Crime and Changes in the Hood

So as I write this from the comfort of my cushy nanny job, Brandy, this blog's co-writer and co-founder, is attempting to backpack across the Himalaya mountains in India, braving the sun, the wind, the rain, and the elements, all while probably living on mere vegetables and curry (though she was pretty much already living on that here anyway). But yes! Brandy is gone. She kind of stopped writing a long time ago, which was sad. Because she was definitely still here. But with a snap a crackle and a pop, she is suddenly gone, for an indefinite amount of time. The name of this blog suddenly seems obsolete and weird. Oh well.

I'm still here.

Before Brandy left, we actually had a brush with the law. DA-DA-DAAAAAAAAA!!! Too bad my first sentence told you where I am, or else maybe you would think I AM IN JAIL! I'm not. I'm still here. But Brandy and I decided to do some September cleaning, clear out our closets, and sell our things along with all of the other free-wheeling hobos at the Logan Square Farmer's Market. You know, the ones who just sprawl out their stuff in the grass and hope people on their way to buy vegetables decide they want an old dress or an AV converter plug. In our first five minutes, we were wildly successful. Our main demographic seemed to be middle aged Hispanic women, they just really loved our clothes. But there was one middle aged Hispanic woman who didn't like our stuff: A LADY COP! Yeah, a lady cop came and busted our flea market. She threatened to fine us and made us pack up and leave. I felt like a gypsy. But then we just "sold" stuff from our porch, and when I say "sold," I mean we read magazines and drank lemonade and watched our leashed cat interact with passing dogs while no one bought our stuff. Capitalism!

My love of television recently hit a high (or low?) point when I found myself watching the finale of Bachelor Pad with our landlord, Joe. You may remember him as Robin Tunney's (Empire Records, The Craft) uncle or cousin or something. Yeah. But that happened. He was over, snaking the drain. Somehow ended up commenting on Tenley and Jake Pavelka with me in our living room. Somehow I ended up being able to carry on a very lively conversation with him on these subjects. And now it's Gossip Girl season, and I might even get into Dancing with the Stars. Jennifer Grey was reduced to tears over the memory of Patrick Swayze, so someone please explain to me how I can turn away from this show.

It is also football season. Yay! Watching the first game at an ND bar here in Chicago, I asked aloud who our quarterback was and was immediately smited by everyone around me. I don't know how everyone else knew who our quarterback was, it was the first game of the season! This is ridiculous! Why am I being punished for this?! I forgave my friends after they helped me do pushups in the middle of the bar. Last weekend, I went to South Bend for the game experience but not the game. To me, the game experience is going to Perkins dressed like a ghetto cowgirl with my uncle, then disrupting a few radio shows and getting a Pumpkin Spice Latte, then eating a traditional pasta dinner with Brookens and Tmoney before we head to the Backer where I inevitably get borderline violent after one Long Island Iced Tea. On game day, I found another fun use for my gold sequined Miami dress, and a lot of old people took paparazzi photos of me as I aimlessly wandered through the Joyce Lot looking for anyone I recognized, forgetting that I know no one in the city of South Bend anymore.

I also randomly got to see Moby for free, but it was kind of sad because I didn't recognize him when he took the stage. And how many 40 year old bald men can prompt such a strong crowd reaction? Apparently, for me, the answer is MORE THAN ONE.

So yeah, I finally sent my Peace Work medical paperwork in, but yeah, I'm pretty sure some stuff is going to be sent back because I made a lot of mistakes and tried to correct them. So it is just a packet of contradictions. Until my future comes through, I will continue to nurture these young children, dance, write, and wait for Mallory to come back to Chicago. Word!