I don't think I like slide shows at weddings. First of all, they're kind of a buzz kill. Some shows are worse than others in this regard, depending on if they were put together with a sense of humor and/or if they go on for longer than about ten minutes. Second of all, I find them depressing. Anything that wraps up a life, or half a life, so quickly and with that lilting music in the background makes me want to slit my wrists while laying in a warm bath. You have to have a warm bath.

It's the compressed passage of time that makes me wonder what the point is to living. Here is the groom as a baby with his now dead grandmother. Here he is in grade school, in high school, in college, and at his first job. There's that friend that moved to Tacoma that he no longer sees. Remember that hair cut? Wow. Here he is two years ago, a year ago, last week. And here's what's unsaid: Your life really goes by as fast as these photos do, and, before you know it, your life is nothing but a collection of pictures served somewhere between the chicken and the cake.

It's like that credit card commercial that always made me feel a little weepy-eyed. You know the one. The young man gets his first credit card. Then the young man gets married, has a little baby, the baby grows up, then the baby is old enough to get married, and suddenly the young man is an old man fishing with his grandson. All this time, one credit card. I think it may have been Chase.

Anyhow, I don't handle photo montages very well. I don't handle "remembering when" very well, unless I'm less than sober and I'm in the mood for not handling something very well. I will, however, always remember my dad's excuse for not getting a handheld camcorder back when everybody else seemed to have them. "What am I going to do with videos?" he spat, as if "video" were the audio-visual equivalent of "donkey ass." "Am I going to be sitting around watching Christmas 1989 when I'm an 82 year old man and everybody else is dead? No thank you!"

Very valid point. I can't imagine a more depressing evening than rehashing the Christmas that I didn't get a pony- only socks.

Only socks. Oh, and "Mall Madness."

Scene by my dad's computer at Easter. He assured me it wasn't a "real" gun. But he said "real" with implied quotation marks. And a wink.

I took this picture of myself yesterday afternoon. This is not a necessarily attractive representation of myself, but the more I look at it, the more I think it's accurate. Slightly lopsided eyes, a crooked mouth, and hair forever tied back away from the face. I should wear my hair down more often. Do I look like a dude with it in my trademark sloppy knot? And, yeah, that's the bathroom behind me. What a rough day I had!

Invitation to a wedding shower I do not plan on attending. Everybody's so fancy.

They Need You If They Think You Love Them.

Turns out I do have room in my heart for one more lady with a piano. Of course, the main reason why I like this song may be the tongue-twister effect of the title, but, whatever. Astrid Swan. I like the name Astrid but unless Swan is her actual given name, I think that she may be trying a bit too hard. When I release my first album, I will go by the name of Jackie Belch. Then nobody will be able to accuse me of being too forcefully delicate.

Too Much Information

Last night, at the wedding, I commented twice that I had diarrhea of the mouth, as I kept saying totally inappropriate things. Today I woke up with actual diarrhea, of the ass. Another sign that there really is a higher power at work.

Going to a wedding tonight. Two of the best words in the English language: open bar. Which reminds me of two of the most confusing words in English: friendly fire. Friendly fire sounds kind of fun, like going to a carnival and getting a hot dog. However, it's just as deadly as plain old regular fire. Don't you think you'd be confused if somebody said, "Carl's no longer with us. It was friendly fire." See, my first thought would be, "Oh, cool! Did he get mustard and tomatoes on his hot dog, or did he have the audacity to use ketchup?" My second thought would be, "Oh. Guess Carl's dead." Respectful pause. Then, my third thought: getting a hot dog for myself. This may seem insensitive at first, but, truth be told, I never really knew Carl all that well. And I haven't eaten in hours.

When somebody thanks you for something you haven't done, you feel like an asshole. But do they mean to make you feel like an asshole, or does their sentiment come from a generally good place? Today I retrieved the mail in hopes of getting a new Netflix movie to watch after dinner. It's the little things I look forward to, especially in the mail: movies, magazines, free samples, and rebate checks.

Instead, I find a letter from Chris' cousin in Iraq. He's enclosed some Iraqi money, stating that while the currency is currently worth only 5 USD, it will potentially be worth more in the future, once Iraq gets things moving and shaking. Chris' cousin writes, "Consider this a thank you for all of your emails, letters, care packages, and gifts." Obviously, this is a form letter, and he is sending it to everyone who has sent him something. The only problem? We haven't sent him a damn thing. Not an email, not a letter, not a care package, not a gift. Aside from the wedding and the one night we spent drinking downtown during his leave, Chris had not even seen him in years. I really only talked to him that one night in the city for those few short drunken hours. And here he is, including us in his thank you chain mail, sending us Iraqi money.

Why is everybody in the entire world nicer than me?

I don't think he meant to make us feel like an asshole, but mission accomplished anyways. I feel like everybody else is always so thoughtful and kind while I'm constantly wrapped up in my own silly problems. I never go out of my way for anyone, not even my husband. Our anniversary came and went, and I couldn't even go out and buy Chris a card, much much less a gift, because I put it off until the last minute and was then too hung over to deal with stopping off at Hallmark, or even the gas station. Horrible! When will I decide to be a giver? When will I treat even my own husband with a mild amount of respect and generosity?

This Iraqi bill in its unassuming, handwritten envelope really made me realize how selfish I can be. I stood in my kitchen holding it and thinking about what I would do if I were over in Iraq. It certainly wouldn't be compiling a mailing. It would be crying. Complaining. Hoping to God those assholes in America appreciated the hell that I was going through for them. But I'm not in Iraq, and I don't do anything for anyone.

And, sitting here, writing a blog entry while simultaneously playing hold 'em, I'm struck with the thought of what I'm not doing: emailing Chris' cousin. So selfish. It's much more important to write a blog entry to no one than to send a personal email.

I'll see you all in hell.

I wish I had grown up in the Sedaris household. I'm not sure who I want to be more: Amy or David. I use the word "be" loosely. I don't actually want either of their lives or ages. I just want their minds.

I highly recommend Amy's "I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence." It's inspiring me to throw a shitty dinner party- which, of course, would just be a thinly veiled excuse to sell some of my knick-knacks to my friends for a quarter each. No dimes or nickels.

I saw Billy Joel last night at the newest "civic auditorium" in Hoffman. Eighth row, center! Lauren, ever so graciously, invited me to join her as she had an extra ticket, and so I got to see what a real, hundred-dollars-per-ticket live show should be like. Piano, keyboard, multiple saxaphones, guitars, bass guitar, two drum kits, trumpets, harmonicas, some other kind of horn, and, of course, the lyrics to "Only The Good Die Young."

However, I noticed something really strange last night. This has probably been going on for years, and I just don't go to enough live shows to really take notice. Remember when people used to hold lighters in the air to express worship of the artist and the music? Remember? I feel like I myself held up a lighter only a year or two ago (only to be cheesey, of course). Well, the lighters have been replaced with flipped open cell phones. Hundreds of people were standing there in the dark, waving around their open cell phones as they told Billy that they loved him. Instead of yellow and orange flames creating dots in the crowd, it was blue and white cell phone screens. Everyone was doing it. And I, for one, felt super old.

Pretty awesome show, nonetheless.

Quote from the thank you card sent to us by the design center for our new home:

"Your interior color choices are excellent, and you will defiantly like having the vinyl continue from the foyer to the kitchen."

We will DEFIANTLY like the vinyl? Yes, I suppose we will. In your face, carpeting! I don't care what you think!

Ah, feeling a little tired today. Last night was a lot of fun with Carole and Mel. An evening that started with drinks in Orland had us deciding, after 11 pm, to drive downtown and continue our drinking there. Not the most responsible decision we could have made, but I'm glad we did it. Mel's a speed demon on the road, by the by. When I drive home from the bars, I am extra careful to go exactly the limit. Which, I've been told by some of my DUI friends, is actually a pretty good way to raise suspicion. Nonetheless, I feel like Mel might have come close to 100 mph last night on 55. I could be exaggerating, but, either way, we seemed to get back to the burbs pretty damn quickly when all was said and done.

I admire drivers who exude that kind of confidence.

Speaking of DUI, my friend's cousin went to jail yesterday, and he's not leaving for 30 days. It's the only way he'll ever be able to drive again. I can't imagine spending a night in jail, much less a month. My friend's cousin, however, is kind of looking forward to it. No work and no responsibilities for 30 days! He's treating it like a vacation. I guess 30 days of not having to do laundy or vacuum or wash dishes or wake up for work might be kind of nice, now that I think about it. Do jails have cable tv?

This morning, I had breakfast with Carole and her parents and then headed home. I've done very little the past few hours aside from taking a very long shower and drinking no less than five cups of coffee. Have to stay awake today! As I'm sure you know, today is my one year anniversary. Our one year anniversary. I always say things like "my" and "I" when I should say "our" and "we." Ah, well.

I wonder if Chris has a big surprise for me, like a puppy or a boat. I think I'd be pissed at either one of those. I don't have the patience to look after a puppy, and I wouldn't like the pressure of having to spend all of my free time on the water.

Something has happened, and this something is in pill form. My mother would die if she knew I was broadcasting this over the internet (to all three of you), but she's started taking anti-depressants- and, I don't know, I think I like her. During Easter, she was really an absolute delight to be around. She was cracking jokes and laughing everything off, and she and I kept making eye contact throughout the afternoon whenever my grandparents would say something "off." Normally, you see, Easter with Grandma F and Grandma M and Grandpa M would piss her right the fuck off, turning her mood into a spill of black ink that ruined everything. Not this year! She was great, like a friend. And we've been talking on the phone lately more than usual (usual is never), and she's been- great. Honestly, I feel like our relationship has evolved over a few short weeks all because of her pills.

Maybe her whole problem really was chemical. And now that she's normal- she's almost somebody I would choose to hang out with.

I don't know if that's an incredibly sad comment to make, or if it's an incredibly positive one to make. Granted, I wanted to know where Super Nancy was ten years ago when I needed her most- but, jeez, if this is when she's making her appearance, then I'm happy to take her now.

Also, she sent us a one year anniversary card. So far it's been just her and my Aunt Ann. Doesn't anyone else remember? Send me a card, goddammit. And put a check in it. You have until Saturday.

One fucking year. Holy christ. I don't look any older, do I?

***

I feel like I got into Elliot Smith's music a few years too late. I felt the same way with Buckley. Why do I fall for these musicians after they're long dead and can no longer give me anything to look forward to? Oh well. At least Aimee Mann and Elvis Costello are still alive and kicking.

Got my car back from Mike the Mechanic. Dude- it runs like a dream. Here is a list of the problems that got solved with only $600. I know what you're thinking- ONLY $600? What a bargain!

* Car actually starts on first turn of the key.
* Check Engine light is no longer on (very annoying).
* Entire car does not bump forward when shifting gears.
* Car does not rumble angrily when idle.
* Car drives smoother.
* I no longer feel as if car will flip over when I too-quickly make a turn.

Excellent! Times are good with me and the old girl. She and I can continue to drive off into the sunset of my 20s.

Chris and I also finalized all of our "options" for our new home. What a way to add undue stress to a relationship: having choices in something like this is never a good thing, especially when you have two extremes on the option spectrum. Chris, you see, loves to upgrade. Upgrade, upgrade, upgrade. I, on the other hand, love to keep prices as low as possible, and I tend to see every option as unnecessarily excessive. Deeper sink? Forget it. Fancy door knobs? Not important. Oak railings? For crying out loud! Elongated toilet bowl? Well.... probably not a bad idea.

However, through the power of compromise, I think we were able to come to some mostly satisfying conclusions. Things were a little rough-going, I'll admit. Compromise is neither of our strong suits. Especially mine. I really, truly hate to compromise. Why should I compromise when I know I'm right?

By the by, is "strong suit" a gin rummy term, or does it refer to an outfit made of a sturdy fabric? Have to look that one up.

I've been avoiding driving all week, and today I take the car to one of those oil change guys and have them take a look at it. Get it to a real mechanic ASAP, they say, because I'm lucky that the engine hasn't fallen out. Something about the engine mounts being fucked. And the crankshaft, that's busted too. Fabulous. I love extra expenses. Now it's sitting in the garage, and tomorrow I'm going to have Chris drive it to the mechanic's on his way to work. If the engine falls out on the way there, maybe Chris will have a better time surviving than I would. I didn't even know an engine could just fall out. Ah, well.

Car problems aside, I've had a good weekend. Carole drove up for a sleepover on Friday night, and we had a grand old time just hanging out, getting drunk, and then going for breakfast and shopping yesterday. Then, last night, Chris and I went to see Mike Birbiglia perform at the Lakeshore Theater. Wonderful time- big belly laughs. Today I watched two movies: Conversations With Other Women and Derailed. Both movies that involving affairs, where major scenes unfold in a hotel room. Inadvertently, I set up a themed movie day for myself.

And now to make dinner and stop thinking about money- about cars and homes and bills from my insurance company. I think something smothered in cheese might do the trick.

Chicago takes US bid for 2016 Olympics. I agree with Eric Zorn of the Tribune:

It will be a long time before we know whether today was a good day or a bad day for average Chicagoans.

Actually, I'm going to go ahead and say that, if Chicago ends up hosting the games, life will be miserable for everyone within a one hour radius of the city. It's awful trying to get into and around the city when there's a Cub's home game, for crying out loud. I can't even imagine the chaos that will ensue with an event so global.

Eh. I suppose I couldn't care less, one way or another.

The thing about buying a new house is that they pretty much force you to use their lenders. As somebody in the lending business, I am very disappointed in this particular person's work and in her complete and utter lack of disclosure. This hopefully will not cause unnecessary problems in the biggest and most stressful purchase I've ever made. She's an airhead, and it's become very clear that the biggest deal in our life right now is like number 30 or 35 on her to-do list, right below having to organize her sock drawer and right above applying her lipstick on straight. Frankly, I would prefer her to bump her lipstick issue a few notches above our issue (does she even own a mirror?), but that's neither here nor there. My personal advice to you, dear reader, is that you do not buy new construction from a company that gives you little to no option on obtaining a mortgage. And when, upon first meeting your new lender, she decides to tell you about her divorce and how she herself is buying a new home and having a hard time of it, do take that as an ominous sign.

I read an article today in The Wall Street Journal about my builder's mortgage structure and how they're losing money left and right due to something to do with junk lending. Note: Just because I occasionally read The Wall Street Journal does not mean I understand it. Anyhow, the gist of the article was that I, as a borrower, am fucked.

Not a whole lot is going on otherwise, even though I feel like I've been insanely busy lately. I've slept like a rock this past week. Easter was memorable, to say the very least. I just found out that my grandfather's 90% blind. He's been blind for about five years now, and I just found out. I know this makes me sound evil, but I can't help but laugh. The world's most racist man, struck blind. Oh, it's joyous. Priceless when I left the living room for a refill on my drink only to have my sister come find me in the kitchen to tell me that he had been talking to me for the past ten minutes. Priceless when he had to ask my grandmother what kind of food was on his plate. Priceless when my sister kept taking his picture only to have him ask where that bright, fuzzy light was coming from.

Ah, sigh. As much resentment and hatred I have in my heart for my grandparents and the awful things they did to my mother and my aunts- I can't help but think that this new (five-year old) turn of events is not joyous or pricelessly funny. It's just sad. It's horribly, miserably sad, but in the blindness, I think there may be redemption. At the very least, humbleness.

And where the fuck have I been? Five years?!?!? I guess I've done a good job of avoiding these people. It's been almost two years since I've seen my grandfather, and probably about ten since I've actually spoken with him longer than a moment. Maybe I'm just as rotten as him.

RIP Kurt Vonnegut. So it goes.

Cicadas are coming back this summer, with a vengeance. I remember when I was ten and told that the next time a swarm of cicadas would take over the summer would be in 17 years. I couldn't fathom being 17 years older at the time, and I tried to picture my life at 27. I don't think that what I saw was that far off from what I have now. I was married, had a job, drank wine. I had straighter hair in my "older Jackie" vision, but that was mostly wishful thinking. I was also convinced that my husband would be named "Scott." I don't think I've ever actually met a Scott.

I remember that summer in 1990 well. There were dares to cover the cicadas in chocolate syrup and then eat them. I did not do this. There were early evenings spent at The Plush Horse, licking ice cream cones and watching the clouds of cicadas. There were car rides in which I sat buckled into the back seat of the station wagon, freaking out when the cicadas would fly up and hit the window. It was the closest I've ever seen to a plague.

And now they're coming back. After this summer, the next biblical descending will be when I am 43 going on 44. I try to picture that now. This time, I can't, because while 27 seemed mystical and cool to a 10 year old, 44, right now, seems just plain awful.

You can't help but feel sorry for this poor bastard, the Liberty Tax guy holding up the Liberty Tax sign on a frigid Chicago day when most everybody already has their taxes done. Well, almost everybody.


And then there's Dan, who hasn't even touched his tax forms yet. Here he is at The Patio discussing his options with his accountant and explaining that, while he can't find his 1099s, he has order number 109 coming up in just a few brief moments.

I had the sub sandwich. I did not chip any teeth this time.

Well, I've certainly been boozing it up this week.

Monday night: White grape juice and vodka cocktails at home after work, following by half a bottle of red wine.

Tuesday night: Alumni Club after work for rum and coke with work friends.

Wedneday night: One bottle of Chardonnay at home while watching "Art School Confidential." Good movie, by the way, recommended by The Jackie Movie Club

Thursday night: Stonewood Ale House and Alumni Club with work friends. Five martinis and a beer.

Last night was ridiculous. We left Stonewood to go to Alumni, and I somehow got all turned around despite the fact that it's a five minute drive. I didn't even notice that I was going the wrong way until I saw a high school I'd never seen before. At this point, I had no idea where I was, found some back roads, and ended up in the parking lot of a Red Lobster. Half an hour from when I left Stonewood, I finally made it to Alumni, realized I was drunk when I started putting ketchup bottles in my purse, then promptly had a martini spilled all over my lap and decided to call it a night. Luckily, I managed to find my way home.

The thing that scares me about all of my drinking lately is that I don't seem to be feeling hungover anymore. It's as if my body has built up a grand tolerance to alcohol, and I'm able to completely sleep it off, still managing to wake up at 6:30 feeling bright-eyed and only mildly dehydrated. This super power of mine can't possibly be a good thing. Especially when drinking a whole bottle of wine by myself used to cause me to have to watch television with an eyepatch as to avoid the double vision, and now I'm fairly certain that I can efficiently assemble an Ikea dresser afterwards. Is this good? Is this bad? Am I becoming an alcoholic?

Tonight, though, I can't wait to come home and curl up on my couch with a mug of tea. Although I only listed the most recent four days above, I truly believe that it's been weeks, certainly over a month, since I've gone a night without at least having one cocktail or beer. My liver is crying me a river.

April's a weird month for me. I got married last year in April, and now I catch myself looking at the calendar and feeling anxious. What was I doing this time last year? Planning for a wedding might be an accurate answer, but an even more accurate answer would be FREAKING THE FUCK OUT. I was not sleeping. I was crying. I was seriously, and I do mean seriously, planning to burn down the church and reception hall that we had wrapped our plans around. No church? No reception hall? Whoops! Guess we'll have to change our plans!

It wasn't marriage that freaked me out. I was ready to marry Chris three months after we first started dating. It was his bare shoulder that did it for me, that bare shoulder poking out from under his comforter* while we fell asleep in his crappy little apartment. That sweet, pale chunk of flesh is what made my heart ache, what made me want to never leave his side. I was ready years before we did it. But the wedding itself? Not so much. His relatives kept me awake, the dynamics of too many plans that could so easily fall apart. I don't like bravado. I like doing my own thing with no more than four other people. And the thought of being the center of attention? Enough to make me want to drown myself.

Yet I got through it.

This April, I'm spending a lot of time thinking about all of the time that I wasted, last April, convincing myself that I wouldn't enjoy a minute of it. I did enjoy most of the actual wedding, which is surprising, considering. The day of my wedding, I took the legal (not in this state) equivalent of speed and got the hell through it. And the actual party was a blast. Despite, might I add, the fact that I had my period and kept having to escort various lucky bridesmaids into the bathroom with me to help out with the mechanics of undoing my dress for the purposes of inserting- well, never mind.

I've been drinking a little wine tonight. Excuse me.

Anyhow, this year I am finding it impossible to live in the present. Every time I look at the calendar, I am reminded of last year. And I wonder- is April always going to hold this much mental weirdness for me? Will I be eighty years old and looking at the calendar with a panic attack only one heart beat away while I try to figure out if I made the correct deposits on time and whether or not some bum is going to steal my envelope box from my party while I sit there stupidly eating cake? I don't know. But I did realize, today, that I might like to name my first daughter April, regardless of whether or not she's actually born in April, as a way to commemorate my sickness. Do you think that would be weird, a November or July baby named April? Yeah? Well, fuck you, I've already wasted too much time worrying about other people.

I think April's a cute name. My first choice, even when I was a kid, was "Molly," but since Chris' nuts-o grandmother is named "Molly," and his mother would probably disown us if we gave birth to a "Molly," I may have to let that particular dream die.

Anyhow, I can't believe it's a year later. I guess that's what happens, and it's a nice way to put things in perspective. What I worry about today won't matter a damn come twelve months. The key to a good life, I think, is just to imagine yourself as old and almost dead. At that point, what will any of the rest of this matter?

My computer keeps meowing. I think I accidentally installed a desktop kitty. How do I get rid of it?

* I accidentally ruined that comforter last year when I put it in the dryer and it exploded. Sorry, Chris. I know you had slept with that particular comforter for over twenty years, and that it held a lot of sentimental value for you, but, Lord, did it need a washing.

Listen to this song.

"I Hate Camera" by The Bird & The Bee.

You're welcome.

If you're using Chicago as a reference point, there's not that much of a difference between Palatine and Volo. According to MapQuest, traveling from Volo to Chicago takes 22 extra minutes than if you were to simply stop driving in Palatine. And what's 22 extra minutes? Twenty-two minutes is nothing considering the abundance of affordable new homes in Volo. Considering that, in Volo, I will have what I could never afford in Palatine or any of the other Cook County suburbs. I will have a duplex with over 1900 square feet of living space. I will have my own yard. I will have three bedrooms, three bathrooms, a living room, a downstairs family room, and an upstairs family room. I will have a big kitchen and dining room. I will have a porch.

And I'm so excited. This is one of the only decisions I've ever made that I haven't had any regret or doubt about. I'm ready. I love this home. Chris strongly likes the home (he's a bit bothered by the lack of basement, but basements flood, right?). I can't help but picture the barbeques I will have in my yard. The ways I will decorate my many rooms. And I can see us living there for many years. This is not the kind of place we'll outgrow quickly. This is the kind of place that you can eventually raise a child in. EVENTUALLY.

I'm happy.

The home is new construction, so it will be up and ready to go by September or October. It will be nice to have all of these months for playing around and getting ready- to save some more money but to still be right next to the expressway for one last summer. That may be something I'll miss, as now it'll take me 22 minutes to get to the expressway. Ah, but what's 22 minutes?

It's nothing. And this house- oh, this house will be everything.