This is what a healthy relationship looks like

Via text.

Boyfriend: Next time you come over, can you bring my clothes.

Me: Yes. Is this your way of telling me we're breaking up.

Boyfriend: No. This is my way of telling you I have no lounging clothes and I think you may be a hoarder.


So what?
So maybe I have three pairs of his sweatpants and two sweatshirts and four t-shirts and two pairs of basketball shorts?
Like that should really make *that* much of a dent in a person's wardrobe.

Bricks and Ivy

One of my favorite things about spring, aside from the whole sunshine and warmth thing, is the intercession of the seasons of hockey and baseball.
And, if one is a citizen of the great city of Chicago as I am, it is a great time of year to be a sports-fan indeed.

Today was opening day within the friendly confines of Wrigley Field.*

*Please note: I am a Cubs fan. I have been all my life. Yes, I am used to disappointment. No, it does not change my mind, nor do I wish to pledge allegiance to another team. Sorry if that offends you. I am a Cubs fan because I love baseball, I love Chicago, and I love what the legacy of the team and the fans represent-- loyalty. We may not have the best record in the league, but we damn well have the most resilient fans Aaannnd....end rant.

It was freezing.
It was raining.
It was windy.
And we lost.

But that's okay.
Because I still got to eat peanuts and watch batting practice and make fun of all the drunk people around me.
AND.
I got to wear a rain poncho.
When was the last time you wore one of those?!
Am I right?

In honor of the start inauguration of baseball season 2011 and my favorite baseball team and the fact that I'm going to see Eddie Vedder June 28th at the Chicago Theater, I give you this lovely montage.

A Photo Essay

Tonight, I will be here:

Watching him:

And him:

With this guy:
Feeling like this:

Have a happy Friday, dudes.

Some Awesomeness For Your Saturday

Please love this

As much as I do.

Oh. And one more thing....

Borrowed this lovely blog.
I know it's written in Portuguese.
But I don't care.
Her images are so lovely.
Also: I'm going to learn to speak Portuguese.
Didn't I tell you?

In case anyone was wondering

Some things about my life at it's present state:

I joined a gym.
So that I don't look like this:

It should be of note, however, that on Tuesday evening I spent 45 minutes on the elliptical machine because I thought, "I'm relatively fit. I can handle it" and proceeded to pull both my calf muscles and am now forced to hobble about like a 103 year-old.
Which kind of supports the notion that I needed to join a gym in the first place.
If you ask me.


I just spent a gloriously relaxing (...right) week with my charming family here:

That's me and my wonderful cousin, Jenny.
Here we are acting all nonchalant around the paparazzi.
Being famous can be sooo annoying, don't you think?
Photo-essay on our fabulous adventures soon to come.


I also got a new job.
Like, as in one that involves and office and a desk and company.

Pretty groovy, right?
I enjoy it.
And I will tell you all about it.
Soon.
My life is only so interesting.
I have to milk sources for bloggin material when I can.


Also, some people had some birthdays:

photo from here.
Their names are:
Mom
Dad
Blake
Gramma
Grandpa
Marie
Lara
Amber
Aunt Jane
Danny
And I owe them all special birthday blogs.
What?
Shut up.
I've been busy.
That doesn't make me a bad daughter/granddaughter/niece/cousin/girlfriend/BFF.
Okay. Maybe it does.


So what was the point of this post, you ask?
Mostly to make my grandmother happy because she keeps whining about how I never blog anymore.

Old family photo found from here.
Looks good for her age, doesn't she?
I'm actually kind of impressed that she can still use a computer.
Way to go Grams!


Stay tuned for more awesomeness.

...But now I see.

Earlier this evening, I was driving home from my weekly visit with Marie and Wrigley the Schnoodle in Virden (Oh, you didn't know that Marie moved to Virden? More on that later.) I was mildly drowsy with DiCarlo's pizza and strawberry-banana ice cream from Whirl-A-Whip. I hurried down Route 4, anxious to get home to me sweatpants and clean sheets.

As I hit a patch of road between Thayer and Chatham, there were no other headlights in sight. No fellow travelers in front or behind me. Kings of Leon found it's way from my iPod to the speakers. I smiled to myself and let the late summer breeze sweep through the open windows tangle my neglected hair into impossible knots. Air that smelled like fresh-cut grass, sweat, and burning leaves.

On the shoulders of the blacktop, the fireflies danced in their nightly testimonial to the impending dark. Deep indigo paint bled across the sky into a canopy in front of me. Corn whooshed by me on the left, soybeans on my right.

Above the fringe of the tall stalks of corn lay a strip of sky still untouched by night. The sun was melting into the horizon in a glowing ball. The atmosphere around it looked as though a child had seized a treasure-box from his grandmother's bureau and scattered it's precious contents across a quilt; sapphires faded into emeralds, emeralds into golden pieces of amber, amber into deep amethysts, and amethysts into brilliant rubies.

The corn's feathery fingers stretched towards the jewel-box sky, silhouetted by the disappearing daylight. Skeletal outlines of trees, set aglow by dusk, dotted the approaching landscape. Modest houses surrounded by fields of vegetative wealth sighed as they settled in to sleep.

I have seen a lot of breathtaking things in my life: the Eiffel Tower, the Trevi Fountain, the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, the ocean. I have never considered this place to be "beautiful." Desolate, barren, forgotten...maybe. But never beautiful. The place I grew up is populated by spires of metal and glass, twisting upwards into the gray-green mist, created leftovers from an ungrateful population. People congest the streets, moving and breathing as a single organism. That was beautiful to me. It still is.

But there is beauty in this place, too.

Sometimes the light just has to disappear for it's magnitude to be realized.

I hear you Lolcats

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

I hear you.

Okay, so I changed my mind.

Remember how I said that "Heroes" was sucking it big-time?

Well I lied.

Last week's episode ruled. at. life.

I can't wait for tomorrow night. In fact, I don't know that I've ever been this excited for a Monday in the history of ever.
And that is a scientific fact.

I'm so sorry, Officer Matt Parkman.
Can you ever forgive me?
XOXO.

PS- Don't go back to Janice. She's a tramp.
Even if she is the mother of your child and stuff.

Brace Yourself.

This post is going to be about a lot of things.
So, grab yourself a beer (not that I would know anything about beer...)
And settle in.
Or just hit the "back" button on your browser and ignore me.

Whichever.

Before yesterday, I clearly hadn't blogged in a while (sidebar: when did "blogged" become acceptable verbiage? Weird). The reason for my hiatus?
There are a couple.
The main one being-- I got a new job.

Yeah, I know.

A new job.
I am now a grant writer and contracts manager for this place. I think my *official* title is associate manager. At least, that's what it says on my business cards.
I get business cards!
The Hoogland Center for the Arts is a non-profit artistic enrichment organization that was created with a very, VERY generous grant from Charles and Kathleen Hoogland who, incidentally, happened to also found the Family Video chain. Which is obviously how they came to be able to afford to donate such a thing to the city of Springfield.
It is a single four-story building (technically seven because we have a basement and there are also two half-floors, whatever that means) that is home to a number of arts-related organizations including the Springfield Ballet Company, Springfield Theatre Center, Praire Art Alliance, and some others. All, except for one independent media business, are non-profit like the center itself. They rent their offices from us, which is how we make a portion of our money.
However, when these organizations put on shows (for example, Springfield Theatre Center does six shows in a single season, not to mention all the other youth-related workshops they produce) they use our facilities.
We have three theaters all together; one large 500-person theater on our main level, a medium-sized theater which will seat approximately 300 with temporary seating, and a small theater which can comfortable seat about 150, also with temporary seating. In addition, there are multiple practice rooms, a dance studio, and art gallery, and a dining room.
Although our residents and their events make up for a large part of our schedule, we also have outside performers give shows in our theatres when space permits. Not huge national touring company shows, mind you. Most of those go to the Sangamon Auditorium, which holds something ridiculous like 3000 people. But smaller, more localized groups. Sometimes, bands that frequent the local bar scene will get cocky and decide that they are cool enough to play an actual show, and rent the space from us. You get the idea.
And when all of this is not going on, we host wedding receptions, birthday parties, reunions, galas, fundraisers, beautye pageants, annual meetings....

So what's my job.

Remember all that stuff I just talked about? I get to write and negotiate contracts for space rentals and reservations with every. single. one.
It sounds overwhelming.
And it kind of is.
But more than that,
It is AWESOME.
There's a lot of problem-solving involved and a lot or creative thinking. Yeah, there are points in the day when I want to stab both my eyes out with a pencil. But, at the end of the day, I know I've accomplished something. Which is more than I can say for working at the hospital answering phones.

The hospital.
Right.
I might be working there also.

When it came down to it, the Center, being a non-profit, really couldn't afford to pay me what I'm actually worth but I couldn't turn down the job because it will eventually turn into a really great opportunity. There's a vast wealth of experience that can be gained from working so closely with so many different organizations at one time. And that's really the most important thing to me.

Money is also important, though.
So I stayed at the hospital part-time to supplement my income. I'm working much harder and only making slightly more between the two jobs than I was before, but it will be worth it. It already is.

Health insurance is important, too.
And, as you can imagine, the hospital has kick-ass insurance.
Which I can maintain if I still work part-time.
Ergo, my dual employment.

If you were reading very carefully during the part where I first talked about my great new job, you might have caught that I was also hired to write grants for the Center.

What is a grant, you ask?
And even if you didn't, I will still explain.
Large corporations, in order to maintain public and political favor, donate large sums of money every year not only to charities like The Red Cross, but also to non-charities. Most non-profits are founded with an initial lump-sum and subsequent donations from patrons, but are not self-sustaining. As such, they need to lobby for donations from larger companies, i.e. grants. Althought, donations is not really an accurate word; donation implies that money is directly given to a recipient. What happens when a corporation establishes a grant is they basically make the kowledge of a designated amount of money available to various non-profits, and then award the sum based on whichever group writes and submits the best proposal stating *why* their respecitive organization needs and deserves the money, based on the unique specifications of the individual grants.
Still with me?
So, that's my job. I get to research companies offering grants, write a super-awesome proposal about why we should recieve the grant, and submit it to these gigantic corporations.
How do I do this, you ask?

I have not a clue.

Don't get your panties in a bunch. My boss knew this when he hired me.
This is how the conversation went.

Him: How do you feel about grants?
Me: I think they're great. I don't really know a whole lot about them, though.
Him: Do you think you could write one?
Me: Well, like I said I don't really know anything about them. But I'm not imtimidated by it. I think I could probably write one.
Him: Great. You're hired.

I've already got an order placed on Amazon with several how-to books that should be really useful (like this one, and this one, and this one).
And we all know that Amazon is the key to everything.
Or something.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

It is also worth mentioning that the reason I have this other really exciting job is because Lara is the collest person on earth. She recommended me to her boss, and then helped CREATE a position for me. Because she's the coolest. And I love her.
So next time you see her, give her a big hug and tell her that she's the best friend ever.
Ever.

If two jobs isn't reason enough for you to accept the fact that I legitimately didn't have any time to blog last month, you might also consider that I'm in school.
Ah, yes. School.
College.
Undergrad.
STILL.

In school and trying to freaking graduate.
Which is part of the problem.
I'm double-majoring in English and Communication.
I started off as an English major because I like to read and write, and then added Com because I like to talk.
Simple, right?
Not so much.
I graduated high school in 2003.
WHY AM I STILL IN COLLEGE.
Partially because I worked full-time for three years.
Partially because I have bad procrastination habit (one day, I'm going to invent a patch for that)
And partially because I double-majored.
I've actually been done with my Com portion of my degree for almost a year.
The reason I'm still taking classes is merely to finish up English.

And it's slowly killing my soul.
I am not 19 anymore.
I'm not even 21 anymore.
I will be 24 three weeks from yesterday.
Taking classes with kids who still survive on a steady diet of vodka and bacon cheeseburgers and stay up until 5 am on a Tuesday watching James Bond marathons is not where I should be at this point in my life. Don't get me wrong, I was that kid. There's nothing wrong with it. But, I'm not there anymore.
I work full-time in an office. I wear suits and heels to work. I have bills to pay. I go to bed at 10:30 and get up at 6:15.
What I'm saying is, my brain is not in college anymore.
So, my body shouldn't be either.

Solution?
Drop my English degree down to a minor (which I'm already well past), get a bachelor's in Communication, and call my undergrad finished. Unless I decide to go back and finish up my English bachelor's, in which case I'll be suffciently on my way. Or I could go to grad school. Whichever.
It wouldn't matter.
Because I WOULD BE DONE.
So I'm pretty sure that's what I'm going to do at this point. Kudos to my mom for not freaking out like I thought she would. I don't know why I thought she was going to, but she didn't. Really, it's not like I'm dropping out or anything. I'm still getting a degree. It's just not in what I had planned.
But really, when you think about it, there's no job that an English degree would get me that a Com degree wouldn't. Except for maybe an English teacher, and even then it's debatable.

So there's the whole job(s) thing, and the school thing.
And sleep.
And socialization. Which I miraculously manage to still make time for.

That's why I haven't been around.

But I'm back, Internets.
I promise that I will write more often.
It won't be easy, especially since I have a real occupation that requires real effort and legitimate work.
But I think it can be done.
Because, hey? If I can work two jobs and graduate, what's one more thing.

On a final and much cuter note, please allow me to present my Wrigley Pignon-Swegle.

He is twice as adorable in real life.
Too bad he belongs to Eric and Marie.
But that's okay because I got to hold him the WHOLE TIME we were in PetSmart buying him new puppy stuff.
We even got him a sweater.
He's super-tiny and likes to give me kisses on my chin.

I think I'm in love.

Merry and Bright

What's with all the warm-and-fuzzy posts lately?
I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm not even drunk, or anything.
Oh well.
Sarcasm and spite to return soon, I'm sure.
Even they need a vay-cay every so often.

But anyways

Christmas?
It was wonderful, thanks for asking.
Even though no one bought me a new car or laptop or paid my speeding ticket (note to self: pay that or find someone who will pay it for me...M-O-M).

I rolled into my parent's house around 4 am Christmas morning, with none of my gifts for my family wrapped. I think requesting that I drive that night after work instead of in the morning was my mother's way of ensuring that I didn't drag my entire family out of bed at the crack of dawn like I do every year. Yes, I'm 23. Don't judge me. It's freaking Christmas, people.

This year, I let everyone sleep until 10.
They'll get around to thanking me later, I'm sure.

Santa (aka my super-great mother) brought me a tea kettle, some new knives from Chicago Cutlery, some jewelry, new Oneida flatware, a new purse (it was a very Dolce and Gabana Christmas at the Sullivan house...my sister got TWO. But that's just because she's a brat), a pair of brown boots from Aldo that are so wonderous I want to be buried in them when I die, and a bunch of other stuff.

My Dad got Janie, Joey, and I the Shepherd Ferry Barack Obama poster (you know, the one that says "Hope").

Janie gave me a beautiful scarf from Urban Outfitters.

Joey left our presents in Providence.
But that's okay, because they probably weren't wrapped anyway.

After gifts and coffee by the fireplace, we ate some pancakes and played with our new toys, and then realized that it was 1:30 and we were supposed to be at Tom and Beth's house by 2.
Oops.

We joined Tom, Beth, Sophie, Ethan (and their new Wii), Gramma, Grandpa, David, Jenny, and Jenny's friend Danita who has been to so many of our family gatherings, she is like one of us (only african-American....and I use that term because she prefers it to the word "black", and I respect her enough to honor her wishes even though she calls us "white"...that's how much I like you, Danita) for eggplant parm, apple pie, and some of the best red wine I've ever tasted. And I've been to Italy. So, what does that say about my uncle's good taste, huh?

We decorated cupcakes, and Ethan used an entire bottle of sprinkles on one single confection.
We conducted our traditional grab-bag, and everyone fought over the wireless, battery-operated ligthtswitch (except for me because I got an iTunes card...to go with the iTunes on the computer I don't have).
We played Wii tennis and Sophie cheated. I'm pretty sure she gets that from her dad, because Beth is way too nice to ever cheat at anything.
We sat around on the big L-shaped couch, which magically fits all 14 of us (I told you it was magic), and talked for hours.
When we got home, Janie and I watched Tivo-ed episodes of "Little People, Big World" and passed out.

As you can see, we're very stringent about our holiday traditions in my family.

Today brought more Christmas-y activities.
Kind of.
Okay, the only thing that really made it Christmas-y was that we got gifts.
And as long as someone is giving me a present, I'll call it whatever the heck they want me to.

Blake's mom took Bryan, Lara, Blake and I out to dinner at Gabatoni's, which always looks like a freezeframe from the movie "Goodfella's." My kind of place.
Note: We were supposed to go to Ginger, but Bryan hate's aisian food (he sucks at life), we had to make other arrangements. As much as I wanted to go to Ginger because they have fried tofu that is to DIE for, there is no way it could have been nearly as interesting as our night dining with central Illinois mafiosos. So, thank you for being difficult, Bryan. Your unwillingness to compromise added flavor to our evening, and I forgive you for depriving me of my beloved orange-tamarind dipping sauce.

Blake and I had yet to exhcange gifts, and Blake's mother had forgotten to give Lara one of her presents and also had a little something for me (including a really awesome purple stocking!!!), so to the apartment we went.

I was really excited about giving him his gifts because I put a lot of thought (a LOT) into them this year.
He got a Calphalon omlette pan, plastic glow-in-the-dark zombies, Guiness pint glasses with vintage adverts on them, and custom "Shaun of the Dead" and "Evil Dead" character cartoon prints (apparently, supporting this weird zombie fetish of his is the only way I can convince him to like me).
Wouldn't you be excited about those really awesome gifts?!

Not as excited as I was about what he gave me:

Behold.

With a pink controller.
And and AND... Rockband 2.

He's a pretty neat guy sometimes.

A Post About Nothing

Kind of.

Is it just me, or does cauliflower look like a bunch of little brains all squished together?

Let me back up.

So, I made curry with carrots, peas, potatoes, and brown rice for dinner last night. It was pretty delish, if I do say so myself (even thought I can't take credit for the actual sauce because I used this little guy right here…but I didn't over-cook anything, which is a pretty big deal if you're me). Blake thought it needed more ginger. I'm beginning to think that he feels the same way about ginger as I do about garlic. To paint a little picture, The Other Molly once told me that if I had the ability to put garlic on cold cereal that I probably would. To which I would respond that such a claim is preposterous as I draw the line for use of garlic as a condiment at Cream-of-Wheat and Snickerdoodles, thank you very much.

Just be glad you're not my boyfriend.

But, back to the curry.

Yummy? Check.

Filling? Check.

Fattening? Check.

Especially since we decided that some adult beverages (most of which rhymed with "flewdrivers) were a necessary part of our after-dinner Rock Band experience.

And fortune cookies.

And sorbet.

Did I mention that I had spaghetti for lunch, leftover from my weekend in The Chi? (Thanks Mom!)

I woke up today and contemplated hiring a forklift to drive me to work.

Who invented carbs, anyway?

They should be tarred and feathered and then forced to eat seventeen servings of pasta, only to then attempt to fit into their Seven for All Mankind stovepipe jeans.

Very unforgiving, those jeans.

Naturally, lots of green stuff was on my imaginary menu today.

Specifically, a salad.

Because I think I read somewhere that the FDA has declared green Mike-an-Ike’s unsuitable when counted as a serving of vegetables.

Damn.

So I packed myself a salad (and may I just take a moment to talk about how freaking FANTASTIC Newman’s Own Low Fat Sesame Ginger dressing is? I am not a particularly supportive fan of light dressings. I’ve always felt that if the dressing tastes like chalk made of aspartame, that it will render the salad unpalatable after only a few bites, thus depriving we, the eaters, of the nutritious value of the greens themselves. Which was the point of the salad in the first place, am I right? But this dressing…it’s like the heavens parted and the hand of the dear Lord himself reached down to endow Barack Obama with perpetual badass-ness and happened to brush a ginger plant along the way, thereby creating this magical accoutrement . And I promise that my enthusiasm has almost nothing to do with my undying love for Paul Newman himself…le sigh…And end sermon). To go along with this salad, I had an apple, some celery, carrots and the dreaded cauliflower.

The cauliflower, you see, has been lurking in my fridge for a good week and a half. It was purchased with the intent of roasting it sprinkled with some curry powder. What is it with me and Indian food lately? Maybe it’s a hold-over from when The Other Molly and I were living out a-London-ways. Someone stop me before I break down and find a recipe for naan…

I finally decided to cut the darn thing up, in hopes that it would help motivate me to actually eat it. In the process, I kind of wondered why it hadn’t gone bad yet. As I was eating it for lunch today, it occurred to me that the reason it had remained unspoiled all this time is because it’s all smooshed together so tightly that it takes forever for whatever it is makes veggies go bad to actually attach itself to it. And it’s this physical construction which makes it look NASTY.

A fact which, unfortunately, also occurred to me as I was eating lunch.

Sorry.

I guess I should’ve clarified that this tangent was not going in the direction of vegetative sciences and molding properties of root vegetables, but more in the direction of how cauliflower skeeves me out because it looks like cow brains that have been run through a Cuisineart and a trash compactor, respectively.

Because it really does.

Another thing that occurred to me as I was eating lunch is that Clive Cussler does not know how to write female characters.

Why am I reading Clive Cussler, you might wonder.

I needed something to supplement to void in my life after Twilight made its grand exit from my life (and I was able regain normal human brain function).

I figured Clive Cussler would be a literarily-appropriate second act.

And not in a good way.

I was correct. If you’ve ever read either, you know that I speak the truth.

However, in his introduction to his female lead character had just getting out of bed, wearing a halter-top and shorts.

A halter-top.

Are we kidding me, Clive?

No one wears halter-tops to bed. Or anywhere for that matter,

Unless you’re patronizing the Fried What?! booth at the Illinois State Fair.

Then it’s kind of a necessary fashion statement.

I swear that, for the sake of my own sanity, I will post something that makes sense.

Eventually.

It’ll probably have a lot to do with the story of how my car exploded and almost killed me and Lara.

Until then, I’m just going to sit here and think about how even though I should really just drink some tea and go to bed when I get home, I’ll probably have some of my Mom’s spaghetti and maybe a cookie.

Or three.

Just for Molly Beth

The Pieta
(95 Cranbrook style)

oh wait
I almost forgot about this one.

You're welcome.