BUST Craftacular Crafty Craftness

Went to the BUST Magazine Holiday Craftacular this weekend; as expected it illuminated our lives and brought joy to all. BUST is not to be confused with the also popular Boston University Stage Troupe, or their Home Depot account with which I am-- according to Google-- still the main associated name. My companions decided to use the fair as an opportunity to write up a trend report for sale to somewhere tragic like Forever 21. I wept inside. And then gave them my opinion: squid and octopi. I LOVE squid and octopi as design elements. Oh, and here's another one that I <3, especially my scar: the evil jellyfish. Look for these aquatic monsters in a store near you. As for the res, you'll have to wait for that groundbreaking trend report. I love when I unite friends form different arenas of my life and they combine their respective crazies. This may or may not be a symptom of my utter lack of productive ambition.

But really, the fair was epic, the loot was fantastic, and now I have excellent, snooty-designy-pseudo hipster Christmas cards from Seltzer (http://www/seltzergoods.com). They feature an illustration of a color wheel and the colors are named for seasonal things like icicles, yule log, firelight, cranberries, sugar plums and a starry night, among others. They're a little pricey ($15 for a box of 8) but they're cute, artsy, ironic, smart, whatever you are looking for amongst the design options. I recommend. Although, they are kind of edging into my photo project, The Great Water Tower Project, with one of their cards. I don't want to talk about it. And yes, I will be selling water tower calendars shortly. Seriously.

Am I serious?

As a sidebar: Amy Poehler is on the cover of the current issue of BUST (written up by Rachel Dratch), which they were handing out at the Craftacular, and it was my dream that she too might be interrogating the man from Maine working the Digby & Iona table... but she was not. Sadness. On the plus side, I got to discuss playing with sticks and stones in the wilds of Maine with said dude. I have to say, he lived up very well to my impressions regarding life in Maine-- almost as well as the resident Maine-r in my life.

Also, I will now be sporting a necklace sporting an ocean liner pendant. I've never been on an ocean liner.

Kisses.

High School Flashback

As it happens, I remain in contact with about zero people from high school. This evening, I had dinner with two of them. I speak of averages and actuals. And love.

Here is how it went down:

1. I went to open my car with the clicker thing.
2. It did not work.
3. I opened my car with the actual key. Shocking.
   
4. The cab light did not go on (no I do not drive a sixteen wheeler).
   
5. I turned the key.
6. The engine did not even pretend to start. Nothing, rien, nada. Not a sputter, not a flicker, not a spark.
   
7. FML.
8. I went back inside and announced, "Well, my car is dead."
9. My dad said, "Well, I'll drive you and then pick you up."
10. I died inside.
11. My dad drove me downtown to Avec where I had a delightful dinner with old friends.
12. As we finished our main course, I had to text my dad to consider picking me up.
13. My dad appeared outside and offered to drop my friends off home at their apartments that are not their high school bedrooms.
    
14. He did so.
15. We drove home to the Bev.
    
16. My entire family watched Letterman together.

The end.

Go ahead: laugh, judge, cry with me.

The Risks of Going to the Homestead

To clarify, my parents live in Chicago, in the city, we just have a lot of trees. It's not like New York, ok? Not everywhere is like New York. I know the thought can be shocking to some. Let it go.

Anyways, the first weekend that I was home we had some pretty mild weather and my mother decided that this meant it was a perfect opportunity to get up on the roof and hang the Christmas wreath and potentially other such festive things.

Now I have something of an aptitude for climbing on things: rocky outcrops, lighting grids, trees, piles of stuff, tables, banisters, jungle gyms, fallen trees, armoires, radiators, etc. I suppose one could put roofs on there. In this spirit, my father refused to have anything to do with this increasingly despised task of the holiday season. Also in this spirit, my mother told me to put on shoes that were not flip-flops and to get out on the roof.

Putting up the wreath, taking care of the basic electricality of it all was just fine. And THEN, the secret agenda appears out of nowhere.

"Oh Johanna, can you just check the gutter over there? I think the connection got displaced when we had them cleaned last week."

Oh really? You had them cleaned? Because I know have what feels, smells and looks like a fountain of hundred-year-old leaf debris all over my hands. I had to shove my entire arm up a curved gutter spout and muck it out. To aid me in this arduous process, I was given a wire hanger. And now I probably have tetanus.

Then I had to clean the outsides of the windows.

When I finally got back inside and on the ground, it was discovered that my mother had not thought to test the lights on the wreath before sending me into the tree canopy. FML.

And repeat.

The Universiality of George Clooney

So you have my mother, myself and my little sister: 28 years between the first two, 9 years between the daughters... and we can all agree on George Clooney. It's awkward. And it comes out every time I am home. I can only imagine how uncomfortable it makes my dad.

That's all.

Playing Chicken with Automated Toilets

To beat a dead horse, my MA exam process killed me and I decided that afterwards I would need to go recuperate in Chicago for a long long time... two weeks centered around Thanksgiving. My Dad decided that while I was home, it would be a good idea for me to continue the networking and try to find a job.

Sidebar: if you have a paying job that needs doing, you call me.

Anyways, we went to his alma mater, UIC, to a lecture where, of everyone in the audience, I was probably the youngest by about twenty years. Basically, this means that people who I consider to be old could have been in the young set with me. But such people where not there.

But the point: this lecture took place in the student union type building at UIC which forced me to confront with automated bathroom technology. If I had a Stephen Colbert-esque list of people/things that I have on notice, automatic bathroomness would definitely be on it. As you may recall from the incident at the Standard Hotel from "Beer Garden in November & a Prize Fightin' Man," I don't do well here. It wasn't that the toilets at the UIC bathroom refused to acknowledge me, it was more that they felt we were engaged in combat, or at least a mean game of chicken. Not that this is unusual, but really, can't someone do something about that? I mean, fix the censor, decrease the fury of the flush action--something to lower the stakes of peeing in a public restroom. I have faith that it could be done. I never was a fan of chicken.

Salty Berets

Yesterday, as part of my celebration of being free from graduate school, I went shopping and to dinner with a long lost friend from undergrad.

Act I: The Beret

We went to the new Banana Republic store in Soho, where a lot was going on. First off, they were treating it like a party... greeting you like an old friend, running around with trays of "champagne" (LIES), etc. Also they're too good for paper bags there; instead you get a Banana Soho canvas tote. I still can't sort out my feelings about that situation.

So, the store is set up as a looooong hallway with little vignettes, or dioramas to either side as you proceed to the end/the fitting rooms. Keep in mind that it is mayhem. I dive into a section featuring sailor-y sweaters and lots of hats. I like to try on hats: it's fun, it's easy and no one really expects you to purchase a hat. And I usually look humorously dead awful, which is also fun for my shopping companion. Win-win. I happened upon a grey knit beret and thought to myself, "well fancy that, it's just like your childhood of awkwardness calling," and threw it on.

Out of NOWHERE a saleswoman swoops out of hell and screams at me: "You're WEARING it WRONG!" Seriously? Seriously.

She rips it out of my hands, off my head, starts running her granny mauve manicured hands through my hair, "styling" me I suppose. Here's a note for everyone: I don't like strangers to touch me. And I don't even like people I know to touch my hair all that often. So I'm standing there frozen in shock with the most absurd expression on my face, as is my friend in the background. Having to watch the whole thing go down in the mirror was the most upsetting and ridiculous feeling. There I was, literally rooted to the spot, making awkward mirror-eye-contact with my horrified self as this crazed saleswoman--I'll say it-- brutally assaulted me for an epic moment. People stared.

"You're wearing it wrong. This is how I wear it."

Really Banana Republic? Really?


Act II: The Salt

We proceeded to one of my favorite Soho dinner stops, Mexican Radio. I was feeling, shall we say "liberated," and decided that it was definitely a margarita night... long story short, I ended up with a huge chunk of salt in my eye. I don't even know how. And we were sitting just adjoining this nice family, with a nice toddler... and I had a Delaware sized chunk of salt in my eye. And it hurt. And it was stupid. And sometimes, one needs to exclaim things. Meanwhile, this little kid was in love with us and kept turning around to interact... never have I seen so many children in Mexican Radio, it was very discombobulating. Never have I gotten that much salt in my eye under the eye of a small child who probably you shouldn't be shouting profanities in front of. Yes.

I decided to soothe myself by ordering a new margarita.

Beer Garden in November & a Prize-fightin' Man

To continue a theme, graduate school ruined my autumn. I missed all the good weather (or at least the appropriately timed good weather), missed all the good television premiers (and discovered On Demand too late), missed all the epic nights that were had by my friends, missed the outdoor flea, and stayed in my apartment waaaay too many days to discuss.

One of the nights that I missed included an apparently lovely evening at the Standard Hotel beer garden under the Highline (also I missed the Highline in general... and got yelled at for it)... so for my first weekend back to life, we decided to brave it despite the chill in the air, so that I could feel like a person who lives in Manhattan. It was cold, so was the beer. The food was delicious. The grill dude was delightful and later gave us free food.

On the negative, everything automated in the restrooms decreed that I was invisible, that I did not exist and that they would not work for me. Multiple times. And then people would say things like, "No, no, try it like this..." And then it would not work for them, because of course, they were trying to convince the material universe that I exist, which I clearly don't, as evidenced by the failure of my autumn 2009 season.

After we fought through our last beers, we decided to head over to Art Bar where it was sure to be warm, if not downright humid.

Hours later, just as last call was happening, two asshats appeared out of nowhere. One of them told me to "scoot over" (I was sitting in a winged armchair... fail) and pretty much sat on my lap. He proceeded to tell us about his difficult childhood as an Irish immigrant who had to move to Georgia because his father was an ex-prize-fighter cum importer/exporter (dear Seinfeld...) necessitating them to move to a port city in the deep south? Plus, I was fully sober at this point so this account is 100% accurate to what he told us--there is no fog in my memory... sadly. He also had the most blindingly shiny wedding ring that I have ever seen in my entire life. It was hypnotizing. At one point, I just completely checked-out of life due to its gleamingness.

I leave you to ponder under what circumstances such a tale would succeed... and shudder.