Hey look, it’s Russell Crowe! In Wheaton!
Apparently he’s filming the new Superman movie near there. So if you live in the area, keep an eye out. It might have to be a pretty keen eye, at that. I have to say, he looks decidedly UN-movie-star-ish here. If I passed him on the sidewalk, I’d probably think he was just finishing up his shift at Carlson’s Hardware.
Maybe someone’s been hitting up The Popcorn Shop and Egglectic a little too much while in town…
Image from Chicago Tribune.
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…
Home is where the heart is.
So…my home is in my chest cavity? Sounds warm and cozy enough! I hope I have cable in there. And WiFi.
Yes, I know I’m being too literal. But I have an issue with that saying. While it is a lovely sentiment, what if you don’t know where your figurative “heart” is?
If you read this blog regularly and don’t space out while you’re reading or carelessly skim the words because you’ve got more important things to do, you know that Will and I spent a few days in Miami this past weekend. The trip was lots of fun. South Beach is a beautiful, sunny place filled with loose women, crack heads, members of the Jersey Shore cast, and American Apparel stores. We had a blast! I’ll tell you more about it in my next post when I have a chance to upload my pictures.
Anyway, as the end of our vacation neared, I found myself thinking about going home. I hate when vacations end, but it’s always nice to get back to good ol’ familiar Illinois – land of Cubs fans, deep dish pizza, and Walter E. Smithe (you dream it, we build it!).
But WAIT! Hold the phone! Insert the sound of a vinyl record screeching to a halt here!
That lovely place I was envisioning myself returning to? I don’t live there! That was Chicago, or more specifically Wheaton (land of 1,000 churches and even more religion-based judgements! (Sorry Wheaton, I love you. Muah!)).
So that was weird. For a split second, I had actually forgotten that I now live in St. Louis. It seems that when I think of going home, going back to what is familiar and what I envision my daily life to be, I still think of my hometown.
So I guess whoever wrote the home is where the heart is saying would conclude that my “heart” and therefore my “home” is in Wheaton. But that’s so far from where I actually live – from my job, my cute apartment, my husband, and – dear God – my dog! It doesn’t seem right that my “home” isn’t where those things are.
Basically, myself and my heart are homeless. My physical self is happily living in St. Louis, but my heart is in Wheaton, probably rubbing it in by going to the Popcorn Shop every day and taking the train downtown to take walks by the lake and go out to nice restaurants. No fair.
Thus, I’m not a fan of the home is where the heart is saying. If it was on Facebook, I would not “like” it. I would be one of those people commenting on why there isn’t a “dislike” button.
I like to think that I just take my “home” with me wherever I go – that way, I’m always there! So for now, I’m going to go with the literal interpretation and say that my home is inside of me…possibly in my chest cavity, but I’d have to have an X-ray to positively determine that.
Carlie Crash 