Blog Day 2008

Okay, so I almost forgot about Blog Day. I suck. Good thing the rest of you were on top of it and reminded me with your own Blog Day posts. It's cool though -- better late than never, right? RIGHT?

BlogDay was created with the belief that bloggers should have one day dedicated to getting to know other bloggers from other countries and areas of interest. On that day Bloggers will recommend other blogs to their blog visitors. With the goal in mind, on this day every blogger will post a recommendation of 5 new blogs. This way, all blog readers will find themselves leaping around and discovering new, previously unknown blogs.


Now, let me start this by saying that my usual list of favorites isn't here. Those include angilio, Wild ARS Chase, To Kiss the Cook, haute.pocket, Surviving Myself, She's Got Baggage and Alice in Average-Land, to name just a few.

For Blog Day, I decided to feature bloggers that probably have no idea who I am or how I found them. I read them consistently, I laugh nearly every time, I often lurk instead of comment. Yep, I'm one of those creepers. So when these folks get the "hey I featured you" email, they're gonna be like, "What the fuck is an 'elle michelle'?"

Whatevs! I love these bloggers even if they don't know/love me. Even if that makes me a stalker.


The Typing Makes Me Sound Busy
J-Money's incredibly well-written blog is one of my absolute favorites. She's self-deprecating, hilarious and totally relatable. If you like reading about Hugh Laurie fantasies (hers), human incompetence (theirs) and everything in between, put this blog in your reader NOW.

Mommy Wants Vodka
I don't have kids, but I do like vodka, so this blog is actually much more up my alley than you'd think. Aunt Becky's caustic wit is addictive. She's no brownie-baking-soccer-mom, and that's a good thing. She's young. She's real. She's funny. She's also pregnant again, so I don't think she's as drunk as she usually is -- and she's still entertaining. Wish I had that talent.

Lots Better Than Your Blog
I don't care who you are, that title rings true. Falwless is the queen of sarcasm and her blog is awesome. She can be super blunt, but that intensity is why her writing is so great. Whether she's paying homage to her middle school lover or she's giving thumbs up to the homeless, this chick is definitely one of a kind.

A Martini Always Helps
This is one of my more recent finds, but I love it already. She writes about random shit -- like how her dog gets so scared of thunder that he rearranges the shoes in her closet, and how she got loaded on margaritas for breakfast and went on a shopping spree -- but a majority of it can be brought back to drinking, shopping, shoes and dating. What's not to like?

Everything I Like Causes Cancer
Another one of my recent finds, on which I have never commented. Gwen is a blogger from my beloved STL, and if you like this post, you'll probably like the rest of her blog.


Enjoy!

Maybe a map should be next on your list

Just saw a Craigslist posting about a poor guy who lost his laptop.



Seriously, that SUCKS... If you have a decent laptop. My 4-year-old Dell refuses to find wireless and is slower than a tourist trying to walk down Michigan Ave, so that's a different story.

But what struck me with this guy's ad was not the fact that he lost a laptop. It's that he took a cab from Wacker & Clark to Clark & Lake. Observe:



Damn, and I thought I was lazy.

Hey, Lost Laptop Dude, maybe instead of a laptop, you can invest in a map. It's certainly cheaper, and could *probably* have prevented this entire incident in the first place, since it would clearly show you how Point A and Point B are, ya know, a block away from each other.

(Okay, now that I've made fun of the guy for pulling such an idiotic move, I feel kinda bad. I would flip my shit if I lost a good laptop! Even a sort-of good one. Maybe even my super shitty one, I don't know. All that certain is that I'm rubbing salt in his wound. I really can't stop myself from being a jackass, huh?)

Part of your wooooorld

You know you're getting older when you think King Triton is hotter than Prince Eric.


I mean, I don't think that. I'm still all about the dark-haired, animated hotness of the prince. But Ang, on the other hand, thinks that Kind Triton is a hot piece of merman ass (mer-ass?).

I discovered this when Ang, Zannie and I went to The Little Mermaid Sing-Along the other night.


And, no, that's not creepy of us, so shut it.

The show started at 7:45pm, so we decided to have a few drinks after work. Someone was worried the show would sell out, so we showed up around 5:20 to pick up tickets. Since there was a 5:30 show, we were surrounded by a sea of tiny little girls, several of them dressed in princess costumes as they waited in line.


One of the mothers looked at us all weird and glanced down to see if we had any kids with us. Nope. Just us, lady. Do we really look that scary?


Okay, maybe.

Anyway, since the line was long and the judgmental looks were longer, we decided to skip the early ticket-buying and head straight to the bar. After two hours of Blue Moon, quesadillas and conversations about Plan B, boarding school, work and shitty landlords, we made our way to the theater.

This time, we were surrounded by a sea of equally tipsy 20-somethings all excited to see The Best Disney Movie Ever. Quite a scene.

Contributing to the scene was the fact that we all got goodie bags when we entered the theater. In it, there was a plastic fork (dinglehopper), champagne poppers, a glowstick that I later spilled all over myself, press-on tattoos and jellybeans in a fish-shaped packet.












We sat in our seats going through our goodie bags when Ariel herself appeared. When I say "Ariel," I mean a 30-something woman in a flowy "mermaid" outfit with a crown and a face that said "this is not where I imagined my life would be by this age." She explained when/how we should use all of our goodie bag items throughout the movie and encouraged us to sing along as much as possible. Hey, you got it.



Throughout the movie, we laughed, sang and yelled (Ang kept screaming, "I HATE YOU" whenever Ursula came on sceen) at appropriate and inappropriate times. It was pure magic, I tell you.

Once the movie ended, Zannie and Ang decided to get more drinks and harass the guides at Cha-Cha while I decided to catch a cab. I'm not a start-stop-start-again kind of drinker. If I take a break, I'm done for. So I hopped in a cab and spent the rest of the ride home trying to remove the red glowstick goo from my white shirt. (I did.)

Got home, watched Obama's speech, passed the fuck out.

Not bad for a Thursday.

Labor Day tourists. Oh, joy.

This is going to be a total Debbie Downer post, I can feel it.

Let's start with something positive...

I love Chicago. I love living in the city, I love the weather right now, I love my swimming pool, I love all the amazing restaurants, I love the great shopping, I love that there's so much to do here even if I choose not to do any of it. (I'm lazy.)

I do NOT love that the Today Show just told a million people that Chicago is a great last-minute Labor Day getaway.

Dammit, Viera! I used to like you!

Because I've been so wrapped up in all this wedding crap, I almost forgot that this weekend is a holiday. Holidays in Chicago = Tourists. Tourists = Super slow walking, taking up the entire fucking sidewalk, crowding the train doors, fanny packs, rampant fashion faux pas, conversing with the bums on Michigan Ave., stopping dead in their tracks in the middle of a busy area, crossing the street without an ounce of reason or a glance at the rapidly approaching traffic, etc. All of that = Unhappy Elle.

I know, I'm grouchy. As I sat on the couch and did my makeup this morning (what?), I heard Meredith Viera do a teaser about how they were going to feature great last-minute getaways for Labor Day.

I stiffened. Grouchiness ensued.

"No," I murmered. "No, don't do it. Don't say Chicago."

I refused to move from the couch until this segment was over. After what seemed like forever (I'm lazy AND impatient -- winning combination), it aired, with an editor from Conde Nast Traveler naming her top picks.

"You leave us out of this, Conde Nast," I threatened.

She didn't. She even tried to play off the DNC and said it's a great excuse to visit Barack's hometown. I collapsed back on the couch.

"God dammit!"

I probably punched the couch too. So, I'm a violent Debbie Downer, I guess.

Anyway, thanks for that, Today Show. You couldn't have said New York, huh? Oh, what's that? You don't want your city to be more crowded than it already is? Not interested in weaving through throngs of people as you try to make it to happy hour before the specials are gone? Didn't want tourists taking all the cabs so you're left standing in front of your building as they all whiz by? Couldn't stand the thought of the rest of them crowding the subways? Yeah. Me neither.

So, if you're coming to Chicago this weekend, well, I automatically like you because you read my blog. We should get some wine. But I swear to God, if you walk super slow or crowd the corner of an intersection so no one can get past you, I'm not going to stop you when you inexplicably decide to walk in front of oncoming traffic.

See ya soon! ;-)

True story

I haven't admitted this to you all yet because, well, it's possible that you think I'm weird enough already. And if you don't already think that, what I'm about to tell you will surely seal the deal...

I have an unhealthy obsession with crime shows.

From the delightfully fake dramas like CSI to the disturbingly real shit like the First 48, I can't help but watch morbid TV. That's not even the weird part... perhaps worse is the fact that I watch them before going to bed. Let's not dwell on this too much, k? Moving on.

The other night, I was watching something I'd never watched before, Forensic Files. The name alone made me assume that I'd see some fancy technologies, new crime scene innovations and in-depth police work. (Sorry to geek out like that, but it's just how I am.) Instead, I saw a TRAINWRECK of an investigation and rampant idiocy that once again reminds me why I'm glad I don't live in the south. I can't believe there are people in this world that are THIS BAD at life.

Let's begin the story.


Location
A small, southern town where people either fish for a living or work at the mom-and-pop drug store. I'd say it was a WalMart, but this town -- which I dubbed Bumblefuck -- was WAY too small for that kind of mega chain. And maybe too ass-backwards for WalMart too, if you believe such a place exists.

The gist
Two men went out on a fishing boat during a massive storm. Not surprisingly, they didn't come back. Fourteen hours after the storm, another fishing boat picked up one of the men, alive, just floating on a scrap of wood. This man, by the way, has an IQ of 74, which makes him slightly smarter than a peanut. He told the coast guard that his captain, the missing man, got his foot stuck in a net during the storm and was unable to break free in the storm, no matter how hard he tried. The captain told the man to save himself, and presumably drowned with the sinking ship.

The twist
Two days later, the captain's body is found floating in the water. He has a gash across his head and a series of cuts across one of his arms. The townsfolk wonder, "Does drowning do that to people?" I answer, "Probably, you fucking hillbillies. Thrashing around in the elements with large shards of debris barreling down on you might give a person a few scrapes." Alas, I do not live in Bumblefuck, thank God, so we turn to the brilliant coroner for his expert assessment.

Enter the coroner
The body is taken to the coroner, who I will call Mr. Make-Shit-Up. Mr. MSU sees the gash in the captain's head and, since I'm no stranger to making shit up myself, this is the dialogue I imagine went through his head: "Aw, golly gee, ya'll. This boy's got a mighty big gash in his head. The only possible explanation I see is pipe-wielding ninjas who like to kill for fun. (Dang, I should write a motion picture script for that.) Imma call this 'blunt force trauma.' Oooo, lookathat. Cuts on the arm too! Imma call those 'defensive wounds.' Blunt force trauma + defensive wounds = homicide. I'm gonna tell the po-po to investigate that medically slow dolt with the low IQ. He ain't no ninja, but it's clear that he's a MURDERER."

Enter the media
The headline the next day: Murder at Sea -- Two Men Battle for Last Life Jacket During Storm. Please Ignore the Fact that the Simpleton Was Found Without Any Life Jacket Whatsoever. It Totally Happened This Way. I Swear. Dude's a MURDERER.

Enter cliche, hard-ass cops who are really excited to be working a case other than who stole the ketchup bottles at Denny's
The cops take their new suspect to the interrogation room...
Cop: You killed your captain!!
Simpleton: No I didn't.
Cop: What'd you hit him with!!?
Simpleton: I didn't hit him at all.
... Literally 7 hours later ...
Cop: What'd you hit him with!!?
Simpleton: A board?
Cop: There ain't no damn board on that boat! What'd you hit him with!?
Simpleton: Um, a hammer?
Cop: That don't even match the evidence!
Simpleton: A pipe?
Cop: AHA! MURDERER!

Enter motorcycle-riding lawyer to defend the simpleton
"Ya'll this is the worst case of bullying I've EVER seen in a po-lice interview. It's obvious this poor simpleton just told them what they wanted to hear because they wouldn't stop screaming at him. I'd like to see those cops try that on me. Bring it." *Flexes*

Enter common sense
Um, the arm gashes on the body were not deep. Of course, the genius coroner never measured or inspected that, but if he had, he would have found that they were consistent with a boat's propeller blades. And that head gash? Caused postmortem, likely by a passing boat. In other words, the dead captain got run over by a boat after he floated to the surface after drowning. He was also found without one of his shoes, which matched the simpleton's story.



So. Who's glad they don't live in Bumblefuck?

Who's creepy now?

The location: Work, yesterday
The time: Late afternoon
The scene: Since we're going to Australia on our honeymoon, Dave is planning his strategy for making sure I'm tired enough to pass out on the flight and *not* get bitchy from jet lag.


Dave: I think Tuesday we should be up as early as possible so we're tired for the flight.

Me: Right.

Dave: Which means I'm waking your ass up at, like, 7.
Dave: For a run.
Dave: And then lifting.

Me: HAHAHA FUNNY JOKES

Dave: We're gonna get our swell on... together.
Dave: After this marriage, we're gonna be doing EVERYTHING together.

Me: Okay, settle down, spaz.

Dave: We're gonna be one unit.
Dave: Not two people.
Dave: One unit.

Me: Ha. Unit.

Dave: Oh, God.
Dave: Wow.

Me: That's what you get for being creepy.

Why I'm practically Batman

Psych. I'm not Batman. (Don't you kind of wish people would start saying "psych" again? Ang has already brought back "duh," so this seems like a natural progression.)

Seriously though, I saw The Dark Knight last weekend, which was the first movie I'd seen at the theaters in, oh, three and a half years. I wish I were exaggerating. I don't get out.

Anyway, since the movie was filmed in Chicago, it was cool to recognize all of the areas. And, I learned this interesting tidbit:

My wedding is taking place in Bruce Wayne's bedroom.


See? Practically Batman.

Have you seen The Dark Knight? Batman's bedroom looks pretty kick-ass. Granted, they decided to make the space one man's bedroom and we're cramming 100 people in there, but whatevs. The space will look more girly and less bachelory pad-y once my florist gets done with it, so it will be practically unrecognizable from the movie, save the views.

Get excited! (I finally am.)

Gotta have priorities

Another conversation between Dave and I.

The location: At work (Dave in Hyde Park and me in River North)
The time: Early afternoon
The scene: We're running through our plans this weekend, which inevitably include some sort of wedding something or other.


Dave: Nothing going on this weekend, right?

Me: Nope.

Dave: Can we keep it that way?

Me: Sure.

Dave: Okay. I think we'll stop by this travel store over the weekend so we can figure out this adapter shit for Australia.

He knows that if I can't plug in my flat iron, there will be Hell To Pay.

Me: Gotta get a marriage license one of these days too.

Dave: That's right. I'm gonna look into that right now.

Me: (busy Twittering)

Dave: Hey, can we go on Saturday? It's open 9am to noon.

Me: See if it will be raining. I'll go if the weather isn't good for laying out.

Dave: Elle. Come on.

Me: What? Tanning is very important for the wedding, Dave.

At this point, I picture him rolling his eyes, letting out a defeated sigh and wondering what those cougars are up to at Elm St.

Dave: We have scattered storms on Saturday.

Me: That is acceptable.

Dave: Anyway, if we go at 9, we can probably be back by 10 and you can still get a seat.

Me: I don't know. You know how those dickheads have been saving chairs lately.

Dave: Well, it looks like it will be a cloudy weekend anyway.

Me: Then we can get the marriage license.

Dave: So, what, we just wouldn't get it if the next few weeks were sunny?

Me: Correct. I would take off work in the morning instead.
Me: No need to waste a weekend.

Twitter makes me feel stupid

Ang just signed up for Twitter today, which means that she harassed me to sign up as well. So I did. And now we both feel much more idiotic than we did when our day started.

We have been learning about Twittering, Twinkles, Twhirls and all sorts of twi-related stuff. We're like lost little puppies being taught to shit outside for the first time. Not the most elegant analogy, I know, but the confusion, awkwardness and language barrier remain the same.

I've also already been asked if my image is a bottle of wine an some underwear. (Thanks, Zannie.) Should make for some interesting followers, no?

Let's see where this ends up...

on twitter: elle_michelle

Stop murdering people near my apartment

Dave sent this link to me the other day:
http://tiny.cc/E2o3w

I know you, you're too lazy to click it. I'll give you the gist.

Basically, two guys got shot multiple times at the McDonald's IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD. Three blocks from my apartment. They both drove themselves to the hospital, but one died.

Sad, I know. But do I live in Cabrini? No. South side? No. I live in freakin' River North.

What is the neighborhood coming to??

I usually only have to worry about an invasion of tourists and fanny packs in my neighborhood. Not a flurry of gunfire. (The jury's still out on which I'd rather deal with.) Luckily, the shooting occurred at 4:15 AM so neither I nor anyone normal was out at that hour.

I guess River North is the new Hyde Park...?

I look good. I mean REAL good.

Just got back from my makeup trial. This chick knows her shit. I am beyond pleased that she did not make me look like a hooker.

Not only am I going to share makeup pictures with you right now, but but you'll also witness what happens on the very first time I use Photo Booth unsupervised. (Remember what happened when I used it at work? Or were you trying to forget?)

Please ignore my not-showered hair. That's just how I roll on Monday mornings.

Starting with a nice picture.

Aaaand what happens if I get closer?

Scared myself with the last one. Let's move farther back...

If I had MySpace, I'd totally post this as my emo-pensive pic.

I am annoyed you can't see how flawless my skin really looks.
Also that Dave's bike is the centerpiece of our living room.

T-minus 19 days. Kinda makes me want to throw up a lil bit. But if that happens, at least I'll look good doing it.

I just got hate-spammed

Funny Friday

If you don't laugh so hard you nearly pee your pants, then we can't be friends.

This is an Indian version of Thriller with subtitles that reflect what the language sounds like. Trust me, you want to see this.



Watch on YouTube.


And, just because it's Friday, here is a little inspiration to help you make it through the day.





Watch on YouTube.


HAPPY WEEKEND!

This is the email I woke up to

From: Dave
To: Elle
Date: Wed, Aug 13, 2008 at 8:49am
Subject: Hmm, what should I name this?

I'm gonna go with "Queen Elle." :-)

Note: Right edge of bed not visible because the comforter is now covering a good two feet of it.

-----

Yep, that's me in there. Dave wakes up an hour before I do and, apparently, this is how he chose to spend his time this morning.

I might as well admit it. I'm a cover-stealer. Actually, I feel like the covers are weighted on one side and they just happen to slide more and more towards my side of the bed through no fault of my own. (The whole "no fault of my own" is kind of a life theme for me.)

Anyway, this was the IM conversation that followed...


Me: You little fucker, you took a picture of me this morning??

Dave: Yes ma'am.
Dave: I could set a bomb off in the apartment and you wouldn't know. I even opened the blinds to get more light. You didn't even shift.

Me: (...)

Dave: The funniest part is that you fight me when I try to get more covers, not knowing you have about six feet of covers on your other side. You always grab from me, not the other side.

Me: Well.
(say something brilliant...)
Me: I DO WHAT I WANT.
(well done.)

Dave: I'm not kidding you when I say I woke up shivering this morning because I had no covers.

Me: Maybe you should be more proactive in your cover preservation.

Dave: I tried to take some. You took them back.
Dave: I'd rather freeze to death than piss you off in the morning.

Smart man.

This is what he's marrying

I almost titled this post "This is what I'm marrying," but, well, clearly he's the one who's getting the short end of the stick. This happened last week and I forgot to post it.


The location: Our kitchen
The time: After dinner
The scene: I want Special K Red Berries, so I grab one of the two boxes in the cabinet.


Dave: Nuh, uh, uh. Get the open box. Not the new one.

Me: Um, I KNOW that.

Dave: Geez, it's like living with a 12-year-old.

Me: (glares)

Dave: (grins)

Me: Don't you be condescending towards me.

Dave: (laughs)

Me: I will kick you in the nuts!
Yeah, I went there. Usually I go with the very vague, "I will fuck you up!" but I decided to mix it up a bit.

Dave: (stops laughing)

Me: (smiles)

Dave: You suck.

Me: Come on. What would your life be without me? I'm so entertaining.
Me: (bellowing like The Gladiator) ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?

Dave: Hang on, I'm imagining my life without you...

Me: Wha?

Dave: I'd be in the club. Bitches ALL around.

Me: Oh, you WISH.

Dave: Asians. Awww, yeeeaaahh.

Me: What's WRONG with you?

Dave: Maybe at Elm Street Liquors.

Me: Oh, with the cougars? Have fun with that.

I can't be trusted

My latest purchases -- not all of them, though. It's too embarrassing. I WILL say that I only went this crazy because Shoes.com had another one of their ridiculous 75% off sales, but I don't know if that counts as a valid excuse.

Charles David

Stuart Weitzman

Marc Jacobs

Charles David

When did Romanian gymnasts start sucking?

Like everyone else, I've been watching the Olympics non-stop. Unlike everyone else, except fellow former gymnasts, I've been paying extra special attention to gymnastics, including the technicalities, team reputations, scoring, leotards, who's a righty/lefty, who's still suck in scrunchie hell, etc.

I just have one question: When did Romania start sucking?

The day before women's gymnastics started, Dave asked in passing who the US had to watch out for. I answered immediately.

"China and Romania."

Those two teams have always been on our asses. Always.

Yet when I watched Romania on beam, good ol' Elfi and Tim said exactly what I was thinking... Romania SUCKS. What the heck happened over there? The first girl actually fell! Romanians don't fall off beam. She bobbled and wobbled like she was a compulsory-level newbie at her first meet.

And when she fell? Crazytrain Bela Karolyi wouldn't have even acknowledged one of his gymnasts after a performance like that. (Okay, so he's a dick.) But perhaps that's why Elfi, Tim and I were all shocked when the Romanian coach hugged his wobbly gymnast. A firm-but-reassuring back pat, maybe. But a warm hug? Not to be a complete hard ass, but these girls might need a coach who will light a fire under their butts and whip them back into shape.

I bet at this point, you're all thinking that if I do ever have children, it would be reeeallly bad if I had girl and put her in gymnastics. You'd be right.

By the way, I was by no means an elite gymnast, and I certainly battled with beam in particular. But this is the Olympics. PULL IT TOGETHER. Freakin' Nadia Comaneci is watching!

Blah. It's totally disappointing to see such a once-revered and even feared team slip so much. Gone is the inspiration, drive, legacy. Peace out, Romania. It was fun while it lasted.

Photo Blogging: Bachelorette Party

As promised, here are pics from the bachelorette party.

Not sure what's going on that hand, but my other has a drink, so it's cool.

It looks broken, but I think it's just THAT complicated.

Rawr.

But, wha... I mean, how...?

Seriously, wtf.

My SILs, in a state of competence.

Hey, did anyone forget a dildo?

My coffee table. Sex toys, wine and watermelon. Sounds about right.

Someone needs a smoke after all that.

On to dinner!

Hmm, what to order?

Patiently awaiting my order...

Wa hoo! Who needs food?

Just kidding. I definitely need food.

Sisters.

The gals.

Bring on the Latin dancers!

And the one Latin clapper...

Dance party: This is what we thought we looked like, all soft and cool.

This is what we really looked like.

Posing with the Latin dancer (fuck the clapper).

SILs, in a less-than-competent state.

More pointing. It's better than clapping.

...But not better than DANCING.

The walk home, attempting it on their own.

Getting a little more assistance. Walking is hard.

WOO FIRES!

If any of that didn't make sense to you, go back and read the bachelorette party recap. It will all come together.