Random Esquire

QTMama wrote an entry here about how she likes an Irish accent.  Specifically, she likes to hear it out of the mouth of a certain Irish gentleman she’s seeing.

I don’t get it.

Well, not entirely.   I admit that I dated a girl from Puerto Rico whose primary language was Spanish - but she didn’t have much of an accent.  And it certainly didn’t boil me but, it was charming enough.  I guess.  Maybe.  Honestly, I can’t remember.  But in almost all of my relationships, I’ve been the more multi-cultured of the pair and I do not have an accent.  Unless a slight Chicago accent counts.  And let’s face it, no one is dropping their britches over a Chicago accent.

Plush told me that if she spoke to me in another language or with an accent, it would be completely wasted on me.  She knows, however, that I tend to like a little high-maintenance and crabbiness in mah womenz.

She said, “Now, if I speak cranky to you…”

I yelled, “YES!”

I mean, there is seriously something wrong with me.

1. I was invited to a cocktail party at the Chicago Opera House tomorrow night - to the 2008 Gala of the Alliance Francaise de Chicago, in support of this non-profit organization that promotes film, music, theater, literature, cooking and all things l’art de vivre. Providing food and drink at the dinner will be The Ritz Paris, L’Ecole Ritz Escoffier, Colin Field & the Hemingway Bar, and Djordje Varda & l’Atelier Floral du Ritz. I have not yet decided if I will attend but if I do, it will be to people watch as the National Restaurant Association gathering is here in Chicago this weekend and there will surely be some notables about.

2. I have spent much of the past week concentrating on finalizing work issues and packing for my trip. In the upcoming weeks, I will go to France, Switzerland, Austria, Germany and Italy. I am looking forward to a bit of adventure and, of course, a bit of trouble. This will be the longest vacation I have ever taken and the first I have taken alone in many years. It is…thrilling.

3. I have a very nice next door neighbor. Last summer, she gave me a potted geranium for my patio. I suspect this may have been because her patio was an array of many colored geraniums and mine looks positively dreadful next to it. My only decoration is a grill. I might plant some fresh herbs this year. But really, I can’t be bothered much with plants or flowers. I don’t get it. Tonight, she knocked on my door and gave me a very nice fold out chair for my patio. She said she had three and simply didn’t have the room. This means I will be able to work, reclined out in the sunshine, with my laptop. I will be sure to find her something nice while I am traveling.

4. The reigns to the blog will be handed over to Plush while I am away. I imagine that with the multitude of internet cafes, I may post something but I haven’t decided if this should also be a vacation away from even this, my favorite hobby. I had no reservations about turning things over to Plush but after a few reassurances from her that she would not do certain things…then I began to think about it. But, I simply do not care. I trust her and hope she scandalizes you all.

1. I did not have lunch with Instigator today. This is because she is on a task-force of sorts to handle deals worth a lot of scratch. Suspiciously sounding like an honor, it is actually more of a burden which we refer to as a “big fuckin’ deal” - much like one might say “who the fuck cares.” We have an understanding. If either of us is busy and the other walks into our office, we simply give that look that says, “Get out” and the other doesn’t take it personally. Today was my day to not take it personally because Instigator was up to her neck in some big fuckin’ deal. Bah!

2. My sister sometimes says things that strike me as ridiculous. She was watching me change my niece’s diaper to make sure I was doing it right. I sprinkled some powder and my sister said, “You’re salt and peppering the baby.” Is it just me or does that strike anyone else as offensively funny in a way? Then, there was the time she said she would show her children the movie Mystic River as a cautionary tale against running away by telling them, “That’s what happens to kids who run away.” The other day, she was talking about my niece and potty training and said something like, “Getting her off of diapers is like pulling her from a line of coke.” Dude. That’s just wrong.

3. I took a sleep-aid 90 minutes ago. This is because I am trying to go to bed earlier to reset my clock before I head overseas. I typically go to bed around 1 in the morning. Bad. It is now 10 p.m. and I am still wide awake. Dumb pills. Maybe I didn’t wash them down with enough whiskey chaser.

4. I have not yet told Little Filthy that he will be staying at Chez Parents while I am gone. He…has a bit of a reputation staying with them. Sort of like a rock star at a hotel. There was the time he baked a potato on my mother’s expensive oriental rug - which my pregnant sister discovered. With her foot. Or the time he ate my father’s ear plugs…which I discovered when he returned home and promptly pooped them out…all told in a nice little picture story here.

5. I, stupidly, taught Little Filthy how to lick on command. I say, “Kiss. Do it!” in my certified broken, third half-ass language and he will run up and give my cheek a lick, after which he is rewarded with a small treat. Unfortunately, Little Filthy does not associate his obeying the command with a treat so much as the actual licking. And so if he decides he wants a treat, he’ll just lick the shit out of me. *sigh*

1. The Italian has this odd habit. When he gets worked up, he starts to sing the theme from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. We’ll be talking about something and suddenly, I’ll hear him bellow, “Innnnn west Philadelphia, born and raised, in a playground’s where I spent most of my days…” and there’s just nothing to be done until he’s worked it out of his system. Anything can set him off. And not just that song. Today, I said, “I wish you watched Survivor so we could talk about how hot Amanda is.” He said, “I’m a survivor! I’m not goin’ give up!” and off he went. I sighed. This was not as bad as his insistence, the other day, that he sing New York State of Mind. I said something about his ability to sing it and he said, “All us Jews can do Billy Joel!”

Who knew?

2. I ran into Fresh Express today, walking down the hallway. I asked her how she was doing. She pinched her fingers together and said, “Oh, about this much better than yesterday.” I said, “Oh? Are you having a bad week?”

I know, I know. I don’t know why I asked.

She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “I have cramps.”

Inside my head, I screamed.

3. QTMama dedicated a song to me. Dearest QT, when I think about me, I touch myself, too. (QTmama also sent drunk text messages to me last night…except she used the wrong number and now has a text pen pal who is very interested in getting to know her better.)

4. Bev and LynchSeattle sent me two cookbooks by well known Seattle chefs. I think I’m going to try my hand at a few recipes this weekend. Thank you, Bev and Chris!

5. I am learning the value of spontaneity and not always getting things done. I ordered a pizza last night and, remembering that the Ballerina tutored just a block away from me on Wednesday nights, sent her a text and said I’d just ordered pizza - want some? And thirty minutes later, we were eating and chilling out. It was a lot better than working all night. We watched Top Chef. She rolled her eyes at Padma. I clapped.

6. Plush and I will be doing a tasting tonight, concentrating on the food and wines of Italy. I am looking forward to seeing her.

7. Little Filthy’s come hither look:

1.  Plush and I were in bed, canoodle-snuggling.  I won’t go into how this topic arose, but suffice to say that at one point, Plush said, “I fuckin’ love Kenny Rogers.”

*blink*

No one says that they fuckin’ love Kenny Rogers.  Well, maybe his plastic surgeon.  But that’s about it.  No one else fuckin’ loves Kenny Rogers.  Let alone says it.  In bed.

Especially since…I am not Kenny Rogers.

2. Plush told me some of the things she might blog about here, while I am away.  Of the topics she brought up…well, all I can say, people, is that you’re in for a completely different experience.   She is open to suggestions or questions, if you have any.  You can leave them in the comments section.

I don’t know if I’m more nervous for you…or for me.

3.   The Italian and I spoke today.  He paused as we were talking and said, “You…you have..in your voice..how shall I say it… Post sex conceit.  That ’sex with a hot girl’ conceit.”

I said, “Oh.  Like I’m…peacocking?”

He said, “EXACTLY.”

Guilty.

Do you know how hard it is to climb a tree in the city?

Okay, I didn’t climb a tree. There is one squirrel, in particular, that likes the tree by my patio/balcony. The funny thing is that it has no tail and so it looks somewhat like a rabbit. Plush and I were on the patio about a week ago and I pointed out the crackers I’d left for the tail-less wonder. And sure enough, the little thing came hopping along and she got to see the little beast.

Then, last week, I noticed a smudge of furry brown by the curb. I walked over and, sure enough, it was a flattened squirrel and it sure looked like my patio friend. I sent Plush a text (I resisted the urge to send her a picture mail) and told her that the squirrel was no more.

I left the patio door open today and glanced out to see Little Filthy and the squirrel having a stare-down. They were only about 2 feet from each other. It hadn’t been smooshed after all. I mixed some oats with peanut butter and stuck it on a branch. Happy little thing.

I sent a text message to Plush, “Not to be graphic…but the little squirrel is back and, thanks to the wonders of digital photography, it is now clear that she is a girl. And she has the hugest set of squirrel knockers I’ve ever never seen.”

She wrote back, “You, my dear, may need a hobby…I think your obsession with breasts may have gone too far.”

Edited to Add:  I sent a picture to QTMama so she could see what I was talking about and her response was: “HOLY GOD!  You’re right! Who knew??  Damn.”

I’m telling you people, it’s like… little saline implants.

I won’t be abandoning anonymity in my blog anytime soon. But when, about a month ago, Ms. Cheevious told me she’d be in Chicago and asked if I’d like to meet up for a drink, I decided not to let the opportunity slip by.

Plush and I met Ms. Cheevious and her friend out for dinner and drinks last night at Nacional 27. She is, officially, the first person I’ve met through my blog. I gave her a vague description of myself before heading to the restaurant and then said, “No telling what Plush will be wearing but she has long blonde hair and you won’t miss her.” Sure enough, in her strapless spring dress, Plush was impossible to miss. I told her I’d keep an eye out for the MILF to find her.

I have to say, this was a great experience. Both Ms. Cheevious and her friend were charming as hell. We all indulged in Mojitos and then sat down to a great dinner and sipped an excellent wine chosen by Ms. Cheevious’s foodie friend, who, I’ll add, would be impossible not to like. Best quote of the night occurred when I snapped a picture of Ms. Cheevious and her friend and then handed them the camera to look at the shot. Her friend said, “Hey! Look how good my tits look!” Then she paused and said to Ms. Cheevious, “Oh wait…those are your tits.”

The Seattle clan is next. Prepare to be invaded by Random and Plush.

1. Oh, Friday, thou art more beautiful than D cups.

2. Just when I thought I might write something a bit more thoughtful, something stupid (and untrue) comes out my fingers like #1.

3. My personal challenge to compliment a stranger went bust. Let me tell you why. Because compliments are supposed to be thoughtful and the most thought I could muster up for a complete stranger had something to do with how he or she (and invariably, it was a she) looked and that seemed, well, creepy. I tried again today but the closest I came was complimenting a woman on her parallel parking and that just didn’t seem quite right, either. Tomorrow is a new day. I’ll give it another go.

4. If you had a record in the Guinness Book of World Records, what would it be? This came to mind amid the David Blaine hub-bub that took place here in Chicago earlier this week. You know which one is disgusting? Longest fingernails. There’s not enough cocaine in the world to excuse that.

5. Dinner and drinks tonight. Followed by dinner and drinks tomorrow night. In fact, dinner and drinks for the rest of my life. It sort of makes me tired just thinking about it.

6. Europe is two weeks away. Perhaps Plush will hold down the blog front while I am away. I suspect I would return to find my blog turned into a coffee klatsch of debauchery and mayhem, all skillfully orchestrated by an innocent looking Plush.

1.  Plush now has posting privileges.  I like that she kicked things off with a masturbation story.

2.   I have a 48 hours cold bug.  I am being optimistic.  Today, I blew my nose and I believe I may have blown bubbles in my eye.  I spent much of my afternoon trying to recreate this.

3.   I sleep with the patio door ajar because I like cold air when I am sleeping.  While Little Filthy fell asleep on his own bed, I awoke up to find him pushing the covers up with this head in an attempt to crawl into the bed.   My bed.  I said, “hey!” and he stopped and looked at me.  I think he emoted, “It’s cold in this dump.”  So I let him under the covers.

4.  Plush and I will be meeting a blog reader for dinner this weekend at Nacional 27.  Dinner, drinks…and hell, it’s a Salsa bar so we may just have to get up and shake it.

Inspired by popular demand, Randomesq has granted me my very own login so that I can now share some randomness directly. So, to initiate the Plush contribution, I will share with you all the joy of traffic school.

(Feel free to cheer.)

For the record, I’m a speeder. I’m the person that whizzes by you at mach 5 on the freeway and makes you wonder what the hell is so important down the road. I love driving, but I have to do it a lot, so I’d rather be doing it quickly and arriving at my destination in less time than Gmaps tells me it will take. I know it’s unsafe (one of the Fatal Four), but I also know that I’d rather spend 8 hours cramped in the seat than 9.

I also accept that I will occasionally be caught, and while most of the time I get away with a warning (batting your eyelashes can’t win ‘em all), I wound up in traffic school for doing something like 95 in a 65mph zone. Legally I should have been imprisoned; luckily Mr Officer dropped my official time to 79mph so I could just take the class. Four hours of Defensive Driving later, here are a few tidbits to share with you safe drivers who will never know the joy of traffic school:

* We were greeted by this:

* They hand out permanent markers at the beginning of the session. Ostensibly it’s so you can write your name in big bold letters on cardboard name tents, but I’m convinced it’s so everyone gets a little high before the teacher has to put up with 30 adults in pseudo-detention.

* The girl sitting directly behind me was 22 years old and had received, to date, 23 tickets. I felt much better about my reckless driving knowing that she’s out on the road.

* This same girl, along with the nurse to my left, decided to form a ghetto peanut gallery. Four hours of derisive or contradictory comments (followed by “You said it, girl!”) after every single sentence out of the poor instructor, and I’m willing to bet he was sniffing those markers at break just to get through it.

Yes, I did tell a masturbation story during class. But I maintain that it was completely relevant! We were asked about distracted behavior that we had witnessed in other drivers, and after hearing the lame responses of my classmates (A woman applying lipstick? Please!) I raised my hand and offered the worst bout of distracted driving I’ve ever witnessed (NSFW):

Last year, while driving back to Chicago late at night after a business trip, I looked over at one of the few other cars sharing the freeway and saw a man driving with his seat laid back and his interior lights on. I then realized that said man was naked. I then realized that said naked man was furiously jerking himself off behind the wheel and looked like he was about to have a stroke. Seriously, I will never forget his giant bulging eyes. If that’s not distracted driving, well then, I don’t know what is.

Traffic school teacher decided that I was just making a mockery of him and refused to call on me for the rest of the evening.

One useful bit of info I picked up, though, is that you should always wear your seatbelt. Yes, I’ve heard it before and I generally click it to avoid a ticket, but do you know how Princess Diana really died? Car accident, drunk driver, etc. But according to Señor Safety, Di wasn’t wearing her seat belt, and when the car crashed to an abrupt stop, her body crashed to an equally abrupt stop microseconds later against the front seat. However, her internal organs kept on moving at the original rate, causing her heart to tear loose internally, which led to her rapid death from internal bleeding.

I’m still unclear as to how the seatbelt could have prevented this particular situation. I raised my hand to ask, but for some reason the teacher wouldn’t call on me.