I have a lot of posts titled, "Updates."
but anywho...
The club(last week?) wasn't exciting (i drank like, 7 vodka tonics in about 50 minutes and left the club by 10:30pm) and adriana's bday was just a normal shit show. nothing extra special to share.
But tonight, a mere thursday, something worth sharing did happen to my roommate and me.
(BTW, I am officially going on spring break. Naples and Miami. I LOVE miami. Couldn't be happier).
But cut to the chase.
Adriana and I take a cab home (3.5 loooong blocks) from that bar, because we don't want to walk in heels. It's a $5.50 fare with tip. We have $3 cash, or we offer to pay with a debit card (which is legit- cabs in Chi have to accept a card, or they can't be in operation).
In front of our building, we tell him, "We can pay with our debit card, or you can take this $3 we have in cash."
He starts yelling and being absurd. Like, literally yelling and laughing at us because we think it is okay to pay with a card without asking his permission before we got in his cab. Adriana gets timid and backs down. I get pissed and yell louder (I have already punched somebody in the chest at the bar, spilling his drink all over himself [ I promise, he deserved it]). He decides the best idea is to take us back to where he picked us up, and not charge anything, (At this point, he has Addie's card, and I have my door open.) He refuses to give us back the card- wants to hold it hostage. This is not okay with me AT ALL. We make a deal (after five more minutes of yelling) and he gives back the card, and I shut the door.
I whisper to Adriana that we are bailing at the first complete stop he makes. He stops, she chickens out. He slows down and I throw my door open; I am not going all the way back to the bar just because this asshole cabbie doesn't have the electronic card reader. I grab my roommate by the upper arm and pull her out of the cab.
Right there, not five feet away from where we bail, is an undercover cop car. Addie notices and tells me. I say, "So what, we didn't do anything wrong," They roll down their windows and ask us if we are okay, and we launch into our story about the inept cabbie. They drive us home, and tell us that our responses to his behavior were called for.
1. We got home for free, and got to yell at a cabbie.
2. I love Chicago cops for a few reasons: they will drive you home from the bar if you are obviously too drunk to walk, no questions asked (though this was not the case tonight), they won't bust underage drinkers, rather they walk into house parties and ask where the keg is (I have witnessed this), they won't stop you with open containers of alcohol, no matter where you are in the city... so really:
The only way to get busted by the Chicago cops is to try selling drugs. Honestly. In the dangerous part of town I live in, unless you are freebasing on the corner by an elementary school, the cops will either leave you alone or help you out.
loving Chicago,
AMK
"I'm a little hoarse tonight. I've been living in Chicago for the past two months, and you know how it is, yelling for help on the way home every night. Things are so tough in Chicago that at Easter time, for bunnies the little kids use porcupines."
Fred Allen, Much Ado About Me, 1956
Friday, February 8, 2008
Monday, February 4, 2008
...she's come undone
And... it has finally happened.
I never thought there'd be an ending to camp for me; I thought it would always just be a part of me, no matter the emotion I felt as I looked back on my memories. They are my memories, and up until now, I've always thought of camp as a little bit mine. But I wasn't asked back, I didn't apply for a new position, and there are people who want my old job (which doesn't exist anymore, according to the website- Carl, during all his time at the ranch last summer, decided to propose a new structure at the barn. Apparently they are giving it a whirl, despite my alternate suggestions). I know I'm being too sensitive, but I feel like they took every suggestion I made (that I couldn't complete myself while there) and did the opposite. Just one example: I suggested we construct a tin roof over the hitching area to give the horses some shade. John liked this idea until it cost more than Home Depot was donating. So his new idea was to build a petting zoo. First of all, you have an arthritic pig and cystic, wobbly goat that need to be put down, as they are gross and scare small children. But maintenance loves them too much, so we'll just keep the half-dead eye sores around.
Ugh. But that nonsense isn't the point.
The point is that even though I never had any intention of returning, it is just now hitting me that I'm not going back to camp. I'm scared that things I changed and started at the barn will be undone and finished, as to erase that I was ever there. All I ever wanted to do was leave a positive mark on the program, foster a few new traditions, and bring back campers who will ask if Ali is there.
Matt, how did you do this? I only spent two summers at camp, and this is killing me.
But this is the end of the trail for me, and I am just now coming to terms with it. I'm sorry it took me so long, but I have finally arrived; I understand that I am not a part of a place I put so much into, and that I am unwanted by those I worked so hard for.
I am no longer Ranch Kid, I am no longer a Black Lister. I am unaffiliated.
Spending the day considering a new signoff,
AMK
"It seems that the greatest difficulty is to find the end. Don't try to find it, it's there already."
Tom Cora
I never thought there'd be an ending to camp for me; I thought it would always just be a part of me, no matter the emotion I felt as I looked back on my memories. They are my memories, and up until now, I've always thought of camp as a little bit mine. But I wasn't asked back, I didn't apply for a new position, and there are people who want my old job (which doesn't exist anymore, according to the website- Carl, during all his time at the ranch last summer, decided to propose a new structure at the barn. Apparently they are giving it a whirl, despite my alternate suggestions). I know I'm being too sensitive, but I feel like they took every suggestion I made (that I couldn't complete myself while there) and did the opposite. Just one example: I suggested we construct a tin roof over the hitching area to give the horses some shade. John liked this idea until it cost more than Home Depot was donating. So his new idea was to build a petting zoo. First of all, you have an arthritic pig and cystic, wobbly goat that need to be put down, as they are gross and scare small children. But maintenance loves them too much, so we'll just keep the half-dead eye sores around.
Ugh. But that nonsense isn't the point.
The point is that even though I never had any intention of returning, it is just now hitting me that I'm not going back to camp. I'm scared that things I changed and started at the barn will be undone and finished, as to erase that I was ever there. All I ever wanted to do was leave a positive mark on the program, foster a few new traditions, and bring back campers who will ask if Ali is there.
Matt, how did you do this? I only spent two summers at camp, and this is killing me.
But this is the end of the trail for me, and I am just now coming to terms with it. I'm sorry it took me so long, but I have finally arrived; I understand that I am not a part of a place I put so much into, and that I am unwanted by those I worked so hard for.
I am no longer Ranch Kid, I am no longer a Black Lister. I am unaffiliated.
Spending the day considering a new signoff,
AMK
"It seems that the greatest difficulty is to find the end. Don't try to find it, it's there already."
Tom Cora
Friday, January 25, 2008
Empty Threats
Remember that time I told you I almost maced some sucker because I mistook his cellphone for a gun? This would lead you to believe that I am always aware of my surroundings and lead a safe life (or as safe as possible) in this pretty little ghetto.
Welp, apparently all it takes is a few shots if tequila (my favorite) and I own the world. Or at least the north side.
Here is the dilemma. The bar closes at 1:30am. The McDonalds dining room closes at midnight. The golden arches refuse service to anybody not in a car, as made perfectly clear in the posters displayed in the drive-thru windows reading, "No Walk Ups." These posters were obviously prompted by drunk kids trying to "walk up."
I have a memory from freshmen year of getting into a "car formation" with three other friends; we lined up with a driver, passenger, and two people in the back seat. Unfortunately for us, the sensor (that lets employees know of a car waiting to order) is magical and mystical and knew we weren't a real automobile. Blows my mind. We were in formation and everything! Mind you, as we are pretending to be a Ford Taurus the rest of the parking lot is chock full of other bar-goers desperate for some salty fries and chicken selects. Finally, we timid frosh got the nerve to tap on the window and politely ask for some tasty treats, and they served us.
Oh, how the times have changed. Apparently those posters mean business.
Here is my story.
Tequila: check
(here is where I would like to add other factors contributing to my behavior, but... all it takes is tequila.)
George, Kathryn and I leave the bar and have to pass McDonalds to get home. We want some. It is too late, the dining room is closed.
Not for Ali Kelly. I decide those posters don't apply to me. I tap on the drive-thru window. They ignore me. I knock. They ignore me. I bang on the window. The male manager walks over and opens up, quickly says, "No walk ups," and closes the window. But not before I could jam my arm in it to keep it open.
"Can we just have some fries please? And three double cheeseburgers?"
"No walk ups."
"I know, but this once. It's not hard."
"No walk ups."
*Deny Ali Kelly once, and all is forgiven. Deny Ali Kelly twice, and you are an idiot who has just unleashed a whole fit of sass and rage that could reduce a grown man to tears.
"Seriously?!?!? I know you have it in there? Why won't you just serve me?"
"Ma'am, we don't serve walk ups."
"OH, so I need a car to eat here? Is that what you are telling me?!?!?!"
"Yes ma'am."
"OH. OK. Really? I want to get this straight: you won't serve me unless I am in a car. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"SERIOUSLY?!?! THAT IS DISCRIMINATION AND I WON'T HAVE IT! THIS IS RIDICULOUS! JUST GIMME SOME FRIES AND BURGERS! IT WON'T TAKE THAT LONG! YOU COULD HAVE ALREADY GIVEN ME THE GOODS, AND I COULD ALREADY BE OUT OF YOUR FACE! JUST STOP BEING AN ASSHOLE AND STOP DISCRIMINATING AGAINST ME BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE A CAR!"
"I'm sorry."
"YEAH, WELL YOU SHOULD BE. BECAUSE YOU JUST GOT YOURSELF A LAWSUIT! I AM SUING YOU FOR DISCRIMINATING AGAINST ME BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE A CAR. THIS IS BULLSHIT. Let me ask you something: do you think it would be easier to serve me, or go to court? Because I will seriously sue this establishment."
"OK. Sue us."
"SERIOUSLY? FINE. I WILL."
Then I walked to the front of the joint and waved down the first car that pulled into the drive-thru lane. I walked over, he rolled down his window.
"Hi. Can I get in? They won't serve me without a car."
"Sure."
Then I got into a male stranger's car. In the ghetto. While sober, I'll mace some muh-fucker with a cell phone. While inebriated, I'll crawl into the nearest vehicle on my quest for fried food. George and Kathryn were standing by the order-speaker-thing and they crawled into the back seat and we all got to talking, Our chauffeur's name was Milo, he was driving a new, red Focus, he was eastern European, has lived in Chi for ten years, and had been at the same bar as us. He was very nice. After we got our food, Kathryn said, "We're already in your car, surely you can drive us home." And he did. And that's that.
***Tonight I am going to a club (and I really don't like that whole scene, but the drinks are free and the tools who get all pomade-ed up will make for some good material... and victims). And get this... Euro Rifikki (the cheek-kissing, winking Polish delight from two nights ago) is going to be there. Can't wait to see what happens. And tomorrow night is Adriana's 21st birthday extravaganza, which is going to be both a hoot and a holler.
Can't wait to keep you updated, dear two readers.
peace, love, and ponies.
"I took down his license plate number in my phone just in case he took off with you."
-Kathryn
Welp, apparently all it takes is a few shots if tequila (my favorite) and I own the world. Or at least the north side.
Here is the dilemma. The bar closes at 1:30am. The McDonalds dining room closes at midnight. The golden arches refuse service to anybody not in a car, as made perfectly clear in the posters displayed in the drive-thru windows reading, "No Walk Ups." These posters were obviously prompted by drunk kids trying to "walk up."
I have a memory from freshmen year of getting into a "car formation" with three other friends; we lined up with a driver, passenger, and two people in the back seat. Unfortunately for us, the sensor (that lets employees know of a car waiting to order) is magical and mystical and knew we weren't a real automobile. Blows my mind. We were in formation and everything! Mind you, as we are pretending to be a Ford Taurus the rest of the parking lot is chock full of other bar-goers desperate for some salty fries and chicken selects. Finally, we timid frosh got the nerve to tap on the window and politely ask for some tasty treats, and they served us.
Oh, how the times have changed. Apparently those posters mean business.
Here is my story.
Tequila: check
(here is where I would like to add other factors contributing to my behavior, but... all it takes is tequila.)
George, Kathryn and I leave the bar and have to pass McDonalds to get home. We want some. It is too late, the dining room is closed.
Not for Ali Kelly. I decide those posters don't apply to me. I tap on the drive-thru window. They ignore me. I knock. They ignore me. I bang on the window. The male manager walks over and opens up, quickly says, "No walk ups," and closes the window. But not before I could jam my arm in it to keep it open.
"Can we just have some fries please? And three double cheeseburgers?"
"No walk ups."
"I know, but this once. It's not hard."
"No walk ups."
*Deny Ali Kelly once, and all is forgiven. Deny Ali Kelly twice, and you are an idiot who has just unleashed a whole fit of sass and rage that could reduce a grown man to tears.
"Seriously?!?!? I know you have it in there? Why won't you just serve me?"
"Ma'am, we don't serve walk ups."
"OH, so I need a car to eat here? Is that what you are telling me?!?!?!"
"Yes ma'am."
"OH. OK. Really? I want to get this straight: you won't serve me unless I am in a car. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"SERIOUSLY?!?! THAT IS DISCRIMINATION AND I WON'T HAVE IT! THIS IS RIDICULOUS! JUST GIMME SOME FRIES AND BURGERS! IT WON'T TAKE THAT LONG! YOU COULD HAVE ALREADY GIVEN ME THE GOODS, AND I COULD ALREADY BE OUT OF YOUR FACE! JUST STOP BEING AN ASSHOLE AND STOP DISCRIMINATING AGAINST ME BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE A CAR!"
"I'm sorry."
"YEAH, WELL YOU SHOULD BE. BECAUSE YOU JUST GOT YOURSELF A LAWSUIT! I AM SUING YOU FOR DISCRIMINATING AGAINST ME BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE A CAR. THIS IS BULLSHIT. Let me ask you something: do you think it would be easier to serve me, or go to court? Because I will seriously sue this establishment."
"OK. Sue us."
"SERIOUSLY? FINE. I WILL."
Then I walked to the front of the joint and waved down the first car that pulled into the drive-thru lane. I walked over, he rolled down his window.
"Hi. Can I get in? They won't serve me without a car."
"Sure."
Then I got into a male stranger's car. In the ghetto. While sober, I'll mace some muh-fucker with a cell phone. While inebriated, I'll crawl into the nearest vehicle on my quest for fried food. George and Kathryn were standing by the order-speaker-thing and they crawled into the back seat and we all got to talking, Our chauffeur's name was Milo, he was driving a new, red Focus, he was eastern European, has lived in Chi for ten years, and had been at the same bar as us. He was very nice. After we got our food, Kathryn said, "We're already in your car, surely you can drive us home." And he did. And that's that.
***Tonight I am going to a club (and I really don't like that whole scene, but the drinks are free and the tools who get all pomade-ed up will make for some good material... and victims). And get this... Euro Rifikki (the cheek-kissing, winking Polish delight from two nights ago) is going to be there. Can't wait to see what happens. And tomorrow night is Adriana's 21st birthday extravaganza, which is going to be both a hoot and a holler.
Can't wait to keep you updated, dear two readers.
peace, love, and ponies.
"I took down his license plate number in my phone just in case he took off with you."
-Kathryn
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Will Work for Ritalin
A few things...
1. I know one other Patriots fan in Chicago. He is a fan because he is from NE. I am a fan because Tom Brady is my future husband. He may be more legit than me, but at least I know the right times to cheer and yell.
2. Speaking of, did you know a woman's Tom Brady jersey is impossible to find in any color other than glittery pink? And costs $60?
3. I am DYING to get to Miami for spring break. I have all the costs figured out, and without food, the trip will be a mere $446. (Airport, airport shuttle, hostel). I've said it before, but this time I really will sell my soul to get what I want. I love Miami so much it is dunb.
4. I, Ali Kelly, am part of a private PR council that has submitted a non-profit PR plan in a contest here at Loyola. This makes me feel like a real adult, as the contest is mainly for GSB students.
5. KMFP goes to France today, and I am not okay with that. MLA, we need a replacement just as badly as we need to come to terms with the fact that she will never come back.
6. I almost pulled my mace on somebody yesterday. He was acting all creepy and then I noticed he was holding a flat, silver thing across his body, pointing at me. I thought it was a gun, but quickly realized it was a cell phone. Still, bastard almost got it.
7. Funny story: At the bar last night for wings, and this kid I don't know, but who knows my friends because they all studied in Rome together, sits with us. Later when we were leaving, my friends were wandering around the bar saying goodbye to everybody and I was in front of a mirror, trying to get an eyelash out of my eye. He tapped my shoulder,
"Kelly, right?"
I simply shook my head.
Puzzled look.
"Ali... Kelly is my last name."
"A-l-l-i-e?"
head shake.
Puzzled look.
"A-l-i."
"Well, Ali, it was nice to meet you (grabs my hand to shake it)"
"Nice to mee-------" (This is where he surprised the hell out of me and came in and kissed me on the cheek. To me, this guy is a stranger and I am not entirely sure that cheek-kissing is appropriate for people who have mutual friends and nothing else.)
(seeing the shock on my face) "Oh, sorry. European thing."
(flustered, kinda mad) "No, it's fine."
Later, outside the bar with my friends George and Devin, I say, "Is that kid really European? Because he didn't have an accent AT ALL."
friends: "He's Polish, but he was born and raised here. Why?"
"Because he just kissed my cheek goodbye." He also winked at me when we were introduced.
Mind you, all my friends who studied in Rome love this cheek-kissing, winking guy. They think he is great. Maybe he is, but I don't really respect people who wink and scare the hell out of girls with European customs that aren't even relevant to the location you're in; college bar in Rogers Park?? We can be friends without the schmoozing, thanks. And then blaming it on your Europeanness, when you are a corn-fed Wisconsinite? It would be like me saying, "Sorry, I drink so much beer because I'm Irish, or at least my great-great-great grandpa was."
To top it all off, I can't remember his name. Rifiki? Rafalli? Ticky-Tacky? No idea.
But that's the life I lead. I get kissed by random men whilst standing in the middle of well-lit bars. Why can't I at least find a dark corner so that not every patron in the bar has to witness my awkwardness and shock?
peace, love, and ponies.
"Ali, David described you perfectly the other day."
"Yeah, how?"
"He said, 'She'll be your best friend, but she'll also be your biggest critic.'"
"...Yeah, I guess that's true. But I only criticize you if I love you."
"I know. That's why it feels so good."
-George and I
1. I know one other Patriots fan in Chicago. He is a fan because he is from NE. I am a fan because Tom Brady is my future husband. He may be more legit than me, but at least I know the right times to cheer and yell.
2. Speaking of, did you know a woman's Tom Brady jersey is impossible to find in any color other than glittery pink? And costs $60?
3. I am DYING to get to Miami for spring break. I have all the costs figured out, and without food, the trip will be a mere $446. (Airport, airport shuttle, hostel). I've said it before, but this time I really will sell my soul to get what I want. I love Miami so much it is dunb.
4. I, Ali Kelly, am part of a private PR council that has submitted a non-profit PR plan in a contest here at Loyola. This makes me feel like a real adult, as the contest is mainly for GSB students.
5. KMFP goes to France today, and I am not okay with that. MLA, we need a replacement just as badly as we need to come to terms with the fact that she will never come back.
6. I almost pulled my mace on somebody yesterday. He was acting all creepy and then I noticed he was holding a flat, silver thing across his body, pointing at me. I thought it was a gun, but quickly realized it was a cell phone. Still, bastard almost got it.
7. Funny story: At the bar last night for wings, and this kid I don't know, but who knows my friends because they all studied in Rome together, sits with us. Later when we were leaving, my friends were wandering around the bar saying goodbye to everybody and I was in front of a mirror, trying to get an eyelash out of my eye. He tapped my shoulder,
"Kelly, right?"
I simply shook my head.
Puzzled look.
"Ali... Kelly is my last name."
"A-l-l-i-e?"
head shake.
Puzzled look.
"A-l-i."
"Well, Ali, it was nice to meet you (grabs my hand to shake it)"
"Nice to mee-------" (This is where he surprised the hell out of me and came in and kissed me on the cheek. To me, this guy is a stranger and I am not entirely sure that cheek-kissing is appropriate for people who have mutual friends and nothing else.)
(seeing the shock on my face) "Oh, sorry. European thing."
(flustered, kinda mad) "No, it's fine."
Later, outside the bar with my friends George and Devin, I say, "Is that kid really European? Because he didn't have an accent AT ALL."
friends: "He's Polish, but he was born and raised here. Why?"
"Because he just kissed my cheek goodbye." He also winked at me when we were introduced.
Mind you, all my friends who studied in Rome love this cheek-kissing, winking guy. They think he is great. Maybe he is, but I don't really respect people who wink and scare the hell out of girls with European customs that aren't even relevant to the location you're in; college bar in Rogers Park?? We can be friends without the schmoozing, thanks. And then blaming it on your Europeanness, when you are a corn-fed Wisconsinite? It would be like me saying, "Sorry, I drink so much beer because I'm Irish, or at least my great-great-great grandpa was."
To top it all off, I can't remember his name. Rifiki? Rafalli? Ticky-Tacky? No idea.
But that's the life I lead. I get kissed by random men whilst standing in the middle of well-lit bars. Why can't I at least find a dark corner so that not every patron in the bar has to witness my awkwardness and shock?
peace, love, and ponies.
"Ali, David described you perfectly the other day."
"Yeah, how?"
"He said, 'She'll be your best friend, but she'll also be your biggest critic.'"
"...Yeah, I guess that's true. But I only criticize you if I love you."
"I know. That's why it feels so good."
-George and I
Sunday, January 6, 2008
I am the MOST easily influenced person alive
Somebody give my a task, as I can't stick to the ones I think I want to finish. (Not whining). The only constants in my life: I love horses and barns and getting dirty with those horses in those barns (since age 3) and that I have wanted to travel and live abroad (since age 14).
I can be easily swayed.
Last Christmas I saw The Holiday and was ready to drop everything and head to England, imagining a life in a little cottage with a slate roof, padding around the hardwood floors in soft, cashmere sweaters and delicate necklaces. Oh, there would also be an incredibly handsome, crazy-about-me Englishmen who had inherited grand amounts of money from dead relatives so neither of us would have to work. We could stay inside by the fire all day and talk about how amazing I am, among other things.
I am sure that throughout the course of Christmas 2006 to Christmas 2007 I read a few books and saw a few movies that made me yearn to lead a life similar to one inked across spaced pages of a script, acted out in front of a camera. But nothing like P.S. I Love You.
I think P.S. I Love You Fever may be worse than The Holiday Fever was. These upcoming months are going to be rocky.
For the unaware: P.S. is about a 29 year-old New Yorker whose Irish husband dies. The rest of the movie is about her moving on, and lots of flashbacks of them together.
It will move the coldest, most frigid woman to cry.
It doesn't help that the husband is Gerard Butler and INSANELY charming and funny and handsome and HAS AN ACCENT. (Seeing this movie has further strengthened my If You Don't Have an Accent, Needn't Apply standard).
Back to the main point: I become infatuated very easily. I've played Galway Girl at least 27 times a day since seeing the film. I checked prices on airfare to Dublin for 30 minutes today. ($450 for spring break... too much). Incidentally, I was helping my mom clean out the basement today and found a write-up on my Irish ancestors. It went back to 1802, and I was psyched. My great-great-great grandpa, Raymond James Kelly (of County Clare) married my great-great-great grandma, Margaret Rohan (of County Kerry) in 1843; she was 39 years-old and had six children over the following 15 years--- giving birth to her youngest at 54 years-old. She lived to be 98. I always knew we Kelly women were a hardy bunch, but now I know why: Margaret Rohan.
Anywho, they actually married in Ontario; Margaret came in 1823 (at 19) and Raymond came in 1839. They had a farm and an apple orchard. In 1860, they moved to Niagra Falls, NY, but then financial strain from the Civil War caused them to move westward to "the wilderness of Allegan County, Michigan."
From there, there were more farms, more Civil War, World War I/II, and Korean war soldiers with uniforms bearing the Kelly name. From Allegan, they came to Flint, where I was born.
Here I am, 20 minutes south of where we landed in the 1940s.
Anyway, this post is long and scatter-brained, so I'll cut-to-the-chase:
-Easily swayed/ no focus
-finds Gerard Butler ungodly handsome
-had a really good book idea today
-moving to Ireland to write that book
Case Closed.
peace, love, and ponies.
"My shoes are all over the place. I have to pick them up, or they'll think I don't love them."
-Holly, P.S. I Love You
I can be easily swayed.
Last Christmas I saw The Holiday and was ready to drop everything and head to England, imagining a life in a little cottage with a slate roof, padding around the hardwood floors in soft, cashmere sweaters and delicate necklaces. Oh, there would also be an incredibly handsome, crazy-about-me Englishmen who had inherited grand amounts of money from dead relatives so neither of us would have to work. We could stay inside by the fire all day and talk about how amazing I am, among other things.
I am sure that throughout the course of Christmas 2006 to Christmas 2007 I read a few books and saw a few movies that made me yearn to lead a life similar to one inked across spaced pages of a script, acted out in front of a camera. But nothing like P.S. I Love You.
I think P.S. I Love You Fever may be worse than The Holiday Fever was. These upcoming months are going to be rocky.
For the unaware: P.S. is about a 29 year-old New Yorker whose Irish husband dies. The rest of the movie is about her moving on, and lots of flashbacks of them together.
It will move the coldest, most frigid woman to cry.
It doesn't help that the husband is Gerard Butler and INSANELY charming and funny and handsome and HAS AN ACCENT. (Seeing this movie has further strengthened my If You Don't Have an Accent, Needn't Apply standard).
Back to the main point: I become infatuated very easily. I've played Galway Girl at least 27 times a day since seeing the film. I checked prices on airfare to Dublin for 30 minutes today. ($450 for spring break... too much). Incidentally, I was helping my mom clean out the basement today and found a write-up on my Irish ancestors. It went back to 1802, and I was psyched. My great-great-great grandpa, Raymond James Kelly (of County Clare) married my great-great-great grandma, Margaret Rohan (of County Kerry) in 1843; she was 39 years-old and had six children over the following 15 years--- giving birth to her youngest at 54 years-old. She lived to be 98. I always knew we Kelly women were a hardy bunch, but now I know why: Margaret Rohan.
Anywho, they actually married in Ontario; Margaret came in 1823 (at 19) and Raymond came in 1839. They had a farm and an apple orchard. In 1860, they moved to Niagra Falls, NY, but then financial strain from the Civil War caused them to move westward to "the wilderness of Allegan County, Michigan."
From there, there were more farms, more Civil War, World War I/II, and Korean war soldiers with uniforms bearing the Kelly name. From Allegan, they came to Flint, where I was born.
Here I am, 20 minutes south of where we landed in the 1940s.
Anyway, this post is long and scatter-brained, so I'll cut-to-the-chase:
-Easily swayed/ no focus
-finds Gerard Butler ungodly handsome
-had a really good book idea today
-moving to Ireland to write that book
Case Closed.
peace, love, and ponies.
"My shoes are all over the place. I have to pick them up, or they'll think I don't love them."
-Holly, P.S. I Love You
Saturday, December 29, 2007
If You Are Feeling Ballsy...
The Musketeers are going to Chicago for New Years. Dan-Dan the Hot Lifeguard Man is also in the city. So, if you are feeling ballsy, I challenge you to venture to Chicago for the New Year- my apartment door is open to all who traipse two states away from the homeland.
peace, love, and ponies.
"Running though the sprinklers, with a big popsicle grin..."
-Chuck Wicks, "Stealing Cinderella"
peace, love, and ponies.
"Running though the sprinklers, with a big popsicle grin..."
-Chuck Wicks, "Stealing Cinderella"
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
To Clear the Air
Sorry about the lack of posts. I have been extremely busy procrastinating for finals. My most recent endeavors include, but are not limited to: sweeping, windex-ing, vacumming, organizing/sorting, general cleaning, repairing things (like dresser mirrors), and discarding old magazines. Also consuming large quantities of pop.
But the real purpose of this post is to clear the air. So here it is:
Whatever your rapid thought process tells you, it is not, I REPEAT: NOT a good idea to sneeze into an empty popcorn bag that you happen to have in your hand. MOST LIKELY, the bag will not be completely empty, thus resulting in an eruption of small popcorn flakes and crumbs similar to that of a blender full of flour on HIGH, sans lid . This event is most unfortunate when you are sitting in your bed.
I'm off to sleep with Orville Redenbacher.
peace, love, and ponies.
"Of course life is bizarre, the more bizarre it gets, the more interesting it is. The only way to approach it is to make yourself some popcorn and enjoy the show."
-David Gerrold
But the real purpose of this post is to clear the air. So here it is:
Whatever your rapid thought process tells you, it is not, I REPEAT: NOT a good idea to sneeze into an empty popcorn bag that you happen to have in your hand. MOST LIKELY, the bag will not be completely empty, thus resulting in an eruption of small popcorn flakes and crumbs similar to that of a blender full of flour on HIGH, sans lid . This event is most unfortunate when you are sitting in your bed.
I'm off to sleep with Orville Redenbacher.
peace, love, and ponies.
"Of course life is bizarre, the more bizarre it gets, the more interesting it is. The only way to approach it is to make yourself some popcorn and enjoy the show."
-David Gerrold
Monday, December 3, 2007
Flashback with Em
Em and I were just talking about the things that made our worlds go round in middle school. Which began 10 years ago for me. I feel so old. Here, a photographic walk down memory lane:
Peace, love, and ponies.
Kevin Burke: That's not cranberry sauce.
[holding his hands one on top of the other about six inches apart]
Kevin Burke: Cranberry sauce is yay-high, shaped like a can.
-Two of a Kind, starring Mary Kate and Ashley Olson
Peace, love, and ponies.
Kevin Burke: That's not cranberry sauce.
[holding his hands one on top of the other about six inches apart]
Kevin Burke: Cranberry sauce is yay-high, shaped like a can.
-Two of a Kind, starring Mary Kate and Ashley Olson
Use your timer, you tool!
I nag about a lot of things stupid people do, like girls who wear too much make-up, guys who enjoy clubs, and general stupidity all around.
But one thing really irks me.
I absolutely HATE it when people take pictures of themselves in a mirror. Want an example? Just look at a random guy's MySpace pictures. 99% of the idiots on MySpace have posted pictures of themselves, standing in front of a mirror, wearing pants, holding up their shirt with one hand and their digital camera in the other hand.
Now, I have scientific proof that the people who partake in this douche-bag-title-nabbing activity are in fact idiots. Here it is:
Every digital camera ever (except maybe for your 4-year-old cousin's digital Barbie camera) has something called a self timer. It's this magical little setting that allows the user to take a picture at a delay, once the button is pressed.
I am willing to say, with science backing me up, that the tools who fail to recognize the mystical ability of the timer do so because they lack a thought process that extends beyond, "food. gym. sluts. glamour shots in the mirror."
and the rant is over. but just to reiterate, i hate those guys.
peace, love, and ponies.
"Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former."
-Einstein
But one thing really irks me.
I absolutely HATE it when people take pictures of themselves in a mirror. Want an example? Just look at a random guy's MySpace pictures. 99% of the idiots on MySpace have posted pictures of themselves, standing in front of a mirror, wearing pants, holding up their shirt with one hand and their digital camera in the other hand.
Now, I have scientific proof that the people who partake in this douche-bag-title-nabbing activity are in fact idiots. Here it is:
Every digital camera ever (except maybe for your 4-year-old cousin's digital Barbie camera) has something called a self timer. It's this magical little setting that allows the user to take a picture at a delay, once the button is pressed.
I am willing to say, with science backing me up, that the tools who fail to recognize the mystical ability of the timer do so because they lack a thought process that extends beyond, "food. gym. sluts. glamour shots in the mirror."
and the rant is over. but just to reiterate, i hate those guys.
peace, love, and ponies.
"Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former."
-Einstein
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Poor Blogging Etiquette
I apologize for my recent neglect.
Now, an update of interesting events. Mostly about my cat. Because, well, I love my cat too much; acceptance is the first step, right?
Well anyway, I took Milo to my brother's apartment to play with his cat, Princess Isabella Kittypants. Matt lives right downtown, so Milo went on his first big adventure. He rode the El, saw Michigan Avenue, and even a few bums. He got a real taste of the real Chicago, essentially. He spent two nights with his cousin cat, and I am going to go pick him up later today. My brother's girlfriend noted that he drinks a ton of water, which I always knew, but mentioned that it might be feline diabetes. If he does have it, I imagine I'll start to believe that diabetes is now a contagious disease that can be picked up at Copneconic. Poor kitty.
In other news, I helped stop a fight last night. Normally, I wouldn't risk injury to myself and just let idiots fight, but they way this one started (a trashed kid sucker punched a drunk kid out of NO WHERE. They were just having a conversation, and then BAM!) So anyway, Nital, Eric, and I all tried to rip them apart. I ended up bracing them each at their shoulders with my ankles. Picture this: It's midnight, it's dark, I'm in the middle of BFE on the westside of Chicago, and I am standing with my legs spread in a manner that looks like I am trying to ride two horses at once, and beneath my crotch two drunk kids are trying to swing at each other, missing time and time again, but still trying. Idiots. Finally, we get one of them to leave with a group of people (girls) to escort him to the bus stop. They walk out of sight, and people start to comfort the kid who was sucker punched, whom I don't really know. I'm just standing looking down the sidewalk when I see a guy running at us like Forrest Gump: picture a tall guy, running with high knees, head tilted back, and very stiff arms bent at a 90 degree ange, pumping toward the sky... kind of entertaining until I realized it was the pissed off drunk kid, coming back for more. I panic and realize that I am the only person between him and the other boy, and certainly the only person who has noticed his impending arrival. I was about to lean over and put a shoulder in his gut (he probably outweighs me by, at least, 50 pounds) until I saw Eric out of the corner of my eye, and yell, "Eric, stop him!" So Eric tackled him to the ground. Other things happened, but really, the climax of that story is where I considered trying to stop a large, tall, charging man whilst wearing ballet flats and a faux fur cheetah coat.
I remember having a few thoughts yesterday (well, there really are only a few each day) and thinking, "I need to write that on ranch2chi," but now I cannot remember them. I will focus on thinking profound thoughts today, and report back later.
Chicago is beautiful and lit up and festive. If anybody wants to visit, you have a free place to stay, and I'll probably feed you too because I like to think of myself as the Hostess with the Mostest. Yup. Always have, always will.
peace, love, and ponies.
RanchKid: "Stop it! You guys are college students! Stop being such stupid assholes!"
Nital: "OK, that's way over their heads. What they need is baby talk, like this: STOP! BAD! NO!"
Now, an update of interesting events. Mostly about my cat. Because, well, I love my cat too much; acceptance is the first step, right?
Well anyway, I took Milo to my brother's apartment to play with his cat, Princess Isabella Kittypants. Matt lives right downtown, so Milo went on his first big adventure. He rode the El, saw Michigan Avenue, and even a few bums. He got a real taste of the real Chicago, essentially. He spent two nights with his cousin cat, and I am going to go pick him up later today. My brother's girlfriend noted that he drinks a ton of water, which I always knew, but mentioned that it might be feline diabetes. If he does have it, I imagine I'll start to believe that diabetes is now a contagious disease that can be picked up at Copneconic. Poor kitty.
In other news, I helped stop a fight last night. Normally, I wouldn't risk injury to myself and just let idiots fight, but they way this one started (a trashed kid sucker punched a drunk kid out of NO WHERE. They were just having a conversation, and then BAM!) So anyway, Nital, Eric, and I all tried to rip them apart. I ended up bracing them each at their shoulders with my ankles. Picture this: It's midnight, it's dark, I'm in the middle of BFE on the westside of Chicago, and I am standing with my legs spread in a manner that looks like I am trying to ride two horses at once, and beneath my crotch two drunk kids are trying to swing at each other, missing time and time again, but still trying. Idiots. Finally, we get one of them to leave with a group of people (girls) to escort him to the bus stop. They walk out of sight, and people start to comfort the kid who was sucker punched, whom I don't really know. I'm just standing looking down the sidewalk when I see a guy running at us like Forrest Gump: picture a tall guy, running with high knees, head tilted back, and very stiff arms bent at a 90 degree ange, pumping toward the sky... kind of entertaining until I realized it was the pissed off drunk kid, coming back for more. I panic and realize that I am the only person between him and the other boy, and certainly the only person who has noticed his impending arrival. I was about to lean over and put a shoulder in his gut (he probably outweighs me by, at least, 50 pounds) until I saw Eric out of the corner of my eye, and yell, "Eric, stop him!" So Eric tackled him to the ground. Other things happened, but really, the climax of that story is where I considered trying to stop a large, tall, charging man whilst wearing ballet flats and a faux fur cheetah coat.
I remember having a few thoughts yesterday (well, there really are only a few each day) and thinking, "I need to write that on ranch2chi," but now I cannot remember them. I will focus on thinking profound thoughts today, and report back later.
Chicago is beautiful and lit up and festive. If anybody wants to visit, you have a free place to stay, and I'll probably feed you too because I like to think of myself as the Hostess with the Mostest. Yup. Always have, always will.
peace, love, and ponies.
RanchKid: "Stop it! You guys are college students! Stop being such stupid assholes!"
Nital: "OK, that's way over their heads. What they need is baby talk, like this: STOP! BAD! NO!"
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