and we can pop bottles all night.

this is prolly gonna be happenin' soon.

like as soon as we unload the car, unleash the liquid, and put on our sequins.

bust out your bubbly and go do something dangerous.

happy oh-eleven.

Location:everywhere.

ugly is relative.

christmas is technically over, although over here we like to marathon it out and have it last until the 28th or so. which is swell if you have the necessary stamina needed to keep up with the hooligans i share DNA with. and if you don’t, then you should just be comfy with the concept of hangovers and sleep deprivation.

“it’s not gonna be christmas until someone projectile vomits.”

was said to me.

but i’ll save that memory lane, and all associated photographs, for another time.

hold your breath.

on a similarly festive note: this time of year, every year, people like to create events as an excuse to make you wear ugly things. like sweaters. this keeps happening (as late as yesterday) more than i can understand this season. i only went to one.

[chris, if you stumble back upon this you will notice that i kept my word. i told you i just might post a lil’ somethin’ somethin’ on this topic . . . but i would really prefer it if I had exhibit A++ to go along with it . . . it’s not too late; you can still shoot it over in a text, email, snail mail, telegram – singing, preferably – or any other means you like.]

because it’s funny?

because it’s funny.

and because it’s the only time you can accidentally wear something that you otherwise maybe thought was cute (or didn’t) and get away with it because it’s just par for the course.

assuming everyone else around you is also rockin’ the ugly.

whilst in chicago, we found ourselves in a particularly special mix of ugly sweaters. and vests. and other assorted holiday inspired garments that really should have been left on the production line.

which made me think that somewhere, probably more frequently than not, people purchase these things and they mean it.

like for reals mean it.

like these people:

she is holding what looks to be a goat.

wearing a santa hat.

which is amazing.

this could be funny for days.

but apparently, funny didn’t last too long . . .

it’s probably because they took away her goat.

. . .

here’s hoping your holidays included all things wonderful. and wonderfully funny. and not an ounce of things that would make you sad. like her.

karma police.

and for a minute there, i lost myself, i lost myself . . .

and then i found this:

2 kalik beers and a puppy in a chair.

the kalik makes things good. the puppy in the chair makes everything right in the world.

kalik is a bahamian beer. and if your pallet isn't familiar with it, then it should be.

as the third member of a four-person sailing family, i have spent a good portion of my fortunate days christopher columbusing by boat around the bahama islands. the good ones. the ones most people haven't been to because they're too busy being the jones family, all the while thinking nassau is cool and exotic.

pack your bags and go to miami. or destin. you won't even need a passport and you'll never know the difference.

it wouldn't be hard for me to justify going back to the kalik speckled island hopping days when my greatest concern was ....... oh wait, there weren't any.

pete yorn says something pretty poignant that comes back to me at weird moments and always reminds me of being in saint louis on the coldest days in the history of days when my friend derek, with bare hand, would wipe the snot from my nose because i was too frozen solid to pry my hands out of my gloves long enough to do anything remotely functional . . . like wipe the snot from my nose.

derek was what you would call a good friend. and saint louis is arguably the strangest city in the world. for about a thousand reasons. and i can't honestly say i would be mad if i had to go back there for any period of time, but i would pray it wasn't during the winter. saint louis in the winter is somewhat biblical. and it's probably what keeps north face in business.

[the arctic circle ain't got shit on it. i don't think. although i've never been to the arctic circle and have no plans to do so (ever), so while i could be completely wrong in my assumption, humor me and go with it.]

st. louis reminds me of pete and pete says this:

it was easy when you were younger.
you could put it back together.
it was there if you ever wanted it . . . . . . .

[i'm leaving the last line out. just because.]

admittedly, this is now way off track because kalik beer and puppies and radiohead and missouri have zero in common. except for the fact that it would be way cooler if you had kalik in your frozen hand while kickin' it in the lou -- while listening to radiohead (or pete yorn) -- while petting a puppy. but chances are you won't be because, as my brother has informed me, kalik has only just recently made it's way stateside. and i tend to think (of course without knowing) that it probably hasn't ventured beyond the lower half of the nation. and perhaps not even that far.

but then again, for all i know the proud owners of the once-was murder capital of everywhere are sitting back by their steel drum fires, pounding them case by case as we speak. with their retro 1987 boom boxes and puppies all over the place. and it would be rad if they were because then they'd probably be a whole lot less focused on what level of trouble they could stir up next.

like random and meaningless drive-by shootings and such.

Location:who cares.

i'll be . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

while recently reflecting upon the act of waking my neighbor with the obscene volume of celine dion belting from the inner walls of my kitchen, i realized i actually had living proof of such a thing.

and i couldn't resist.

[but probably should have. no, definitely should have. oh well.]

all good memories need a visual. otherwise few people will believe it ever happened.

this clearly doesn't take place inside my kitchen.

but has.

ignore the fact that this reads as a happy birthday video.

[mainly because i can't figure out how to remove the graphic. and almost threw my computer against the wall trying to do so. and then realized that i quite like my computer and quite like the fact that there is a happy birthday graphic which i can't remove and shouldn't because this did, in fact, take place during the single greatest and most historic birthday in all of creation. not to be outdone until the next one rolls around and we do it all over again.]

it is neither my birthday nor is it erin's, but it doesn't really matter because it might as well be.

all.day.every.day.

when things like this happen.

which is often**

Customize a greeting

**before sacrificing all sentiments of self dignity, i should let it be known that this actually only happens when the two of us are together. i can't tell you how or why (most importantly why) this ever got tossed into our repertoire, but it did. and we have to live with that. and love it. and own it.

erin: the 2 thumbs up really adds something special.

brooke: does this look familiar to you? because it should. it's yours.

it’s really cold in chicago.

and everywhere else, apparently.

i have found myself, over the years, spending an unhealthy amount of time being mad at winter.

like i don’t know it’s coming.

like it snuck up on me and i want to give it 4 knuckles to the face just for being a real SOB who never gave me forewarning that it was hovering on the horizon. even though it always is. like motherlovin’ clockwork.

i took a walk today to find coffee. among other things. about 20 minutes down the street, i couldn’t feel my kneecaps.

on the corner of division and something else there is a bank with one of those electronic signs that flashes back and forth between time and temperature.

it said negative 10 degrees.

celsius, i assume, although if you’d told me otherwise, i probably would have bought into it.

why does anyone refer to anything in celsius? can we stop doing that please? when was the last time you read negative 10 degrees celsius and immediately knew how cold it really was?

[nerd squads need not respond. because you will make me feel stupid.]

not that it really mattered, at all, because cold is just cold at that point, but had i found it completely necessary to figure out what had now obnoxiously peaked my curiosity level (and what the bank failed to help me out with in its watch-me-pull-the-wool-over-your-eyes-and-not-tell-you-what-i-know-you’re-dying-to-know kind of way) i would have needed do this:

[°F] = [°C] × ⁹⁄₅ + 32

yeah, okay, whatever.

regardless . . .

i think I’m gonna change my tune for a while, try it on for size, and see how it feels.

you see, there is a solution for everything.

like wearing 6 pairs of socks at a time.

and while your shoes won’t likely fit whatsoever, at least you will be able to feel the end points of your lower extremities.

which is a pretty great thing.

as a girl who spent 22 years living south of the mason-dixon line, snow was always somewhat of a novelty. something we wanted to bottle up and keep by our bedside year ‘round.

a northbound move and 2 ice-induced car accidents later (neither of which were my fault, in case you care or want to judge me for being a bad driver. which i am not.), i sorta started to see things in a different light. snow was the enemy after the initial bliss moments of untouched front yards, when it then settled in as nothing more than a royal.pain.in.my.ass.

not to mention dirty.

[say no to yellow.]

yesterday i ventured out to the walgreens around the corner to make a run for some electrolytes – in what appeared to be a blizzard even though by all real accounts it probably wasn’t. i have no background in meteorology. i haven’t a clue how much of the white stuff has to fall and how quickly it has to do so to constitute being a blizzard.

upon returning to the defrost setting of an indoor temperature which hovered right around cozy, my friend and host asked me “now how miserable was that?” . . . to which i replied, “it was actually really nice. it’s quiet and peaceful in the snow.” (to which he then replied “well, yeah, because no one is going outside!!” . . . which was true.)

but please note the change of tune. because that is the point of the diddy.

my dad (also known as father joe. even though his name is not joe. or anything remotely resembling joe. it’s tommy.) has this saying that he pulls out from time to time. and by time to time, i mean all the time:

“if you can’t stand the pain, get out of the rain.”

now i don’t really know what that means. and it’s entirely possible that he just likes it because it rhymes.

but i guess what it means to me is this:

until i purchase that second home in the south pacific for retreat purposes between the months of november and march, i should just get over it.

love the cold. embrace the cold. be friends with the cold.

and buy more socks.

truth.

i’m leaving for the midwest for a few days, so chew on this for a while . . .

for frankie.

i pinky promised i would upload this for francesca.

and well, a promise is a promise.

what i will NOT promise is how long this will remain online for the all of cyberspace to view, so frankie . . . get your fix.

 

my kitchen is a black hole.

and i’m about to put caution tape around it.

like a crime scene.

if you’ve been to my townhouse, then you know the kitchen is not super big.

in fact, it’s not big at all.

room enough to do whatca gotta do, but certainly without enough adequate counter space to bake a 7-tier wedding cake.

which i probably wouldn’t ever do anyway, so i guess i’m in the clear.

to put it in brutal, but appreciated, context, my kitchen is about half the size of my freshman dorm room.

and that a’int saying a whole lot about my freshman dorm room.

[except for the fact that it was like a utopia where Peanut and i lived with our family of fruit flies, aptly named The Wilsons. and ignoring the fact that it was right next to the projects, a concept which never seemed to phase our parents as they dropped us off and kicked it into nearly-empty-nesting overdrive.]

of all the 8 rooms in my townhouse, the kitchen is by far the smallest.

with the exception of the bathroom which is really more of a doll-house closet with plumbing.

but for reasons unbeknownst to me, and anyone else in.the.entire.world., the kitchen is where it all goes down.

usually dance parties.

always dance parties.

sometimes the kind that wake up the neighbor. (and definitely the kind that wake up the neighbor when certain best friends are in town and decide it’s a stellar idea to sing celine dion at an unforgivable level at 4 o’clock in the morning . . . yes, apologies were made the next day. like a friggin’ dog with my tail between my legs. my neighbor still loves me, though. i think.)

sometimes i walk downstairs in the morning and it looks like a nuke exploded in the kitchen.

and sometimes my head feels the same way.

and sometimes (like a day ago), i find a plethora of photos which were taken from inside the kitchen that rival the club scene in hollywood.

and then i wrestle with the notion of “to delete or not to delete” . . .

and then i ask myself why i think my kitchen is so cool. repeatedly.

and then i resign to the fact that some things are just left unexplained.

party in the kitchen.

all are welcome.

sunglasses are optional.