That's Cold

Break-ups are rarely easy. But in this case, it's the best decision.

I'm sorry, Winter. It's over.

I can't take any more of this abusive relationship. Every time I walk outside you slap me in the face; I cringe when you touch me. I have to wear long sleeves, lest the neighbors talk; I hate to leave the house. How am I supposed to live my life with you in my way?

And I'm not gonna get all sentimental come next December like I do every year, when you come crawling back all clean and new and beautiful, bearing Christmas gifts. No present could ever make up for the way you've treated me over the past few months.

You're a real jerk, Winter. Hit the skids.

Famous by Association

Mercy Date was on TV! Twice! It was on Image Union: First Dates on Valentine's Day and the subsequent Sunday.

The following was on the station's website:

"Love is in the air, as Image Union celebrates Valentine s Day with a look at first dates. Michael Cera finds out that meeting a date's parents can be down right scary, in Darling, Darling. And in Mercy Date, the tables are turned as one woman finds out the truth behind her blind date set-up.
Now celebrating its 30th anniversary, Image Union keeps evolving – and expanding – to present new, innovative work from filmmakers in Chicago and around the globe. This season is shaping up to be one of our best ever, with everything from dark comedy to Oscar-winning animation, and first-time efforts from promising new filmmakers to award-winning shorts with plenty of star power. And Image Union is still the place for documentaries, experimental work, international films and the best local stuff we can find."

"Some of the most vibrant work in the field of independent video and filmmaking."
— Chicago Tribune

... not too shabby!

Also, I'm finally comfortable enough to announce that I've been cast in the Second City Music Improv House Ensemble. It's all singprov all the time. I'm Wayne Brady!

I had my fourth show on Sunday, and it's going great. I'm so impressed with every member of the cast! They're all talented and I haven't caught a whiff of ego. Whew. I think I may be OK at this stuff. Come see it.

Not again!

When you use the wipers, why does the entire windshield get clean except the spot right in front of your face?

It never fails. Doesn't matter what car you're in, what month it is, if it's raining, snowing, or the tires on the semi in front of you keep splashing up road moisture.

I especially love it when that spot freezes.

Cut to me scrunched over, peering around that stupid spot. It mocks me while I try not to die on the highway because I CAN'T SEE!!

I'll pay 10 million dollars for the car that doesn't have this problem. It'll be a miracle.

The Creepy Edition

I went to CostCo last week to buy a 98-pack of toilet paper and snack on samples of mashed potatoes in Dixie Cups. On my journey around the Warehouse of Excess, I was horrified to see this:



Caskets creep me out; not because of horror movies, it just seems like a ridiculous thing to put a dead body in. What do you need silk lining and a little pillow for after you're dead? Waste of money. So, I'm officially giving the OK to instead go to the next aisle, buy that jumbo plastic tub of pretzels and deposit my remains into it. Then take the money you were spending on a casket (because Lord knows I'm not paying for it) and throw a kickass party.

This way, everyone can snack on pretzels while they're all reminiscing over how amazing I was. I should be an event planner.

Progress?

I took a bartending certification test online today; in particular, it was the RESPONSIBLE SERVING COURSE. This is when I remind and/or inform all of you that I have a Masters degree in Theater History and Acting Theory. But that's neither here nor there. Mama gots to supplement her income before Paul Thomas Anderson calls and/or she falls back on teaching.

Before one takes the test, you have the option of flipping through electronic flashcards pertaining to the information contained on the exam. I came across some real gems, but the following had me on the floor:

"Guidelines for checking ID:
In addition to examining height, hairline and chin shape, look for the following:
Lack of beard in young males..."

OK, that all makes sense...

"...Lack of pelvic or breast development..."

Oh. Um, I'll take their word on it. I don't need some dude telling me to get my face out of his pelvis... again.

"... Large barrettes or bows worn in the hair..."

Really? Who wears those except preteen British girls in sailor dresses?

"...Extreme trends favored by younger generation, for example, "punk" look or bizarre haircut..."

Well, that doesn't seem fair. I know plenty of punks with terrible haircuts in their 20s that can and NEED to drink. They're called actors. They're poor and depressed because they're doing free shows that no one sees in Donny's Skybox.

"...Acid washed jeans, denim mini skirts, non matching earrings, earrings only worn in one ear, high top sneakers with colorful or no shoe laces, and wearing multiple layers of clothing."

So, I guess tacky dressers trapped in 1985 aren't allowed to drink. How are people that live in rural communities supposed to tie one on? What else do they have?

I'm now armed with the pertinent information I need to save the youth of Illinois from the perils of underage drinking. Look out, punk kids! That boombox on your shoulder is a dead giveaway! Now pick up that cardboard you're breakdancing on and moonwalk on home!

Oh boy...

Few things make me happier than watching the 20-something paralegals and CPAs of our fair city attempt to do the cardio hip hop class at my gym. It's priceless. Sexy faces and awkward bodies. Hilarious.

Just to clarify: I'm not in the hip hop class. I'm on the outside of the glass waiting for my cardio kickboxing class to start, so some other cynical chick can judge me. And believe me, there's plenty to judge. You should really see me pretending to kick ass. I believe my own hype!

Resolution

An illustration of why I can't seem to lose that last 5 pounds:



I glanced over to my nightstand last night, and this is what I saw. Allow me to be your docent:

See the jar of peanut butter? It's sitting next to the spoon I had just been using to scoop the delicious goodness directly into my mouth. That shiny tinfoil is the only evidence of the Christmas chocolate Santa I had dipped into the peanut butter because, apparently pure peanut butter isn't decadent enough.

Please note that this arrangement is resting on a book titled, "The Workout," by Gunnar Peterson, fitness guru to the stars.

I'm using it as a placemat.