June 1, 2004 Bustin' Out All Over

It is with deep regret and profound sorrow that I inform you, as I have already informed T, who, come to find out, is more schooled in the lore of suburban chicken bonding than anyone I have ever known, that I have not seen Little Chicken since Sunday. I fear he has gone to the Little Stray Chicken Place in the Sky. I even bought chicken feed. Oh, yes. I did. I went to the hardware store down the street, was incredulous that they even HAD chicken feed, and was told that they sell tons of it, because people raise chickens in their backyards to eat or to sell to cock fighters. Jesus! Imagine Little Chicken facing either fate! I have no idea where he is, but I hope he's happy. Godspeed, Little Chicken. Hopefully coming soon: a guest entry devoted to chicken harmony by Ms. T (her chicken-loving self). It's kind of a blue Tuesday as we hit the ground running back at work. Three more weeks of hell. Memorial Day weekend was a decent one. On Friday night, we rocked out at a wedding. I felt slightly impregnated in my Ann Taylor dress, but apparently it was a big hit with the natives. It was definitely one of the more fun weddings in recent memory, if only because I really like my sister's friends and sexy Marines and crown and sevens. I woke up mildly hungover on Saturday and mowed my lawn at 7 a.m., much to the delight of my neighbors, I'm sure. Surprisingly, the boys were already awake and dressed, smoking and cursing jovially as usual, and they seemed nonplussed by the noise. I got my weekly Saturday morning southern strawberry lemonade and went on a mad invitation search because sometimes I feel like all I ever do is shop for one motherfucking shower invitation after another in this life. I spent much of the day uploading pictures from the wedding which took forever because of my dad's one billion megapixel camera with pictures as big as my ass. My sister and I listened to some good music while she packed up her apartment around me as I redeye-removed and it seemed like we were just doing all of that packing and unpacking last August. I still can't really believe that she's leaving but I can't really process that at the moment. That night, we went to dinner and ate our weight in spinach dip and pasta. I basically swallowed her friend's five-month-old baby whole in all of her chubbilicious deliciousness. And no such night is complete without a heath shiver, no, ma'am. Sunday is kind of a blur. More invitation shopping ensued with Karla, and we tied stupid little yellow gingham ribbons through them after hole-punching them, which is essentially my worst nightmare. Her baby is pretty cute, too, though, so that helped to pass the time, along with the margaritas she made with such ingredients as tequila, strawberries, limes, beer, and confectioner's sugar. Yeehaw. On Sunday night, I watched Miracle. And it was maudlin and fantastic and fun and I got chills and burst into tears and clapped and cheered because I am a DORK. I then watched the behind the scenes documentary and was just tickled to see how most of the hockey players were actually just hockey players whom they taught to act instead of actors they taught to play hockey. I was wondering, seriously, and this shows how sick I truly am, how the actors put on such great Boston Rob accents, but it turns out that they were really hockey players from Boston, so there you go. I was so in love with Mike Eruzione that I wanted to kiss his forehead and go ice dancing with him. (And Jan from Bring It On, pictured on the right in that picture with my husband, is from Alaska, so I have been entertaining all of these fantasies of his growing up as a hockey player in the frozen tundra.) And, I mean, the guy who played O'Callahan? Previously worked on a FISHING BOAT in GLOUCESTER. Do you LOVE IT? I want to be cynical and write it all off as patriotic bullshit propaganda, but come on. How can anyone with a heart not made of stone not get excited for these scrappy kids who totally beat the odds? Love. Hot guys, odds beating, love. ::: About this time in ... 2003: 5/29: It was very scary to walk around looking not unlike his victims, to worry about my mom opening the door for someone because she is kind, to be scared to walk my dogs by myself, to sit there and count the months going by since the last attack and expecting him to strike again soon. 2002: 5/30: What can I, a writer of a lousy online journal, do for you, a reader, other than to tell you how much I love your city? I love it. You know what? Most of us do. We, the Outsiders. 5/28: I don't know how I will walk the streets without picturing Shelley walking countless blocks uptown that day or stand in Times Square and not remember how she walked through it empty and black that night when she left the city. 2000: 6/1: Maybe it's childish and naive to believe that all losses can be accepted if I just give it enough time. Maybe there's no such thing as no regrets. 5/30: I grabbed the bottle of Tabasco from the table and actually shook it in his face. "Listen," I started, "A lot of people really love Ro$well. I don't happen to, but the fans sent in bottles of this stuff to save the show, so you should feel lucky to have been on it." get notified. journal archives © Copyright 2004 elb