ChgoRed, Girl Editor

Shit Slips Swiss Straps

My husband has let me down.  I sent him a perfectly hilarious article today—the kind that has BLOG THIS NOW—written all over it.  And yet, he does nothing.  Nothing.  His verdict: "Eh."  That's what two weeks of unemployment breeds: lassitude.

So.  In the interests of cheering up your Tuesday, a little something from the Guardian.

Giant dog turd wreaks havoc at Swiss museum

A giant inflatable dog turd created by the American artist Paul McCarthy was blown from its moorings at a Swiss museum, bringing down a power line and breaking a window before landing in the grounds of a children's home.

The exhibit, entitled Complex Shit, is the size of a house. It has a safety system that is supposed to deflate it in bad weather, but it did not work on this occasion.

In other words, a house-sized poo balloon, drifting across the idyllic Swiss countryside.  How is that not hilarious?  Putting aside the visual, it took down a power line.  In other words: At some point last month, there were probably Swiss government employees, called to the weirdest scene of their careers, who had to figure out what to do with this destructive, house-sized, inflatable poo.  

It's really rather Python-esque.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

So much for the list.

Put up curtains in the bedroom.
String lights on the porch.
Plant some herbs.
Make sangria.
Go to Bari Foods.
Shedd Aquarium (depends on money).
Go to Bohemian National Cemetery (Frank XYZ again).
Do some other genealogy work.
Roll down a grassy hill (we all have our vices).
Take a water taxi or tour down the river.
Go see a movie in the park.
Get out of the city (not Evanston).
Make paper flowers (a new Bellhop product).
Find the house where Emma Goldman was arrested. (Yes, really.)

Still, it was lovely—a true vacation, but with none of the hassle of packing bags, catching flights and trying to find a new restaurant for every meal.  It was the closest I've come in many years to that home-from-school-for-months feeling.  Another week and I would have been out on a bike somewhere.

Plus, there were plenty of things accomplished aside from the list.

There was a long, hot walk to the back of a cemetery for nothing, really; yet it didn't feel pointless or long at all.  Our apartment is now in a cleaner, more manageable state. We met some dogs and hung out in the basement with our neighbors during a tornado warning.  I wasted hours in genealogy puttering, and nearly an hour just wandering around a bead store.  There was gelato, and flan, and nachos, and some other bad-for-me eating.  We had friends over for dinner and great conversation.  And Saturday night, I got to dance with the Rev in the kitchen, after the dishes were done.

It was just long enough.  I may do this next year, too.

Frank XYZ, Ever Elusive

The good news is that I sort of found where Frank XYZ is buried.

The bad news: He's somewhere in here.

Something seems to be missing, doesn't it?  Say, stones or names or markers of any kind?

According to the nice lady at the front office, his grave was essentially a rental.  No, really.  (In fact, many cemetery plot agreements are actually easements, and after a certain point they can move you if need be.  That resting spot is not nearly as eternal as you think.) 

Such plots were typically purchased by the family as a short-term resting place.  The idea was that eventually you would be moved somewhere else—somewhere fancier, closer to a family group, etc. If you weren't picked up by the time your, uh, lease ran out, your family would be notified when it did.  They could either move you or leave you.  People who were left in place, such as Frank, didn't get a marker.  I do have a section number, so I'll go back later and find out if there are section markers embedded in the grass.  Even so,  I'm never going to know the exact spot. 

Time to pursue some other avenues.

Hello Reada, Hello Blogga

As of 4:01 PM today, break out the iced coffee and the Bruce Springsteen records*, because I am on vacation for the next 9 days.

Yow! Dancing till dawn! Sangria for breakfast! Appalling eating habits!

Actually, not nearly that exciting. I'm not leaving town, and NO, it is not a "staycation." Don't bring that bastard word around here. This is me needing to burn some vacation time + lack of funds to actually go anywhere exciting. (Just for the record, since last Thanksgiving I have left town to go to two places: Evanston and Charleston. The idea of getting to go someplace else on vacation, someplace actually vacation-y, is so alluring that I can't even let myself think about it.)

Since this is me, I already have a list, and it already has some little history adventures tucked into it.

Put up curtains in the bedroom.
String lights on the porch.
Plant some herbs.
Make sangria.
Go to Bari Foods.
Shedd Aquarium (depends on money).
Go to Bohemian National Cemetery (Frank XYZ again).
Do some other genealogy work.
Roll down a grassy hill (we all have our vices).
Take a water taxi or tour down the river.
Go see a movie in the park.
Get out of the city (not Evanston).
Make paper flowers (a new Bellhop product).
Find the house where Emma Goldman was arrested. (Yes, really.)

You may be thinking, "Hey, isn't her husband home now?" He is indeed, and he's getting a little nervous because, hello, NINE whole days together? Our honeymoon was only six days. Thus, the list has some stuff we can do together (Bari), and stuff that he can skip without guilt (cemetery).

He's still nervous.  Heh heh heh.

*I know, I know.  It just slipped out.  "Records."  I'm so old.