Life-Threateners

Yesterday I scored two Lifesavers from HR.  Having a bit of a sweet-tooth as I do, I was a bit excited.  And so, when I ran into coworker M, I waved the candies in his direction.  And okay, maybe I was kind of exuberant about it.

But I swear I never meant for one of the candies to be hurled toward M's face, narrowly missing and exploding against the wall, scattering shard of the sweetest shrapnel all over the hallway.

The worst part is, the one that didn't explode/nearly brain my coworker?  Yeah, it was watermelon-flavored.  And if that isn't the saddest story you've ever heard, I just don't want to live in this world anymore.


(True:  The best Lifesaver flavor is, without a doubt, Butter Rum.  More candy should be booze-flavored and workplace-friendly.  But I guess pineapple is pretty good, too.)

Eat This: Black Dog Smoke and Ale House

There are lots and lots of good restaurants in Chicago.  But, holy crap, it might be worth driving all the way down to Urbana just for Black Dog barbecue.

The building is right downtown, and the ambiance is casual/cool.  Be prepared for a bit of a wait--they don't accept reservations, but it's really, really worth it.  I ordered pulled pork and twice-baked potato casserole, and everything was mouthgasmic.  I understand the burnt ends are so good, they always sell out within a couple hours.  (Sounds like an excuse to go for lunch, right?)  And their home-made barbecue sauces are incredible.

Best of all?  The joint is named after the owner's two black mutts, and since studies show medium-sized black dogs are some of the last to be adopted (I know, I was surprised, too), they always have a flier in the entrance of an adoptable dog fitting that description.  Cool, huh?

You should probably eat there.  I'll even come down to meet you if you do!  (Yeah, I'm totally looking for excuses to head down again...  Help a girl out, would you?)


(True:  Don't expect too many restaurant reviews--I'm a lunchtime blogger, and it makes my bagged lunch disappointing.)

Because PRIORITIES.

I went home last weekend to visit my folks.

I leave some clean clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes there (let's not talk about the books, okay?), because I pretty frequently forget to pack stuff. 

This last weekend, it worked the other way:  I forgot half my stuff there when I came back to Chicago.

Things I forgot:

• Mascara
• Deodorant
• Toothbrush

Things I did not forget:

• The new book my mom is lending me

(True:  No need to worry.  SuperTarget and priority mail saved the day, and I don't believe I descended into smelly-kiddom.)

Hops in the Right Direction: It's Normal. Or Not, But That Doesn't Make It Abnormal--Just Confusing.

My dad and I talk dogs a lot.  He and his dog, Linka, are constantly training for the rally obediance trials they do, and of course Prada and I are always working toward new body confidence goals.  Needless to say, we never run out of things to talk about, and it's great to have someone to bounce ideas off of.

That's one of the best things about having a dog--I immediately have something in common with any other dog owner I meet.

And of course there's the pleasure and satisfaction anyone who has adopted a dog has.

But having a special needs dog changes things.  Not only do I have something to talk about with any other dog lover--which, as far as I'm concerned, is anyone worth talking to--I also have had a whole new world opened up to me.

Wait.

That sounds way too sappy, even for me.

How about this?

You know, having a tripod, is like, cool and stuff, because I never really thought before about how, like, it would make me a nicer, more compassionate person.  Dude.

(Okay, let's pretend I never wrote that.  That's atrocious.)

In all seriousness, though, having a "different" pet has made me re-evaluate the importance, even the necessity, of being physically normal.  Normal is what is.  My normal, and my normal with Prada, is different than other people's normal.  That would still be the case if she had four legs.  Or if she were the size of a Pyrenees.  Or if she were blind, or petrified of squirrels.

So, I figure that makes Prada no less not-normal than any other dog.  And maybe, by extension (it's a stretch, I know), that makes me no less not-normal than any other person.

Pinterest, Don't Ever Change.

Pinterest is interesting.

In the last ten minutes, I've been introduced to a Batman Snuggie, a solar-powered bonsai tree, and someone in an absolutely ginormous panda costume being shoved through a too-small train car door by several police officers.

Via

(True:  I may want two of those things.  Guess which?)

The Banjo of Science

I recently watched a documentary called The Science of Sex Appeal.  It was all right, I guess, though there was a lot more sex appeal than science, and it was completely heteronormative.  But, I'm going to assume what science there was wasn't wrong, just dramatized and a very small portion of the whole.

So, the smell of sweat happens when perspiration mixes with the bacteria growing on your skin.  Each person's immune system, which dictates what bacteria are allowed to grow, is different.  Ergo, each person's sweat smells a little different.

And if we are driven to procreate with the best possible match, that person would be one who has a very different immune system from our own, so that any offspring would be likely to have a strong immune system that can battle the most bad things.

Apparently, this is why siblings tend to smell really bad to each other--their immune systems are from the same gene pool, and it's a subconscious way for our brains to tell us, "Dear god, not that one!  Not that one!!!!"

Now, why the hell am I telling you this?

My family is extensive and convoluted, to say the least, and much of it is located in and around my hometown.  I have second and third cousins probably into the hundreds, and I don't know the bulk of them.  I went to a funeral in my hometown this weekend for someone who was not related to me, and I ended up sitting next to a man who was well-groomed and well-dressed--clearly hygiene was not an issue here.  And the way he smelled like to had my eyes watering.

Yep, probably a cousin.


(True:  This is why, when I lived at home, I had a "don't date within the county" rule.  Too many chances to accidentally turn up at the same family reunion.)

Quick! I Need an Icepick!

I had a really clever idea for what to blog about today, but then the guys in my department started talking about the etymology of the Brazilian wax and I had to perform an emergency auto-lobotomy.


(True:  The word "I" comes from the Latin idem, which means "the same."  Because I'm unique.  Just like everyone else.)