

Anyway, I'm sitting here right now with my pants unbuttoned while I stare at my computer monitor. It's quite a sight. Somebody peering in my windows might assume that I'm a pervert. But, no. It's not that. I'm just fat. And by fat, I mean bloated. Fat sounds permanent; bloated sounds temporary. Please, let this be temporary. I am not in a position to be financing a new wardrobe.

1. I just tried to submit a review to Netflix, but they blocked my submission since apparently the word "porno" isn't allowed in their reviews. To be clear, the movie WASN'T a porno, but, as my review states, I thought the movie might turn into a porno at some point (and a pretty decent one at that), but, nonetheless, I had to go back and turn the word porno into porn. All in all, I found that mildly humorous. Why block the word "porno?" I think it's a perfectly legitimate word. Don't you?

2. Chris and I looked into renting cars for our upcoming vacation. I think it was Thrifty or Avis that gave us the choice to rent a "wildcard." For one low, flat fee, we could book the wildcard and then be completely and totally surprised on the day we go to pick up our ride. Part of me, the part of me that lives dangerously, really wanted to book the wildcard. The other part of me, the intelligent part of me that knows the wildcard is most definitely a huge, gas guzzling SUV (or an '88 Taurus), turned down that option pretty quick. But I'll always wonder about what could have been. I'll always wonder. Wildcard, bitches.

And this is one of many reasons why I love my neighbor, Heather! The production value of The Chin Ups' first three attempts is a little low, but fear not- we have big, hilarious plans for the future!

I recently realized that I could use my camera to take videos. This has, of course, opened up a whole new form of communication for me. As I don't currently have anything really interesting to record, however, I decided to just post a quick video of something that I occasionally enjoy doing around the house. That's right- shaking my butt to a little something called "China Grove." Enjoy.

Chicago Area Held Frostage

Temperatures could remain below zero until Friday afternoon

That's the headline on the Trib's site this morning. Whoever came up with "frostage" should be fired. Worst example of professional journalism I have ever seen.

This has been a tough week. It took me two hours to get to work yesterday due to the snow. Tuesday, I crawled up Ela at ten miles per hour and still managed to fishtail on the ice. Monday, the anticipation just about killed me.

Which brings me to today. Frostage. Unbelievable.

Hey Dex. Stop sending me phonebooks. It's irresponsible of you. I don't want them, I never asked for them, and I'm not 90 years old. I just signed up on this site, so hopefully you'll get the message. If not, then at least I tried.

YellowPagesGoesGreen

How does unemployment work? Do you have to get fired in order to be eligible, or can you just quit and sign up? Have I ever told you what my dream come true would be? A severance package. Like, two years paid salary plus benefits, and I get to pack up my desk and leave right now. Do severance packages generally last for about two years and include benefits? I would certainly hope so- we are talking about my dream here, after all.

The Cheese and I are planning a much needed vacation. I'm so excited, I can barely hold in my pee. I won't tell you where or when we're going until we come back (I'm afraid of people finding out I'm on my vacay and then robbing my house), but let's just say we're going somewhere awesome sometime in the next, let's just say, two years. I'll let you know how it goes. I mean, it's not a super awesome place, or anything, but it's not here, so that's a huge bonus. And we're not actually leaving the country since "exchanging currency" sounds like a monster of a disaster in both math and customer service. And it's not your typical tourist trap, which is precisely why I want to go. Anyway, I've already said too much. Giddy up, and get back to me on that unemployment thing.

We had some peeps over for New Year's, and it just hit me that I did most of my favorite things that night. I ate, I drank, we played a board game, some poker, and then performed some late night karaoke. This leads me to believe that 2009 will be pretty good. Of course, if I could have taken some time out of the night to read a novel and watch a movie, then that would have been ALL of my favorite things, but I was trying to be a good hostess, and, plus, I was tipsy and probably couldn't have concentrated that well on plot and character.

I'm trying to watch more foreign movies, since my Net-flix account has indicated that I've already seen all of the American movies. The only problem with foreign films is that I can't help but feel that I'm the butt of the joke. That the dialogue is poorly translated just to purposefully cut me out of inside jokes between the peoples of other culture. I just watched this Italian flick called "Bread and Tulips" that is supposed to be an award winning comedy. I enjoyed the movie, but I didn't know it was a comedy until after I watched it and read some reviews. This leads me to believe that either the movie was poorly translated- on purpose- so that I would feel dumb or- and this is the more desirable option- that other cultures simply have terrible senses of humor. I'm trying to be open minded about other countries having decent senses of humor, though, so I'm more inclined to think that I'm correct in my assumption that movies are translated sloppily just so that I will feel insecure. Is it too much to ask for a little respect?