Tag Archives: party

Still jump’n after all ‘a these years

In the car this evening Stephanie voiced her want for a Moon Jump at her next birthday party. She wondered if there was a weight limit–would it be okay for a number of adults to be in it at the same time?

All of us agreed that there wasn’t a reason we could think of NOT to have numerous adults at the same time. “I sincerely hope,” I said, “that you get it the day before the party so we can all camp out inside. No. Even better. We should have some brews at the party, jump, and THEN camp out.”

This thought developed into the concept of a Moon Jump Society, who, for no real event other than to jump, gets together bi-annually to have a adult beverages followed by jumping followed by camping under the stars that are above the protective net.

In fact, why don’t we just buy one? Those things are freakishly expensive to rent. I’m sure after three rentals it would practically pay for itself…much like a Six Flags season pass. Only…it’s a pass to your BACK YARD. This way we could jump when ever we want. Except when we’re loaning it out to friends, at which point we would charge them too much money, which would encourage them to buy their own and then we could have multiple moon jumps at the SAME TIME.

It is probably just a better idea in theory.



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Are you cold?

I went to Fever Formal last night and I have to commend the men of the Fever House on their efforts and amazing ability to throw a party.

The truth is that I was not feeling so well. I started to come down with a stupid cold late on Thursday and by Friday I began stocking up on immunity vitamins. Come party time Saturday night I tried to pretend like I was fine. The night ended in me being loopy (not because of alcohol), hardly able to swallow, and nearly in tears because of all the muscle aches. Of course, I didn’t want to admit any of this because the party was so great. But it was more than apparent from my body language and near the end Mr. Hay forced me to sit down (thanks).

The last time I remember feeling this way was on tour 03. After our first show I started to feel it coming on but pushed through rehearsal the next day believing I was simply dehydrated and sore from sleeping on the floor. When I awoke in the morning I got up to take the ramps off the truck and admitted to Ryan that I couldn’t swallow and (surprise surprise) started crying. They took me to the hospital in Racine and I was told I only had a cold. ONLY? AND that I should stop marching. STOP MARCHING!? eff that. I did not take the doctor’s advice but I did sleep it off and missed rehearsal for a few days–not of my own will.

By the way, I’m sitting in Espresso in Champaign and someone has some serious perfume on, and if I can smell it despite my stuffed-up nose you KNOW it is strong.


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Lent, Sir!

Flashback to freshman year. I lived in a giant room all alone across the street from Newman Hall. I was sitting my room chatting with Ashley online early one Friday night when she suggested jokingly that we should go to visit Liz in Chicago.

Within the hour she’d driven down from Kankakee and we drove north. To Evanston. To surprise Liz at the end of her sift at the hipster cafe. It was just after midnight when we arrived, and realizing that I’d done one of the most spontaneous things in my life, my heart was in my throat with excitement. She was surprised. She served of drinks and we waited around until she’d cleaned after-hours.

We then drove back to her apartment, but only got about half-way before realizing that we’d left a purse on top of the car. Of course, it was no longer there. But St. Anthony totally pulled through and we found it, unharmed, in the middle of an empty intersection back in Evanston.

We ate pretzels and went bowling at 3am. I somehow bowl better than ever at 3am. The bowling alley supplied us with free socks and the men working kept changing our names so when the giant Turkey picture came up it would say something other than “Liz.” Around 5 am we headed back to the apartment to eat more pretzels and sleep. On the way a man in a business suit yelled cat calls at us from his car. “It is LENT, SIR! and it is 5am! Stop cat calling at minors!”

By 11am I was back in Champaign in my empty room. Life is happy.

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It’s official.  My life is progressing.

Sandy and I signed the lease yesterday (after the most arduous process) and I have a job.  In two weeks I’ll be moving closer to Chicago and in a month I’ll be starting an assistantship at the library where I’ll be attending school.

There are a thousand things to do between now and then, but I know it’ll be okay.  I’ve spent the last few weeks being upset…in a strange way.  I feel like I haven’t been working nearly hard enough for the time I’ve had to take off and the vacations that had been planned for months now.  Meaning, when I up and go for the weekend after having worked a half week, I do no feel worthy of the beers or the lavish dessert or the time with my friends.  Because, well, I just did that, what…2 nights ago?  Expressing this to a friend, I put it this way: “I feel all too comfortable.  I’m eating the things I want to eat.  Spending the money I want to spend.  Seeing the people I want to see.  I know it’ll be a big shift in the next few weeks, but in the meantime I certainly don’t feel as if I am denying myself or growing from such denials.”

His response: “We cannot fast while the bridegroom is present.”  Oh, Will Hay.  You are full of good insight.

When I reflect back on the last few weeks–the time at the Shakespeare Festival, running up to Chicago for interviews and socializing, bachelorette party, a week away with the Sisters of Life, a B&B in Madison–I feel like it has been all play and no work.  Maybe I don’t feel like I’m accomplishing anything because I’m not at my desk 5 days a week.  There is no TGIF to end it all.  Or maybe it is because I don’t have any homework.  But reflecting on the situation, and taking Will’s words to heart, I realized that my job now is to be the person that I am being.  The crazy-busy-hardly-ever-spends-more-than-2-nights-at-a-time-in-one-place girl.  And that is okay.  Because without school burdening me, and with such a flexible job (thanks Barb!) I can be this girl.  The one who can be there for her friends.  And at the drop of a hat can make a fancy dinner for a bride-to-be or be in Chicago for interviews or drive to Peoria simply to have coffee.

And amid it all, I’ve found time to keep running.  The Half-Marathon is in less than 3 weeks!   All finishers of the LaSalle Bank Chicago Distance Classic will receive a “Big Honkin’ Penguin” medal, said Bingham, inscribed with the words: “The miracle isn’t that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start.”


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July 4th

The Fourth of July was always a coveted day that I looked forward to as a little girl.  Being that I had no concept of time, it usually snuck up on me.  Every year my family would join our neighbors from across the street in an all-day pool party followed by an evening of fireworks.

I remember crossing the street multiple times throughout the day, usually soaking wet from playing water games.  There was always some reason that would merit going back to my own house.  The trek was a great challenge as I often set out without shoes.  The hot pavement and cinders forced me to be lightening-fast.

All day I would munch on chips, reaching into the bowl with raisinie chlorine-soaked hands.  Chris, Kara and I would play marco-polo and I would pretend I could swim as fast as a dolphin.

Come night-fall the two families would launch illegal fireworks from the driveway.  It was also an annual tradition to purchase said fireworks before crossing back into Illinois after the Missouri canoe trip.  I would plug my ears at the loud booms and attempt to light snakes between launches.  The snakes left marks on the driveway that are probably still there.  Some of the fireworks were worth the money we paid.  Some were lame.  Duds.  But it was about the experience.  Not the cost.

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desperate housewives support organized crime

Karen invited me to a Purse Party that we joyfully attended this week. I’d heard about these events from my aunt, who’d come home with an adorable pink Kate Spade a few weeks ago. I also was interested in meeting Karen’s coworkers, who were said to be frequenters of such parties.

The day of the party I was informed by a friend that “purse parties promote terrorism.” Meaning, the knock-offs took away from our economy and gave funding to “terrorist economies.” I laughed at this statement until these stories were presented to me. Still laughing about it slightly (I mean really you can’t tell me that a woman buying a Prada bag is helping the economy that much.), I joked with my friend that I was just going for the food. To which she responded: “There would be no food if it weren’t for the event.” Damn. Got me there.

The drive over there I was mentally preparing for the usual Mary Kay/jewelry/tupperware/Pampered Chef party were you sit around and talk while the party-lady shows you things. There are a few games involved and at the end you’re stuffed with finger foods and wine which, somehow, makes ordering from a catalog seem like a GREAT idea.

We arrive at the house and living room is COVERED in purses. I look around the corner into another room and its the same scene. Fendi, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Coach, Kate Spade, Brighton. Eek! I feared putting my own (knock-off) purse down for someone might try to buy it! When I asked “how this whole thing worked” we were told to find one. Its THAT easy. It was a mad-house! The women were too busy rummaging through purses to socialize–after all that mental prep I was ready to play stupid games! This was no party at all!

I tried too find something I liked but all I could think was, these are terrorist purses! After the first room I was so overwhelmed I had to go eat. I took a meatball break in the kitchen. It appeared to be the only location NOT covered in fake purses. Even with other women milling around there was still no interaction. On to the next room! There is Coach back there!

I ended up leaving empty-handed, which was for the best. The experience was overwhelming as well and down-right strange. I mean, I was in no mindset to promote terrorism, plus, even if I had wanted to, the KNOCK-OFFS were still about $40! It was $40 I could not spare on a “name-brand.” I mean, some of the bags were cute, but there is just no way I could pass carrying a Chanel bag. I’m just not THAT classy. “Hey, how can you afford that bag?” “Oh, no worries, I bought it for only $39.95 and my purchase supports terrorism!”

To read more about organized crime, hit Karen up (but don’t steal her new wristlet).

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