Put On a Hat

Chicago makes my feet cold, Matt Smith.

Sometimes I wish the Midwest would just sit up straight and figure out what season it was going to have on any given day. It sure can fool you. You can never tell what the temperature actually is just by looking out the window... which, in case you were wondering, actually IS a time-proven way of weather forecasting. It could be sunny, but it sure as hell isn't going to get any warmer. Not unless someone grabs it by its shirt collar or pulls it up by its ear and tells it to shape up. The Midwest really just needs a grandmother. Or a really annoying aunt.

But there I go again, turning this blog into a weather almanac instead of what it's truly supposed to be -- a blog about nothing in particular. And I really have nothing in particular to write about tonight. That's what makes it so damned perfect.

I'm in Chicago now, visiting my friend, Britt, for the weekend I have to spare between trips to the Milwaukee area. I got here and promptly met her boyfriend, Alex, and took over her fridge. Well, more rightly, Kate took over her fridge -- because Kate is the goddess of all foodstuffs. Give her a hotpot and a package of curry powder and she'll work miracles. I've never seen such ingenuity in a hotel room before. Well, never such ingenuity that directly involved food.

I'm not exactly sure what I'm planning on doing in Chicago this weekend, really. Alex asked me at one point this evening if I wanted to do something special while I was here, and for the life of me (has anyone ever said "for the death of me?" would that just be asking for it?), I couldn't think of one thing that I'd especially like to do. I think the point of coming here this weekend was merely to get away from the hotel, save myself from a 5-hour drive back to the Twin Cities (only to have to turn around and come back again on Sunday), get out of rehearsing, and visit with Britt. So far, so good. Except for the Britt part. She's out at a meeting for the union's union. Confusing, I know. Apparently the "union's union" can be explained best in ketchup art. This I'll HAVE to see.

I really wish I had enough brain power to be witty and wonderful this evening. I've had a number of people -- adults and children -- tell me that I'm funny over the course of the past week. Apparently, that's the quality that stands out around here. At CLIMB, while I'm teaching, while I'm hanging out with CLIMB-related folk, I'm the funny one. Thank God I'm not fat. Then I'd just be a stereotype.

And I'd be fat.

I don't know. I don't think I like my only noticeable character trait to be that I'm funny. I feel like Joe Pesci ("Pesci. I could or could not eat fish.") in "Goodfellas." I'm funny. What? Like funny like a clown? Sometimes I just want to start shooting at people's feet, shouting, "Dance! Dance!" And then they'd hop all over the place, dancing around. Not because I'd be shooting -- because I don't own a gun -- but because they'd just happen to be an expert in Greek dancing or something. Suddenly plates would start crashing to the floor, everyone would be shouting "Oopah!" and I'd sneak out the back door while the party started heading for the prime rib.

Now THAT would be funny.

Love,
Meredith the Funny