"Um, Maybe My Editors Can Tell You That?"
You're probably not supposed to fight on GoodReads, but I didn't start it! I mean, not exactly.
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95th Floor
Lo and behold, my grandma was pretty much ready when I arrived to pick her up on Thursday. She only needed me to take out the trash and pack an elephant's back's worth of clothes into the XUV I'd rented. Oh, and take a picture of her leaving. She was excited, and I was hoping to keep her as buoyant as possible for as long as possible. That was and remains this weekend's purpose.
We made excellent time coming back; in fact, we also had an excellent time coming back. We Obama-gushed, gossiped about a recent family wedding, and marveled at how studly-comfy the vehicle was. When we made it to I-55, I put on a New York Pops album of movie themes. The timing turned out to be brilliant--as we bobbed over the Kedzie overpass to see the skyline finally revealed in all its dusky glory, Chariots of Fire was reaching its crescendo.
I surprised her by driving right downtown and parking below the Water Tower Place. She didn't realize we were going to the top of the John Hancock Building until we were just about in the elevator. I thought she might like the Signature Room for dinner, but when she announced it smelled fishy, we walked up to the lounge instead.
Grandma was totally into the view and I played Dutiful Hostess by pointing out the five or six things I could recognize from quarter a mile up. I had a super-silly martini and she had a super-melty panini, and I didn't notice that rhymed until just now. (Grandma also had a glass of rielsing and, boy, that's an easy way to make her giggle.) We were both conked out by midnight.
Horsepower And A Pop Single
I’ve been driving for a few hours, by
myself. Which is fun if you do it as rarely as I do. Feels like meditation.
Driving in general is a novelty right nwo, since I still can’t manage in our manual Fit
and scootering isn’t anything like manuevering this rented SUV hybrid
I’ve got for the weekend. I'm picking up my grandma for her faaahncy weekend in Chicago.
I’m sitting in La Gondola, an Italian dive on Galesburg’s main strip. I used to love this place. Guess I still do—I was very happy to see it was still around. It doesn’t have wi fi, of course (though it has a surprisingly swank website) so I’ll post this when I get home tonight. I've ordered the same "meal" I did as a kid: medium cherry coke and an order of garlic bread. It tastes different. Not like the recipe has changed—like someone accidentally wiped cleaning solution on the paper plate before handing it to me.
I’ve given up on my plan to get back into music in 2008—did I mention that? I accept it: I’m into books and television and movies and magazines, and that's all I've got the brain RAM and time for. Still, I checked out some CDs from the library for this trip. I've listened to the first track off the Kaiser Chief’s latest about…oh, 34 times in the last 4 hours. It’s been awhile since I’ve gone so gaga for a song. You've probably heard it. Here’s the first two stanzas:
Let it never be said that romance is dead'Cos there's so little else occupying my head.
There is nothing I need 'cept the function to breathe
But I'm not really fussed, doesn't matter to me
Ruby, ruby, ruby, ruby
Do ya, do ya, do ya, do ya
Know what ya doing, doing to me?
Ruby, ruby, ruby, ruby
Due to lack of interest tomorrow is cancelled
Let the clocks be reset and the pendulums held
'Cos there's nothing at all 'cept the space in between
Finding out what you're called and repeating your name....
But I'm not really fussed, doesn't matter to me
Ruby, ruby, ruby, ruby
Do ya, do ya, do ya, do ya
Know what ya doing, doing to me?
Ruby, ruby, ruby, ruby
Due to lack of interest tomorrow is cancelled
Let the clocks be reset and the pendulums held
'Cos there's nothing at all 'cept the space in between
Finding out what you're called and repeating your name....
Ruby, ruby, ruby, ruby
It’s very easy to sing “Rory“ instead of “Ruby."
Right around Peru, IL, I saw one of those “Oversized Load“ hauls. It was an extraordinarily long flatbed. And it was carrying a massive, elegant, paddle-shaped, silver…thing. A jet wing? Just one? It was like a mobile art installation. Is that an oxymoron?
I decided to stop at the Flying J after that, fill up ($63—15 scooter tankfuls) and get some sunflower seeds. I couldn’t believe how chubby I looked in the car window while I pumped the petrol. I never go long without mourning/despairing about how fat I’ve become, but I sometimes forget what that fat looks actually looks like, all shoved under my skin.
Just before getting back on the interstate, I saw a young guy walking around the parking lot in wide, aimless circles. He had a decidedly dejected air. I thought maybe I’d seen him earlier on the exit ramp, too. On a whim, I asked if he needed a ride. He told the person he was phoning “some nice lady just offered me a ride, outta nowhere!“ and scrambled in. He needed a lift to the Ottawa Hospital; his girlfriend's placenta had disconnected in her second trimester. It was about 20 miles back from where I’d just come from, but I had time.
On our way, we listened to a classic rock station (I didn't want to subject him to my song-crush). The announcer promised that coming up were “some Stones, Tom Petty, The Doobie Brothers…even some Stevie Nicks." Even some Stevie Nicks? Is she usually outside the playlist?
Sweat Bee
That said, I can't believe I just wasted these last few moments blogging. I could have been organizing the Stage 5 prizes for the branches! Ack.
A few months ago, back when I still thought I would pull off the first-ever no-hassle SRP, I planned a visit with my Grandma Ann. I promised her three fun (and a-tiny-bit-luxurious) days and nights up here in Chicago. I'm keeping that promise, even if it means crowbaring myself away from the library. I also promised to blog her whole stay. So stay tuned--especially of those of you wanting a review of Saturday night's Johhny Mathis concert!
Nom Nom Cate B.
This glorious woman had a baby a mere five weeks before this picture was taken. She also stars as a Louise Brooks-lookalike/Evil Russian in the latest Indiana Jones flick. Cate Blanchett, ah yuv yoo.
Socially Secure
I'm sitting in the Jumping Bean Cafe on 18th Street. It's cool, but it's undeniably a white person magnet in this still-predominantly Mexican neighborhood. It was already so packed less than an hour after opening that I was lucky to find a stool at the end of the roughly tiled counter. My small spot is near an outlet, which is nice, but it's also near the squeaky conveyor toaster and a spastic child. But I'm ignoring them both to eat my bagel melt and write to you, Rawrsters.
Last night was supposed to be movie night for me and Sarah and a bunch of our pals. But a bunch of our pals couldn't make it, and by the end of the afternoon, Sar and I weren't sure we could make it. We'd both been beaten up by the work week, so rescheduled to let Indiana Jones disappoint us on Monday. I fell down into a nap when I got home but managed to rouse myself when Kim got back. He was completely cream crackered, he assured me, so I curled up with a paperback. He, meanwhile, should have hit the sack but instead spent 90 minutes trying to fix a cat toy I'd bought earlier--a fishing rod with a catnip lure. Incredibly, after repeatedly giving up, cursing the cats and ignoring my suggestion that the cat toy could just remain broken, he fixed the damn thing. My man can fix stuff. I wish I could sew stuff.
[Before turning in for the second time, I noticed I'd received a piece of mail from the Social Security Administration. It was a record of all the money I've ever made, according to them. (Did you all get one of these?) Apparently, in 1992, I earned $83. What was I doing with federally noted income when I was 13? I didn't claim babysitting dough. I wasn't old enough to even detassle yet. I conducted my toilette last night wondering how my Young Self had spent the money. I'm positive orange soda pop was involved.]
May Moon
Scootering home after a pub quiz tonight--whizz, whizz--I was reminded of a few things.
First, the best vantage for observing the Loop in cheesy, 80s-poster-perfection is along Halsted, between North and Grand. Especially when there's a waning, warmly lit moon out.
Second, May is the longest month, every year. I don't care that other months have the same amount of days--May just keeps gooooing, somehow. I think it smuggles extras Wednesdays in there somewhere. It should be mid-June by now.
Third, my dream car back in high school was, inexplicably, the Chevy Lumina. One cut me off tonight and I couldn't help but giggle that I used to think it was such a hot motor. This was the same point in my life that I thought the soundtrack to The Mask was such a cool tape.
That Bug That's Going Around
I didn't get off work until 9 tonight, but still needed to run a couple errands. First I scooted to Home Depot (a place that gets more tolerable toward the wee hours, anyway). I needed electrical tape to turn a yellow t-shirt of Kim's into a half-ass bumblebee costume. Then I went to Dominick's, where I needed to buy ingredients to make a fake-and-edible grasshopper. This wasn't as easy as I'd deluded myself it'd be, so I gave up and bought a package of Grasshoppers.
Both items are part of a skit my coworker Andy and I will be performing at--so help us--eight elementary school assemblies during the next week. Like our summer reading program (which I'm stress-tastically coordinating, you remember), the skit's theme is "Catch the Reading Bug."
I'm not looking forward to these assemblies, but 1. I think they might turn out to be pretty goofy n' cute, and 2. I'm just grateful to be playing the Bee. Andy has to wear a light fixture on his butt to play the Firefly.
