My friend MV made a mix CD off of downloads from Lime Wire. She discovered "Hide and Seek" by Imogen Heap and also downloaded "Hallelujah," which was also labeled as being an Imogen Heap song. "Oh, that must be a Leonard Cohen cover," I said, thinking of the glorious Jeff Buckley cover. We went out to her car to listen to the CD, and it was not Imogen Heap at all, of course, it wasn't even a girl at all- it was JB. And so I got JB on the brain, and I took the normal pose that I adopt whenever I hear Buckley's take on "Hallelujah." I reclined in the seat, threw back my head, and gave an orgasmic groan. My God, do I love that song.

And so tomorrow, I am bringing MV my copy of "Grace," which is a CD that anybody and everybody should own. I want MV to hear "Last Goodbye" and "Lover, You Should Have Come Over." I hope they mean as much to her as they do to me. But, sometimes, I wonder if they ever could mean to other people what they meant to me. Perhaps that's a narcissistic view. Whatever. But I discovered JB at a key time in my life. And I will never forget listening to "Last Goodbye" while in the drive-through at The Patio, the tears sreaming down my face while I ordered my mini sub and thought of the only man- boy?- that I thought I would ever really love. Good thing I was wrong on that account. But, christ, did that song ever hit me like a ton of bricks.

Did you say, "No, this can't happen to me"?
And did you rush to the phone to call?
Was there a voice unkind in the back of your mind saying,
"Maybe, you didn't know him at all,
you didn't know him at all,
oh, you didn't know"?

And yet I still managed to go to The Patio to buy a mini sub. Loves come and go. Mini subs are forever.

I will also never forget the endless car rides with Carole, "Hallelujah" blaring on the car radio while we drove the dark. It's that first sigh that starts the song off that really gets you, that beautiful breath of air taken by a man on borrowed time.

Baby I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
But love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

But, perhaps most important to me, is "Grace." I had it on a mix CD before I bought the whole album. The mix CD was made for me by the boyfriend of one of my friends. Come to think of it, I'm relatively sure that he fancied me. Too bad that ship has sailed! But he made me this awesome mix CD with "Grace" and a whole other slew of awesome songs. And I listened to this CD all the time, but especially- especially- when I was driving across the state to see a certain somebody. And I always listened to "Grace" four or five times, hearing "wait in the fire" over and over again, and always feeling like it was an omen of sorts.

Am I being too melodramatic?

I have an attachment to Jeff Buckey, though, that is transcendental. Maybe it's because he's the only thing I still have left from that period of time in my life. Everything else has fallen by the wayside: me, him, and the way I used to be. To bring it to another artist, I named "Under My Thumb" after the Stones' song because, when I started this, I felt like I finally had that portion of my life under my own thumb. I thought I was saying good-bye to "the girl who once had me down." In many ways, I think I accomplished that. But JB- oh, he makes me remember.

And now I'm a JB too. Strange.

I got the letter today- THE letter, the one that comes certified mail and inevitably ends up sitting in the post office for a few days before I realize what's going on. The house will be done on Sept. 24. The closing is OFFICIALLY scheduled for 9 AM on Sept. 27.

I will be a homeowner in four weeks.

HOLY CRAP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The storms continue to brew, and today things went from zero to tornado in less than five seconds. We lost power at work, and so we all sat around in the dark, trying to figure out what the hell to do. Eventually, I just went home, even though it was only four. Diligent as ever, though, I checked my work email from my own computer and emailed a few clients. "Power's out at the office, at home, can't help now, maybe tomorrow!" And then I popped open a bottle of wine, watched "Wicker Park" (a surprisingly decent movie with the bonus of being filmed in Chicago), and now here I am, nice and tipsy a few hours before schedule.

I have a few weekend plans. Best of all, the Gin Blossoms are playing in my neighborhood's free street festival on Saturday night. Hey Jealousy indeed. I would pay to see the Gin Blossoms, so the "free" part is just plain awesome. I'm going to miss living in one of the more desirable suburbs once we move out in a month- my current neighborhood always has great things going on. P-town forever!

I think my funeral home writing is going well. I submitted my work to the marketing company, and she responded by wanting my input into other parts of the site as well. Woo-hoo. I knew I had it in me all along.

The scheduled closing date for the new house is about one month away. Holy crap! In preparation, I've been watching a lot of HGTV and reading a lot of design books. My new house is going to fucking rule. I've finally moved fully past the paranoid/worried phase into the excited/thrilled phase. Chris made a comment to me a few months ago that I at first found completely laughable. He said, "I feel like everything's going to be better in our new house, even doing the dishes and laundry." I called him a putz and said that chores are chores no matter where you do them. But you know what? He may be right. Dishes are going to rock in the new house!

****

The bugs are crazy. I guess Illinois has this infestation of Itch Mites, and five minutes of sitting outside on Monday resulted in four Itch Mite bites right through my nylons. My ankles have swollen up to the size of fat ankles, and I can't stop scratching! Aside from my Itch Mite bites, I've also had several other encounters with out of control bugs. This includes a bug popping out of my purse while I sat at my desk, resulting in a rather high-pitched girlish scream (from me, not the bug). Also, while I was at Jimmy John's the other day, waiting in line, I looked down to find that a moth had attached itself to my pants. A moth! So, I of course started to scream while inside the Jimmy John's. My scream scared the moth away but the lady in front of apparently hadn't seen the moth. So when she turned around to see what the hell the matter was, I exclaimed, "There was a moth on my leg!" And, instead of being sympathetic, she simply rolled her eyes.

What a cunt.

So, I vow not to go outside again until October, unless absolutely necessarily. I hate bugs! I hate them with all of my might. Or do I mean "mite?"

Ba-dum-ching!

So I'm reading a book by Alice Hoffman, who is one of my favorite authors and probably the future namesake of my future daughter. I know I'm having a girl; God wouldn't be cruel enough to bestow me with some rowdy, dirty boy. This book by Alice Hoffman, it's called "The Ice Queen," and it's about a woman who gets struck by lightening while inside her home. I'm only partway through it, but so far she's gone to all of these specialists and taken part in a "struck by lightening" support group, which greatly intrigues me. These lightening survivors sitting around a circle- do you think they have enough leftover electricity coursing through their veins that if they held hands and concentrated, they might be able to power a television? I don't know- but I hope I find out.

Last night, there was a mother of a thunder storm. I was fast asleep in my bed (which includes a metal frame and headboard and is positioned right by the window) and awoke to the sound of thunder. It was a monstrous crash, as if the lightening bolt had struck down on the grass just below while I slept. The whole building rattled, and, half asleep, I threw myself into a panic. What if my bed frame acted as a conductor, and I was electrified where I lay? I rolled away as far from the window as possible, but that did little to pacify my fears. I was going to die. Or I was going to survive and end up in some weirdo support group. I started shaking, and then it was impossible for me to fall back asleep, convinced that I was minutes away from making the news.

I used to be so scared of lightening as a child. During a storm, I wouldn't walk by windows or run water from the tap. I'd stand on a rubber mat until the storm passed; I'd make my sister hold onto the wooden coffee table. I was scared of electrical charges in general, never daring to plug my blowdryer into a bathroom outlet, as it was too close to the sink, too within view of the bathtub. I eventually outgrew these fears, but last night- oh, last night, I was certain I was in for it.

Of course, it was the power of suggestion from my Alice Hoffman book that threw me into this particular tizzy. However- should I find out that the main character grows super powers from her encounter with the lightening bolt, should I discover that the lightening makes her successful at work and lucky with the state lotto- then, who knows. Maybe I'll move my metal bed even closer to the window, and I'll fly a kite out of the window, with a key attached, while I dream. I could use a little more success at work. I wouldn't mind some extra luck with the state lotto.

Alice Hoffman. Read her.

Bears Eat Man At Beer Festival

Quote: "There's a good chance he was drunk or drugged. Only an idiot would jump into the bear cage," zoo director Vuk Bojovic told Reuters.

Only an idiot... I'm glad somebody called a spade a spade, instead of side-stepping around the situation and saying something like "What an awful, unforeseen tragedy..."

So, I went and got me a free-lance job writing for a marketing company. The only problem? The first assignment they gave me is writing copy for a funeral home's web-site. A funeral home! I can't think of anything to write that isn't completely and utterly inappropriate. Even five seasons of Six Feet Under can't help me here. In fact, five seasons of Six Feet Under is actually HURTING right about now. Everything I try to write feels like I'm tip-toeing around one ultimate truth that I'm not allowed to say. YOU'RE GOING TO DIE. Or the person you love most is going to die. And we'll put him in the box for you.

Ugh. This is going to be difficult. Tact is not my strong suit. And, to boot, I'm sure all of this thinking about funerals isn't doing any wonders for my mental health.

I get a paper cut at work, so I go into the breakroom to look for band-aids. I open the cabinets above the sink, where the band-aids are supposed to be. I don't find them. Instead, I find shot glasses. Shot glasses! Who's using shot glasses at work? And why am I never included in the festivities?

I don't handle shots well, unless they're wimpy shots like Tequila Rose. But a bottle of wine- who else thinks one bottle equals one serving?

I've been trying to take up winking. Chris doesn't like it too much; when I wink at him, he says he gets the creeps. Maybe I'm just not good at it yet. I know when I wink with my right eye, the wink is a little slower, a little more forced. But my left eye- I thought my left eye was with the program.

Some women can wink well. They can get away with it, telling you a whole story from across the room with one flutter of the eyelid. I want to be one of these women. I understand that winking men can come across as a dirty uncle, unless they're extremely attractive and well-kempt. But women- it seems like a fine art that any relatively nice woman should be able to hone. I want to hone it and own it. I want to greet my sister at a crowded bar with a wink and a smile. I want one wink to tell my husband that I love him. I want to soften my sarcasm with my co-workers with a well-timed wink, and I want to be granted a discount at the gas station by exhibiting nothing more than a simple, slightly demure wink.

Nonetheless, I don't know if it's ever going to come naturally, and not creep people out. I winked at MV the other day from behind my sun glasses after making some snide comment. And she laughed and asked, with disbelief, "Did you just wink at me?!?!"

I had a boss a few years ago that winked without knowing it. She must have suffered from some condition, physical or otherwise. And she'd tell me to do something, to take care of some papers, and her eye would wink. For months, I didn't know if I was really supposed to take care of those papers or not. I didn't know if she meant for me to "take care" of them by burning them, perhaps, and pretending like she'd never mentioned them at all. Then I realized she was just a psycho winker. And when she told me to take care of those papers- well, let's just say I took care of them.

That's one downside of the winking. But if I can master the art of winking- then it will be upsides galore. Right?

Chris took me to the Botanic Gardens today for my birthday. It was my idea, of course, but Potbelly's was his idea, so we're all good. We had a great time at the gardens until the heat became unbearable. Before going to the car, we stopped at the Visitor Center restroom, where I discovered I was sweating THROUGH my bra. Disgusting, but a first. Anyhow, I discovered that there's such a plant called the Bladdernut. Have you ever heard of such a plant? Of course, I took a picture of the Bladdernut sign, but neglected to take a picture of the plant itself, too caught up I was in the combination of the words "bladder" and "nut." See, words are funny. Plants are not.

The Cheese and I went to a steakhouse tonight to celebrate my impending birthday. I didn't have steak- I had veal. The tender meat of young calves is the perfect way to celebrate a birthday. We enjoyed a bottle of wine, a good dinner, and then came home and watched an episode of "Monk" on TV. Now The Cheese is fast asleep on the living room sofa, and I'm wondering what to do next. Perhaps I can play the Game Cube game he bought for us: Chibi Robot. This game is all about cleaning a house. You earn Happy Points by keeping the house nice and clean. Here I thought the point of playing a video game was to escape real life. Turns out I was wrong- no matter where I turn, I'm stuck picking up somebody else's trash.

Tomorrow, we're going to my parents' house to celebrate my birthday and Chris' promotion. I took Monday off work for my actual birthday, but I'm not sure if we're actually doing anything. I'd like to go downtown for the day, maybe hit up a few art galleries and have a mid-day martini. More likely, I'll end up playing a video game about cleaning a house and then actually clean my house. But we'll see- maybe I'll be pleasantly surprised.

"As of 2003, there were about 160,570 bridges deemed structurally deficient or functionally obsolete, according to the American Society of Civil Engineers. The number represented 27.1 percent of the nation's bridges."

I found some bridge website, can't remember what it was called. National something. And there are close to 3,000 structurally deficient / fundamentally obsolete bridges in Illinois alone. But here's the kicker: the site doesn't tell us where these bridges are!

This bridge collapsing in the Twin Cities is one of the worst tragedies imaginable. It involves two "biggest fears:" falling and drowning. And the whole thing was preventable. Specialists knew the bridge was shitty. But they didn't fix it, because it just wasn't shitty enough.

What a nightmare. I can't imagine what the people of Minneapolis must be going through.