Valerie- Mark Ronson featuring Amy Winehouse

I'm not sure how I feel about Amy Winehouse, but this song is awesome.

My check engine light is still on. My dad used this doodad (hey, now I get why they call it that) to find out what the deal was. He hooked it up under my dashboard and all of these numbers went flashing on its screen, crazy style. Two codes finally popped up, which we cross-referenced with the doodad's manual. "It's just a sensor," my dad declared. "Nothing to worry about."

Okay, he knows best. Of course, I know even better. I have fond memories of my father servicing my first car, a beauty of an '89 Ford Taurus. For every problem that he "fixed," he created at least two more in its place. "Well, you won't hear that rumbling under the hood anymore," he might say, "but if you need to stop for a traffic light, you'll have to use the emergency parking brake. And, oh yeah, for some reason your radio's only picking up AM now. Darndest thing."

But I want to believe my dad, to believe that car manufacturers put sensors in our cars only to make us spend more money down the road and not because they actually do anything. Problem is, the light is burning bright as a cartoon lighthouse, and now my car sounds like a chorus of old men coughing up their sphincters whenever I attempt to start it. I can only imagine the sound a sphincter might make if one tried to cough it up through the intestines and throat and out of the mouth, but it's been a while since I've used the word "sphincter," so I figured I'd just go for it. Regardless, I feel I'm accruing more problems with each passing day that I don't take the old car in for a real check-up, and I'm starting to feel apprehensive about the whole thing.

I don't want to get rid of my car, not yet. Money aside, I've had this car since I was 19, and it's been a character in my life. I get nostalgic thinking about the places to which I've driven it, and the old friends that used to ride along shotgun. That car was my first major purchase, back when I was wide-eyed and thought that the world lay open in front of me like a blank canvas. It's seen major life changes and events, and it holds more memories than any photo album or scrapbook ever could. I'm not ready to let it go.

I have to nurse it back to health, somehow. The first step will be to take it to a real mechanic and then lie to my father and tell him that he was right and that one should never be so paranoid as to worry about a sensor.

Of any kind.

Do you ever feel, while watching "Lost," that you're a little jealous of these people stuck on the island? They don't have to worry about money or jobs or obligations or social norms. They just have to worry about existing and taking care of each other. Of course, there's a little more to it, and I know, personally, that I wouldn't be up to the challenge of trying to survive on an island. I'm horribly out of shape, and I get cranky pretty easily. Nonetheless, I can't help but watch and think that maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it would be a welcome change to all these tiresome household tasks.

I love that game- you know the one. Five CDs you would take with you on a deserted island. I wonder if the game is different with "the kids" these days. Is it top five iTune mixes now? I imagine it might be. Back in the day, maybe it was top five records. But who can possibly imagine that they'd be stuck on an island with a record player? Those things are heavy, and it's a totally irrational situation. A record player on an island. Pshaw.

In trying to save money (mortgage rates are on the rise!), the Cheese and I have been making dinner at home and watching movies. It's not as bad as it sounds: this week, we watched "UHF" and "Who Killed The Electric Car?". I'd never seen UHF before, which begs the question, "Why not?!?" Oh, to run my own TV station.

I highly recommend "Who Killed The Electric Car?". It got me all fired up. How dare those big oil fat cats ruin EVERYTHING once again. Not to mention our president, the auto makers, and YOU, the consumer. Take your Hummer and shove it up your big American ass.

Chris made his pesto chicken pizza again this week. I'm glad I married a man who can cook. Nothing is sexier than a man using a food processor. Well, that's probably not true. But that's my story, and I'll stick with it.

These mortgage rates, which are up, have really got me down. No more mortgage dance, a la that crazy pop-up ad, for a long, long while.

Have you seen this?

I'm still voting for Obama.

I really want to go to Lake Geneva this summer. Haven't been there since I was a wee one. Can't remember a thing about it. Apparently, though, it's beautiful this time of year. And I think Jon Bon Jovi used to or currently has a house there. Could have just made that up. Probably did. I mean, Lake Geneva is supposed to be nice, but Jon Bon Jovi nice?

Hmm. How nice do you think Jon Bon Jovi nice really is?

Went to a family party at my cousin's house yesterday. One of her cousins on the other side of her family looks EXACTLY like Chris, minus about fifteen years. Everything about this kid was Chris, from the face to the hair cut down to even the clothing and the walk. My mom pointed it out first, and then my dad, my sister, her boyfriend, and my cousin all got excited about it, going so far as to take pictures of the kid when they "didn't think" he was looking. This poor kid- we probably gave him the biggest complex what with all of our laughing and pointing and very obvious picture taking. Oh well. As soon as my sister emails me some of the pictures, I'll post them. It's downright uncanny. If I didn't know better, I'd think this was Chris' bastard son. I do know better, right?

Alas, I didn't have my own camera. Which also sucked when, later on in the evening, I went out with Carole, Jessie, and Tara. I really wanted a picture of the four of us, as it's been well over a year since we've all hung out. Alas. That's what the mind eye's is for, correct?

Now time for a nap.

I've been watching a lot of Canadian television shows lately. I can't explain why. I am, however, in love with Canada. Except for all of the snow and cold.

Not too much, this week. Thursday and Friday, went out with MV after work. It's nice to have another life partner. I think I'm in love with the Yankee Doodle in Barrington. The biggest dive bar I've ever been inside of (which is funny, because it's BARRINGTON), but it's the kind of place where, you can imagine, after a few short visits it's like Cheers, where everybody knows your name and problems. And after a few Old Styles (on tap! Who drinks Old Style ON TAP?), you forget your problems. And your name.

On second thought, maybe I should try to limit my visits to the Doodle. I've never liked becoming a "regular."

It's as if, in honor of The Sopranos coming to an end, A&E decided to do something nice for me, to quell my sadness. They aired "Pine Barrens" tonight, which is one of my all time favorite Sopranos episodes. You know the one I'm talking about:

Christopher: Russians? They're not all bad.
Paulie: How 'bout the Cuban Missile Crisis? Cocksuckers flew four nuclear missiles into Cuba, pointed them right at us.
Christopher: That was real? I saw that movie, I thought it was bullshit.

I've done very little today aside from thinking about The Sopranos. What an ending. I've gone through the rainbow of emotions in the past 24 hours, and now I'm left feeling completely and utterly satisfied. How does HBO have the power to keep doing this to me? First Six Feet Under (which left me depressed for over a week- hours after watching the finale, I cried over a sandwich at Baker Square), and now this. Of course, Sex and The City was a different story. Cute ending, and we finally find out Mr. Big's first name. Big whoop.

A piece of trivia for you that I read in an MSNBC article: The first episode of Season Six was called "Members Only." Coincidence? Who knows. Don't stop.

Does anybody know how I can get in touch with David Chase?

This shit is bananas.







I had a great time at the concert last night, and I want so badly to buy a pair of teeny tiny shorts, pair them with some black tights and red lipstick, and then prance around, say, my kitchen. That Gwen, she's so inspiring.

I remember when it occured to me that maybe Chris and I were moving too fast, and maybe it was weird that I thought I was falling in love with him even though I didn't know very many details about him and his life. So, one night, I started to grill him, asking the kind of questions that one might see in an e-mail survey entitled "About Me." I asked about childhood pets, his favorite color, favorite food, vanilla versus chocolate, literary character he could most identify with, name of his car insurance company, et cetera. And after a bit, he made a comment about "not understanding the point" of all of my questions. What difference does any of it really make?

I don't know. I thought it might make a difference.

Chris' muffler dropped from his car. It fell down, went boom. Upon hearing this the other day, via cell phone as he so rudely interrupted my cocktail hour, I couldn't help but to think of testicles dropping. Now, I don't know nothing 'bout dropping no testicles. In fact, I think I may have read in Testicle Weekly that the notion of plummeting testicles is a myth, much like how you're supposed to stay out of the pool for an hour after you eat. Nonetheless, I sat there, listening to Chris detail what appeared to be Chapter Six in the novel entitled "Idiots With Crappy Cars," and I couldn't stop thinking of the bathing suit areas of men. In my defense, I do have to keep my mind occupied, otherwise I may just lose it. As you know, we are the aforementioned "Idiots," and, it's all I can do to keep from dropping my own metaphoric testicles. Hey, I said METAPHORIC.

Headline in the Tribune about Lou Piniella's temper tantrum: Crimes and Miffed Demeanors.

Chris and I went to the driving range yesterday, which was like miniature golf without the windmills, scorecards, children, and walking. I rather liked watching my little white ball curve into the air and land somewhere along the grass, instantly indistinguishable from the other little white balls. Brilliant for a split second, then ordinary for the rest of time- or at least until the balls are all collected again in anticipation for another day, another six dollars per bucket. Somebody should write a song about the golf ball arc. Are songs about golf still cool?

I'm feeling a little beyond my own arc lately. It could be any number of things, but I'll put most of my money on sleep. I haven't had a full night's rest in weeks. Today, after another choppy night at sea, I felt so out of sorts that it was difficult to speak. My conversations were halting and filled with backtracking as I kept forgetting words. Glorious. I do think, as well, that somebody made decaf at work instead of regular, but making a federal case out of the affair didn't seem worth while- or verbally possible, considering my state.

I'm excited for this weekend. I'm going to the World Music Theater, Tweeter Center, First Midwest Amphitheatre with Mel, who somehow not only procured sixth row center(!) tickets for Gwen Stefani but ALSO procured us a limousine that will, she has promised, be stashed with alcohol. A limousine! Alcohol! Maybe some average joe who's NOT in a limousine will mistake ME for Gwen when we pull up! Or they'll mistake blond Mel for Gwen and mistake not-blond me for Gwen's clever and wealthy manager! Or they'll just mistake us for a bunch of assholes who took a limo to a concert instead of driving like normal people. But, whatever, that will just be sour grapes. Anyhow, I'm really looking forward to the night. Even without Gwen yelling "Wind it up!" every ten seconds, it should be loads of fun.

Now to get plenty of sleep on Thursday night before the show. I'd better start taking the Tylenol PM now....

Feist: My Moon, My Man: Listen to it here.

Or download it here. There's also a weird "Mushaboom" mix on this site, but the normal version is a lot better. Find it somewhere. Anyhow, I really want to see her next time she's in town. Goodness, I think it's safe to say I have a crush.

Chris thinks he ran over a cat the other night on the way home. It's tearing his sweet heart apart. When he tells the story, though, he doesn't say he ran over "a cat;" he says he ran over "somebody's cat." In his mind, he's given the cat a home, an owner. There's a little girl out there looking for the cat that Chris ran over- a wide-eyed ten year old in pigtails and a yellow sundress who's laboring over "Fluffy Is Missing" posters. Oh, Chris. I'm sure it was just a diseased stray that nobody loved. Does that make you feel better?

I hope so.

Went to Carole's new place today. Holy smokes, is it sweet. It's in a cool neighborhood, and she has her own roof-top deck with a fabulous view of the skyline. I can't wait to get drunk on that roof-top deck. I can't wait to almost fall off and create the kind of scene that results in her never inviting me over again.

That would never happen. Right?

Been busy. Been, for the most part, not smoking. For those of you playing the at home game, we're looking at two weeks of extremely reduced smoking. I think I may be ready to take the next step of just stopping. I'm down to about one or two a day, for the most part. Congratulations me!