Quote from Grub Street Chicago article about the new Farmhouse restaurant opening in River North:
“The menu was designed by chef Eric Mansavage – formerly the chef at Club Lucky – and will be based on ‘what’s available from Midwestern farmers and growers.'”
Sounds like a cool restaurant but HOLY COW THAT’S AN AWESOME LAST NAME.
Mansavage?? MAN-SAVAGE! raaawrrr!
I bet people eat his food whether they like it or not because he is Eric MANSAVAGE! A ruthless combination of man and beast, no doubt.
There’s a Design*Sponge newspaper? Available in Chicago? For FREE??
I’m so picking this up on my way home from work today… if there are any left!
Don’t follow Design*Sponge? Well, A) you should, and B) you’re missing out on fun fashion, decorating and design ideas and a lot of pretty pictures, and going back to A), you really just should follow this blog.
More on the newspaper and where you can find it in Chicago and other cities here.
Image from Design*Sponge. Where else?
“A new Spanish study has found that people who drink wine in moderation are actually gaining less weight than the general popluation.” – Wine Spectator
I’ll cheers to that! I was going to splurge and buy a cookie at lunch today, so I guess I better drink an extra glass of wine tonight. Oh, the sacrifices we make to stay in shape…
Question: Does Boone’s Farm count as wine? Not that I drink that… anymore.
Image from thedailygreen
Will and I went on vacation last week and I came back with this conclusion:
I love California.
(I almost said “I heart California” but I’m getting really tired of that phrase. Are we done with that yet?)
We stayed for a few nights at Terranea Resort on the coast and were forced to look at this scenery all day, every day:
It was pretty rough.
Then we moved on to L.A. and pretty much dominated the 405 and Pacific Coast Highway in our sweet Rolls Royce convertible.*
*All Rolls Royce convertibles referred to in this post are actually Chevy Impalas.
In an effort to be brief, I’ll describe the trip the way I most likely would have described it in my 1st grade journal:
“We went on vacation. It was very fun. I saw the ocean and a ferris wheel. I got sunburned on my head because it was sunny.”
Succinct and to the point.
(Sidenote: I actually did go on vacation to California with my family when I was in 1st grade. Half of it was spent watching All My Children in the lobby of the Children’s Hospital of Orange County because my little sister was sick and got dehydrated. It was the best! Seriously. You know how when you were a kid, little emergencies like that are exciting? Or was that just me? I would secretly hope for tornadoes or alien invasions to bring excitement to my mundane suburban life. Also, that kind of catastrophe would be a prime opportunity for me to pretend like I was the star of a disaster movie. I always imagined I’d react with the strength and poise of the blonde chick from Jurassic Park.)
So much for being brief.
And now… some retro-looking photos. Enjoy!
Sunday night, I saw a Beatle. My favorite Beatle. IN THE FLESH.
Granted, from where we were sitting, he was a beetle-sized Beatle, but I came face to massive-jumbo-tron-sized face with Sir Paul McCartney. We were breathing the same stale, humid, city air for OVER THREE HOURS. I’ll never wash these lungs again.
Paul McCartney at Wrigley Field. Oh yes, it was as epic as you’re imagining.
Yes, even though we were that far away, it was still awesome.
And while I wasn’t spastically shrieking and pulling on my hair like the girl sitting in front of us (that’s so 1964…), I did freak out a little bit internally. Which is pretty much the only way I ever freak out. (No, you can’t read my poker face!)
I really can only describe it this way: Anticipation. Lights! Paul! Crowd roaring. Waving. Guitar playing. Hello, Goodbye! Jimmy Hendrix and Eric Clapton storytelling. Paperback Wriiiiiterrrr (wriiiiterrr…wriiiiterrr…). Sweating. Piano playing. Maybe I’m Amazed. Live and Let Die. Explosions! Fireworks! Hey Jude! Encore #1! Encore #2! Thank you, Chicago! AND… I’m spent.
Not to rekindle those “Paul is dead” rumors, but I’m not entirely convinced that the Paul McCartney we saw onstage was not a genetically engineered clone or an impressive illusion created by light and mirrors. (Also, this website is mildly convincing.) Otherwise, this guy turned 45 and immediately stopped aging. No way he’s in his late 60’s. He spent three hours playing various instruments and screaming into a microphone on a humid, 90-degree night and the man did not take a single break. Or a drink of water. EVER.
Upon fruitlessly searching for an IV line trailing from his arm, we became concerned that we might witness the dehydration and subsequent death of a superstar.
But who were we kidding? He’s Paul Mc-freakin-Cartney. He doesn’t NEED water. He gets his strength purely from the sheer force of his rock-and-roll legendary-ness that leaves others gaping in its wake. And pot.
And just in case you’re not convinced that it was kick-ass concert, check out the Hey Jude awesomeness below.
All hail Sir Paul!
Remember when the restaurant Chipotle first started popping up everywhere and no one knew how to pronounce it? “Want to get lunch at Chip-o-tal?”
I know he’s a prince and everything, but besides THAT, does anyone else thing Kate Middleton could have done better?
Don’t you miss using Wite-out?
Does anyone really believe that all the nudity is actually integral to the plot in Game of Thrones? (HBO = Home Boobs Office)
Why do Bluetooth people have to make life awkward for the rest of us?
Why do I continue to watch every single season of Real Housewives? WHY?
When are abnormally pointy elbows going to be in style?
How many cake pops is too many?
Can you please join Google+? Because right now I’m following the streams of approximately three people.
Is there anything more irritating than the sound of a person eating spaghetti in a completely silent room?
Anyone have any good restaurant recommendations in L.A.? (Ok, that one’s not rhetorical. I’m really looking for a good restaurant there. Any suggestions?)
Yes, my plans last weekend involved spending time with some toddlers.
No, a “toddler” is not the name of a specialty cocktail at the trendy bar down the street.
I’m talking about small humans. Who have tricked-out strollers and enjoy eating grapes and goldfish out of plastic cups.
I know this because on Sunday, I got to observe them in one of their natural habitats – the zoo. It was all very meta.
I also got to practice some mommy skills like holding a toddler, pushing one in a stroller, and finding a restaurant for lunch that provides highchairs.
Let’s pretend like sweet little Brooklyn doesn’t look scared to death of me in the photo above. She’s obviously planning her escape from my arms. But being held 4 feet in the air by someone who has only held two, maybe three, children in her entire life? I wouldn’t blame her for needing a diaper change after that.
Cuteness above provided courtesy of Tyler Hoff and Brooklyn Torkelson.
Lately, I’ve had a love/hate relationship with this blog.
Let me rephrase that. Lately, I’ve had pretty much NO relationship with this blog. I haven’t been writing, posting, checking the stats or doing anything that would lead anyone to believe that I do, in fact, have a blog.
I don’t even update my Twitter feed anymore. Basically, I have completely withdrawn from the worldwide web. Except for Facebook because at some point in my life it might be useful to have a running total of the people who are willing to publicly associate with me.
Don’t worry, nothing is wrong. The opposite is true – everything is right. As far as my life goes, I don’t have much to complain about. (Just don’t get me started on the current season of The Bachelorette!)
I think maybe I just got a little tired of spewing out my thoughts all the time. I’m usually a pretty private person, a somewhat secluded soul, a basically bashful being – with a penchant for alliterative synonyms and a tendency not to spew things (thoughts or otherwise).
Maybe I just got tired of talking about myself, which I never really thought was possible. Because let’s face it, I’m fascinating.
I don’t know.
Really, I think I just needed some “me” time. I needed to be able to read a book, go to the beach and catch up on all the TV shows on my DVR (8 episodes of Desperate Housewives left, God help me…) without feeling like I should make time to write a blog post.
Blogging also makes me feel a little egotistical sometimes, and I prefer to be self-absorbed in private.
So basically this post is just to confirm the obvious – that I am taking an impromptu hiatus from blogging. Because I feel like it.
But I WILL be back. I might start posting regularly right now. Or I might wait another week or two. But I’m not done. I get a lot of compliments on this blog, and getting compliments is fun. Also, I’m hoping to get a book deal out of this. And maybe I actually enjoy writing just a little bit too.
Over the weekend, my feet died.
I think they walked one too many miles in my arch-supportless shoes.
I’ll always remember them for their selflessness, willingness to put up with those impractical four-inch hooker heels I recently wore to a bachelorette party, and that one weird hair that I always had to remember to shave off my right big toe.
TMI? Sorry. I’ll stop with the dramatic eulogy. My feet are actually still viable appendages. Or they will be in a day or two once they’ve had a chance to recover.
Let me explain:
On Friday night, my feet happily walked me around downtown Wheaton with my family and right through the doors of Graham’s Chocolates so that I might have the pleasure of consuming their peanut butter chocolate chip ice cream. It was a grand time for me, my feet and all parties involved. Little did my feet know what was in store for them a mere 12 hours later…
The next morning, we ran the “Run for the Animals” 5k in Wheaton, and my feet kicked ass (not literally). They pounded the pavement in running shoes that are old enough to certainly be a health hazard and hardly even complained.
Later that night, my feet schlepped me all over Lincoln Park when Will and I decided to do a mini bar crawl, just the two of us. (That’s mini bar-crawl, not mini-bar crawl. But there’s an idea!)
I think by this point, they were starting to get a little irritable, like a toddler who needs a nap. My arches were aching a little, but it was nothing four beers couldn’t fix. (There’s a joke in there somewhere about Future Me handling my irritable toddler by drinking beer, but…eh. Let’s not ruin this post with talk of having babies. Kids will probably ruin my life, but why let them ruin this post? Mom, please direct all objections to that last sentence to the comments section. My response will include a definition of the term “tongue-in-cheek.” Thank you.)
But back to my feet.
Now here’s the kicker. (Ha! Kicker! Foot joke!) Today, just as my feet were finally feeling like themselves again after a good night’s sleep, I made them carry me 8 miles all the way from our apartment to Montrose Beach and back. Let’s just say my dogs are barking. And can we also say that that might be one of the most random, nonsensical sayings ever?
Obviously, after I write this I’m giving myself a foot massage and wearing shearling-lined Crocs with gel inserts to work tomorrow.
Ok no, that’s just ridiculous – Will will be giving the foot massage.
But seriously, thanks to my feet, I had an absolutely fabulous weekend. See below for proof. Notice not one photo includes my feet, poor guys. Being the base of my selfish body is such a thankless job…
Carlie Crash 
