Thanks, it's BEAN a wonderful time!

Before you even start, I know. I've been lax in posting. Thanks to all the readers--OK, reader--who reminded me that my audience awaits a Chicago post. Crazy Cat Lady, here ya go.

As an aside, I just have to say that the only thing that could make the new downtown library better is if it served beer. OK, and was open till midnight or so. But then I guess I'd be sitting right now in a bar with books, and not the library.

Anywhich, they gots Herman Miller chairs and I think I could work here if I weren't afraid someone would steal my laptop every time I got up to pee. I just picked up a book called "Dead Dog." that promises to be "a riotous road trip from an Arizona trailer park to hell." I love this place.

Chicago, as it turns out, was just what the doctor ordered for the post-holiday funk. I've had bloggers' block on what to say about it, and I just can't think of one damn thing negative to say, which means I'm just gonna post some pictures and tell you I had a really, really good time.

Here, of course, is the main feature of our trip. Behold, the bean: (cue angels singing)

How cool is that? On a snowy-but-not-frigid day? Are you kidding? It was like buttah. Here's C and I geeking out (and her brother with his girlfriend, who were slightly taken aback by our geekiness) over our reflections:

And what I can only say must be the bean's butt, as seen from the underside:

That is one awesome piece of polished stainless steel, lemme tell ya.

Eventually, we were able to tear ourselves away to go have a snack and a drink at the nearest bar, conveniently located underneath the Bean in Millennium Park and adjacent to the skating rink, all the better to watch people bursting their arses.

Then we went to the Art Institute. Fabulous. Masterpieces by every Famous Dead Artist you can think of, all up close and personal. My favorite thing? The dolphin ride:

I don't remember what it's really called or who did it, but when I get rich I'm going to have an artist make me one of these for my yard. It was all I could do to not jump on it. (In my defense, it has been a while since I've ridden anything. I mean anything.)

From the Art Institute, we went to another bar and had some more drinks and an appetizer. We picked up my good friend from his Printer's Row condo (ooh la la) and headed to Chinatown for dinner.

I do not have a picture of this, but trust me when I say the restaurant served deep-fried pigeon. There was a picture on the menu. I am about 90 percent certain that they went out on the sidewalk, kicked a pigeon in the head, plucked it, took it inside and dropped it in the Fry-Grandaddy, beak and all, fresh to order. I did not order that, nor did I order the duck tongue entree. The spicy green beans were delicious.

Sunday, we had a fabulous breakfast of Chinese leftovers with eggs (sans whole pigeon or parts of duck) and went shopping. Of course, we started with a brief repast at Quartino (where wine is cheaper than water), then hit the stores where dresses came sized conveniently in 0-8 and cost more than my first car.

After shopping, we were thirsty again. We found a friendly looking and clean-smelling place called Mike's near our parking lot, and had a cool refreshing beverage. Apparently it's the kind of place that wants to make sure their patrons can always wash their hands. Or dishes, or whatever:

Annnd, there you have it. That was Chicago. We'll return shortly to our regular bitter, sardonic posting schedule.

goddammit, would you just DIE already??

More on Chicago later, complete with photos, but first, this interlude.

On the ride back with my friend C, she asked me the last name of Dead-to-Me. Knowing that she and he have mutual friends, I reluctantly told her.

As many of you know, Dead-to-Me became, in theory at least, dead to me after prolonged periods of ignoring me during our 5-month relationship. Finally he sent me an “It’s not you, it’s me,” e-mail one Tuesday morning in June saying he was sorry it wasn’t working out, he runs like hell when he gets close to someone, I’m a smart and intelligent woman who deserves better, hope we can be friends, blah blah blah.

I responded and said that as someone with more than a few commitment issues of her own, I thought his were a little extreme. I suggested that he perhaps hand out a card on the 3rd date, saying something to the effect of “don’t get used to the flowers and quirky gifts and massages, because I’ll only start ignoring you soon enough.” I also said I’d like to be friends, because his friends seemed like great people and I could only assume he treats them well.

When next I saw him, in addition to me looking absolutely fucking stunning, I told him he’s an idiot. Seriously. Who in his right mind gets rid of an (his words not mine) attractive and intelligent woman who’s “not too demanding and seems to enjoy a good rogering”?

Since then, DTM has taken on a Zombie From Hell-like tenacity in refusing to remain dead. There is an entire section of the city that I can’t seem to go to without running into him, and there’s one otherwise fabulous music venue where I know he’ll always be at the end of the bar, just hanging around being emotionally unavailable. When I do see him, I am unable to resist talking to him, and it usually ends up being the funniest, best conversation I have all night.

He’s even on the growing list of people (men, more accurately) whose houses C and I plan to egg one night when the weather warms up.

So then. Last night I told C his last name. She went on to tell me that several months ago, some of DTM's friends told her about how he’d been driving his friends crazy by moping around after breaking up with this woman he’d been seeing, and how he’d finally found a really cool woman who was good in a not-his-usual-stupid-skank way, and he fucked it up. And she said, “Was that you??”

And I said, “Yep, and he did completely fuck it up, and he’s an idiot.”

I mentioned how I love DTM's cool old house. C said she can’t wait to see how it looks with egg on it.

mojo risin'

Maybe it's the cold weather, maybe it's the funk I've been in, maybe it's the 20 extra pounds I'm toting on and around my ass, but I just haven't been inclined to be very bad lately. My attitude about boys lately might best be summed up as "eh, whatever."

Friday night, I went with some friends to a great concert. I got all gussied up--for me, anyway--and pulled from my closet a skirt/blouse combo that miraculously managed to accentuate the curves and de-centuate the lumps. I'll be wearing that at least once a week now.

After the show, we were having a great time at the friendly neighborhood tavern when God* spoke to me. He said, "B.I.G., you've been good lately, maybe too good. Here's a little gift," and He gave me a gentle nudge.

I turned, and God* had placed a young, hot, foreign man on the barstool to my left. This man is not just hot, he's smoking hot. Should-be-dating-a-Brazilian-model hot. "I'm beginning to sweat, I can't see straight, and the left side of my body is twitching" hot.

Even though I'd already had 3 or 4 Guinness, it still took me a while to work up the nerve to talk to him. But I said to myself, "Self, God* has smiled upon you, you'd be an ingrate and a heathen to not take advantage of this opportunity."

The poor foreign boy was jet-lagged from his trip back from visiting a friend in Italy, which probably worked to my advantage because I think I looked a little blurry to him. He claimed he was so tired his "eyes are burning, and I feel like .... is it fainted or fainting? I know that's not very romantic, but there it is."

Is "romantic" really the word he meant to use there? Who cares? Saturday night my informant texted me that he was at the friendly neighborhood tavern again. The place was packed when I got there and I only talked to him for a few minutes, but that's OK. I'll be back.

In the meantime, I feel like myself again. I should make a commercial.

"I was feeling listless, bored, and tired," I'll say with a concerned look on my face. "And then I asked my bartender about Flirting. Now, I feel like I have my life back," as the camera cuts to a shot of me playing with a dog while a voiceover warns of side effects.

"Flirting may not be for everyone. Excessive Flirting is not recommended, especially with multiple partners simultaneously or if you are in a serious relationship. Studies show that Flirting while consuming alcoholic beverages increases the risks of waking up in a strange place, losing articles of clothing, and SRIs (Sex-Related Injuries). Consult your bartender or other qualified professional before attempting Flirting."

*I could be mistaken about which supernatural/spiritual force and/or Higher/Lower Power was actually at work there.

I'm un-pickling!

I've worked out four times in the past 10 days.

The dogs have been walked regularly.

My diet has been loaded with fruits and vegetables, and whole grains.

Last Friday aside, I've drank with moderation and not smoked.

And already I'm starting to see results. As near as I can tell, my tonsils have been replaced with two baseballs, which are lodged in my throat and threatening to close off my voice box and airway. Any minute now, they're going to explode, which frankly would save me from what I'm pretty sure is pneumonia settling into my lungs.

Yeah, I'm really fucking glad I'm trying to be all healthy and shit.

I hear you skeptics out there, pointing out all the places I could have picked up germs. But consider this: The pain from the baseballs in my throat was enough to wake me up and send me to rummage through the medicine cabinet at 3 a.m. Every box of cold medicine I had expired at least a year ago. Why? Because on the Coffee, Beer, and Cigarette diet, I never got sick!

So really, screw all y'all and your germ-covered, antibody-killing "healthy life." Gimme a six-pack of Leinie's and some Kraft mac n' cheese, I got some teevee to watch.

A note about proper training

OK, I've spent the entire weekend recovering from a serious case of Barstool Back.

You know! It's like Tennis Elbow, only different. As so many people do at the beginning of the year, I did not seek the advice of my doctor before jumping into a strict regimen, and I overdid it.

Tuesday, the red metal-framed chairs of the Red Key. Wednesday, hard wooden barstools at Alley Cat and OPT. Thursday, there was a twinge in my lower back every time I rose from a seated position, and my hamstrings were sore. But does Peyton Manning leave the game every time he's a little sore? Hell no! I kept going. I'm a trooper!

Thursday evening, another hard wooden barstool, this time at Locals Only. Then Friday, the playoffs--Daddy Jack's, the Vogue, and the Pawn Shop.

Much like the Colts, I got my ass kicked. On the bright side, it's been a good weekend to stay home and do nothing.

Thank you, may I have another!?

By 9 a.m. today, here's how my day had gone:

1) I weighed myself for the first time in months. It was alarming and dangerously close to a number where I begin thinking of myself in terms of "old fat woman" instead of "young hot sexy thang."

2) Upon attempting to exit my bathroom, the doorknob broke off in my hand. Thinking perhaps I'd somehow landed in a Three Stooges skit, I quickly turned around to see if a 2 X 4 was coming at my head. Then I pulled a MacGyver, using a plastic comb and a pair of scissors to escape from my own bathroom.

3) On my way to work, all the gauges on my Jeep quit working. I spent the rest of the drive wondering if it was worthwhile to try to get that fixed. I decided that if the "low gas" tone and light still worked, I could probably get by without the speedometer, tachometer, and battery, oil pressure and temperature gauges.

Inexplicably, I am in the best mood I've been in for weeks. I think it's because at least my day hasn't been boring.

The dog’s got my bat…er, back

Wow, how ‘bout this weather?! It sure is unseasonably warm!

Warm enough to turn off the furnace last night.
Warm enough to sleep nekkid.
Warm enough to wake up a hibernating flying mammal, in fact!

How can I be so sure? Because one of the fuckers was flying crazy-ass loops, as bats are wont to do, around my bedroom at midnight.

It was one of those rare instances that I had an eensy, teensy amount of regret for kicking out the Man of the House.

As I lay in my bed, under the covers, screaming like a little girl, my new hero sprang into action:

Yes, that is a look of proud victory on the Monster's face. In this picture, he has just made use of his hunting-dog genes to help me tag team the bat. While I was locked in the bathroom shrieking and getting dressed (because the only thing less dignified than running from a bat screaming is running from a bat screaming and nekkid), he was keeping an eye on the bat.

When I emerged, fishing net in hand, he helpfully led me to the intruder, which was being all freaky and shit hanging upside down from the top of the window. When I knocked it out of the air, again and again, he pounced on it, and kept nipping at it till it rose no more.

Me, I can't kill anything bigger than a mosquito. But it's OK if the dog does. That's just nature taking its course. Like the freaking Discovery Channel, right there in my hallway. Hey, that's why I keep their rabies vaccinations current, right?

Oh--and where was Big Head Dog, the vee-cious 10-headed beast, while his master and cohort were bravely doing battle with the 5-ounce dragon? Cowering in the corner. Then he went to hang out in the bathtub for a while. I'm sure, though, if it were, you know, a person attacking me, he would be all over it. He just doesn't do bats, I guess.