It was Very Special Guest weekend in Chicago. I knew Jeremy and Becky were coming into town, which was very cool. I hung out with them and Alex on Saturday, and went out to dinner. I was traumatized to realize that Jeremy and I have known each other for 20 year. Twenty years! I'm too damn young to have known anyone for 20 years! Except, evidently not.
I've talked about Jeremy's penchant for odd travel before. He visits places like Mali and has a Uzbek visa just waiting to happen. So we were talking about his next trip, and I mentioned Scotland. He can't go there, he says, because of the language problem.
Huh? They speak English there.
He's not convinced. Apparently he was traumatized by someone in a French youth hostel. The conversation went like this:
Jeremy [in English]: Hello, I'm Jeremy.
Other guy: Yoiu alkjer aldkjfgoin lkdfoiwldkg (or something similarly unintelligible).
Jeremy [in French]: Do you speak French?
Other guy: [also in French] A little.
Jeremy: Let's speak French, then, because I speak English and didn't understand your language. I'm Jeremy, and I'm from America. Where are you from?
Other guy [Looking at Jeremy as if he were insane]: Edinburgh. And that was English.
Doh.
The next Very Special Guest was a surprise. On Saturday morning, as I was working on this whole "get out of bed thing," the phone rings. It's Rob Palmer, he of M. Diable fame who subbed for me in this space while I was in France. "So, can I come visit this weekend?" Huh? As in, this weekend? Like, now? Yeah, he was in town for the hell of it, and wanted to crash at my place on Sunday night. Sure. No problem.
Well, no problem except for the squalor. I don't clean on a regular basis. I clean when I'm having a party or a houseguest. Usually, I have warning before there's a houseguest. Gah. So I spent much of Saturday and Sunday reducing the squalor in my apartment -- mostly pitching things and shoving bits of paper in boxes to be sorted through later. That practice was the main reason for my current squalor -- I'd just dumped out all my boxes of stuff that I'd shoved together before my last party, as I had to find a vital piece of paper. I knew I had it -- I just don't throw things away -- I just didn't know which box of squalor it was in. So everything came out, all over the coffee table and living room floor. Because dammit, I was going to organize things this time. Really!
Then Rob called, and everything went back into the boxes. Sigh.
Then the bastard decided to stay with his brother. His brother. Like some actual blood relative who was in his wedding (sorry, "wedding" -- I'm still not convinced Tami exists) (hi possibly mythical Tami!) with a fabulous place in the West Loop is more important that Sarah's House of Squalor. I cleaned for you, man! Well, I at least vigorously reduced the squalor. And what do you do? You throw it back in my face. Fine.
Still, nice to know your brother is at least partially as insane as you are. Scott -- you do realize you're doomed now, right? We know where you live (sort of), and we know you're at least partially an exhibitionist. Be afraid.
As for you, Rob -- and possibly mythical Tami -- you really need to move out here. We miss you.
I've talked about Jeremy's penchant for odd travel before. He visits places like Mali and has a Uzbek visa just waiting to happen. So we were talking about his next trip, and I mentioned Scotland. He can't go there, he says, because of the language problem.
Huh? They speak English there.
He's not convinced. Apparently he was traumatized by someone in a French youth hostel. The conversation went like this:
Jeremy [in English]: Hello, I'm Jeremy.
Other guy: Yoiu alkjer aldkjfgoin lkdfoiwldkg (or something similarly unintelligible).
Jeremy [in French]: Do you speak French?
Other guy: [also in French] A little.
Jeremy: Let's speak French, then, because I speak English and didn't understand your language. I'm Jeremy, and I'm from America. Where are you from?
Other guy [Looking at Jeremy as if he were insane]: Edinburgh. And that was English.
Doh.
The next Very Special Guest was a surprise. On Saturday morning, as I was working on this whole "get out of bed thing," the phone rings. It's Rob Palmer, he of M. Diable fame who subbed for me in this space while I was in France. "So, can I come visit this weekend?" Huh? As in, this weekend? Like, now? Yeah, he was in town for the hell of it, and wanted to crash at my place on Sunday night. Sure. No problem.
Well, no problem except for the squalor. I don't clean on a regular basis. I clean when I'm having a party or a houseguest. Usually, I have warning before there's a houseguest. Gah. So I spent much of Saturday and Sunday reducing the squalor in my apartment -- mostly pitching things and shoving bits of paper in boxes to be sorted through later. That practice was the main reason for my current squalor -- I'd just dumped out all my boxes of stuff that I'd shoved together before my last party, as I had to find a vital piece of paper. I knew I had it -- I just don't throw things away -- I just didn't know which box of squalor it was in. So everything came out, all over the coffee table and living room floor. Because dammit, I was going to organize things this time. Really!
Then Rob called, and everything went back into the boxes. Sigh.
Then the bastard decided to stay with his brother. His brother. Like some actual blood relative who was in his wedding (sorry, "wedding" -- I'm still not convinced Tami exists) (hi possibly mythical Tami!) with a fabulous place in the West Loop is more important that Sarah's House of Squalor. I cleaned for you, man! Well, I at least vigorously reduced the squalor. And what do you do? You throw it back in my face. Fine.
Still, nice to know your brother is at least partially as insane as you are. Scott -- you do realize you're doomed now, right? We know where you live (sort of), and we know you're at least partially an exhibitionist. Be afraid.
As for you, Rob -- and possibly mythical Tami -- you really need to move out here. We miss you.
posted by SAJ at
10:28 PM
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