Ukulele Jam #1 - "Your Love" by The Outfield (cover)

I once heard a slowed down version of this song and found it sort of haunting. Decided to take a stab at slowing it down myself.

Also, I absolutely love to fingerpick whenever possible. Enjoy.

Random musings

No Words

There really needs to be a word to describe that feeling you get when you order a foodstuff with cheese on it (like a cheese dog, or a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel), and when it arrives in your eager little hands you pull back the parchment wrapping only to discover:

MOST OF THE FUCKING CHEESE 

STUCK TO THE FUCKING PAPER.

And you want to cry a little because you had so many plans for that cheese.

Plans that had that cheese dirty dancing with scrambled eggs over your tongue and down into the depths of your gutparts.

Plans that included the sweet, sweet combination of salty, beef frank goodness doing love somersaults with melted cheddar straight through your stomach until it reached your large intestine, where they'd continue their journey, tangled up in one another and the deep, deep love they've created until leaping out, fearlessly, hand in hand into a shallow reservoir...to embark on a new journey through the dark tunnel of love that is the Chicago sewer system.


Plans that involved that cheese STAYING ON THE GD SANDWICH.

There needs to be a word for that feeling---that moment---that discovery. Because it is one of the most heartbreaking experiences ever.

Not only that, but you have to remind yourself to be okay with the fact that you are going ram that paper with your whole face while you try to lick off that cheese.

Because you know you totally will.

A New Realization

I've realized that I have no idea how to spell onomatopoeia.

First, as a human with a history of being a pretty strong speller, I found it incredibly frustrating that nowhere in my brain had I ever stored the spelling of that word.

Even though in a spectacularly ridiculous attempt to wow a college professor my senior year, I wrote a poem ENTIRELY IN ONOMATOPOEIA.

Second, I was even more pissed when I thought, "Well, I can certainly count on autocorrect to figure this out for me."

Because I THOUGHT WRONG.

I tried every phonetic spelling I could think of (and I was close) and all I ever got was "No suggestions."

NO SUGGESTIONS?

How can you suggest "chokeberries" when I type in "choc..." as I'm typing the word chocolate?

But I write "otomanapoeia" (I switched the "t" and the "n" folks...not too shabby) and Autocorrect has NO SUGGESTIONS.

Nothing?

Really?

Really.

TAINTed Love

“Oh yeah. I’ve heard of that stuff. I know sometimes cyclists use it. Do you use it for cycling too?” 

“Well yes, but mainly for my taint area.”

This was an actual conversation I had, on an actual date, with an actual human male a little over a week ago.

And I don’t know about you ladies out there, but it’s pretty much always never been my dream to hear those sweet, sweet words pouring out of my date’s mouth as I’m getting ready to put another chip, heaping with guacamole, into my mouth.

Ah…romance!

I should probably back up a little and provide some backstory, right?

Basically it’s this: I’ve started dating again and I still despise online dating as much as I ever have. More, really.

I’ve been on quite a few online dates in my adult life, two of which actually resulted in long-term relationships.

Although,  I mean, look how well those turned out.

So of course I decided to give it another go...and I ended up on a date with a guy who told me about his taint cream.

Taint cream....

TAINT.

CREAM.

And then had me pay for my dinner.

(But I mean, I wasn’t expecting dinner AND a show, so I guess it was worth it?)

My lotioned-taint Lothario was actually the second person that I went out with in the past month or so. 

The first was a 34-year-old professional pedicab driver emblazoned with a tattoo of a giant eyeball (to commemorate his recent cataract surgery...duh) and who wore a screw as an earring.

In the middle of the date he pedaled us off into an alley where he proceeded to pee and then roll and smoke a spliff. At the end of the night he left me stranded to find my own way home from Bucktown so that he could go to a late-night electronic music festival afterparty.






Needless to say, I think this all might just be the Universe's way of saying, "Stop it. Enjoy your summer."

Point taken, Universe...

...and I'm sorry you had to resort to talk of taint cream.

Excuse Me While I Eat My Feelings

Premenstrual Syndrome? More like Premenstrual SNACKTIME!
(Am I right, ladies? Hormones make ya say, "Mmmmmm!")

Liberty, Ladders, and Laxative Tea

I didn't take any 4th of July pictures, so I made this crappy drawing of fireworks for you.
I know. YOU'RE WELCOME.

I was going to write a post about how this 4^th of July was super meaningful and monumental in my growth as a mature, self-confident, all-around-badass and woman (and it was)—but let’s face it: that shit is really boring and emotional. And I just don’t feel like that’s the way I want this post to go.

4^TH OF JULY is a time for eating grilled food, drinking copious amounts of beer (or, in my case, wine from a box) and blowing shit up. It’s about excitement and happiness and ‘Murica and freedom and bald eagles riding on rockets piloted by Uncle goddamned Sam himself.

It is not a time for explosions of sentimental emotion and personal reflection.

Which means here’s what you need to know about my 4^th of July: I got to spend it doing what I wanted to do, which meant that I found myself on a Chicago rooftop, drinking, dancing, and laughing with friends, listening to music, eating vegetarian hot dogs, and filling up a kiddie pool.

Have you ever seen fireworks with a panoramic view that stretched for miles on a rooftop in Chicago?

If the answer is yes: 

Right?!

If the answer is no: 

I'm so...so sorry for you. 

Next year, find a rooftop so that you can watch thousands of fireworks (and dollars, really) explode across the entire horizon for hours on end. (Pay special attention to Indiana and the suburbs. Those folks know how to party.)

If I had one complaint about this 4^th it would only be this: when you spend it on a rooftop, there are ladders. And unfortunately for me I had been having some issues and decided to drink some Smooth Move tea the night before. (I’ll let you figure out what that tea is good for. You’re smart enough.)

Wine + Smooth Move Tea + SO MANY LADDERS = a very cumbersome situation.

Wine + Smooth Move Tea + SO MANY LADDERS + one very cold and lonely leftover hotdog = I'm so sorry, L, but I dropped my hotdog on your bed halfway up the first ladder. Don't worry, I came back down for it...but...my half-eaten hotdog was in your bed for a hot minute.

And I laughed alone about it for like 5 full minutes while looking down from that ladder. 

Anyways...'MURICA!!!

Why Did My Ex Hate This Shirt?

I am a MAKER OF ANGER!

About a month ago I ended a relationship with a guy who I really, really loved, but after a second attempt at being together, I realized it wasn’t going to work this time around either.

Since the breakup, I've cried a lot, enjoyed copious amounts of “therapy cake” (which is just regular cake, only more healing and delicious), played my ukulele, cried some more, eaten more cake, taken walks, signed up for a class, and been really just trying my best to remain a composed, grown-ass woman during what’s proven to be a rollercoaster of a time.

And I really fucking hate rollercoasters.

A couple weeks after things ended, I decided I needed a night out with my girlfrands. Which is also when I came across the shirt pictured above, as I tried to pick out what to wear.

My ex-boyfriend HATED that shirt. Hated it.

To the point that not only would he prefer I not wear it when we went out,  when I would change out of it he'd verbally and physically express intense relief. Relief akin to finding a bathroom at precisely 10 seconds before pissing all over oneself.

Funny enough, out of all of the people who have ever seen me wear that shirt (and I wear it a lot now, by the way), he was the only one who disliked it.

So I began to wonder: what about this particular piece of clothing could possibly cause such an adverse reaction in my ex? 

Naturally I did what any woman in this situation would do and created a speculative list with some ideas about why this shirt caused that man so much damn angst:

1. It drew attention to my boobs while at the same time covering my boobs. Too much of a conundrum.

2. If I was wearing my sequined half-top out, then how could he wear his?

3. A half shirt is not worthy of the same respect as a WHOLE SHIRT.  Obvi.*

4. Too many colors. It's hard.

5. First comes sequins, then comes marriage, then comes SO MANY BABIES! Am I right, ladies?!

6. He secretly wished he could wear it to the gym.

7. The sight of it triggered something in his brainparts that turned all of his thoughts into spiders. Actual spiders. Ugh, THOUGHTSPIDERS. The. Worst.

8. Hipsters.

9. It reminded him of a Vegas show girl he probably used to date.**

10. Because, LOW CALORIE FRUIT JUICE. (He used to buy that shit, and that shit is fucking disgusting. This needed to be said.)

11. He probably worried that more people would like this shirt on Facebook than they would one of his posts.

12. It looked like the deep space field, but it wasn't the deep space field. The shirt is a lie.

13. It was too dressy for the storage closet he let me keep my things in when I stayed over.***

14. Traumatic childhood arts and crafts accident?

15. It taunted him when I wasn't looking, like:

That's pretty much all I could come up with so far. But I think I'm pretty much on track.


*I should note, this half-top was never worn to show my midriff. It was always worn over a longer tank top. 

**Unlikely. I would have heard about her at least 50 times over the course of our relationship.

***To be fair, he eventually let me hang things up in his bedroom closet about a week before the breakup. Maybe he just couldn't handle that shirt getting that close to his button downs and cycling kits...