Took a class at Papersource in Evanston--which is wicked-far from the el stop--and wore incredibly cute new shoes that ripped my heels to shreds. Blisters the size of small rodents are attached precariously to my heels, but are luckily just above the edge of my Merrills. Cute books were made, good dinner was had, and I bailed on the FFFF because I couldn't get from Evanston to Damen & Jackson in 45 minutes. I spent Sunday soaking up sun and then scraping the forty bajillion layers of bad paint from some door frames, which is scarily satisfying. Soothing, destructive, and productive...and messy as hell. I was *covered* in paint chips. Ugh.

The week rundown:
Monday: Date for 8 picnic.
Tuesday: Humanities Fest meeting. (Yes, it's time for the CHF again. But this time--no children. WOO)*
Wednesday: Music in the park (depending on weather), pick up pottery
Thursday: Prep kitchen for painting over weekend, grocery shop, and actually make a decent meal.
Friday: Inaugural book group where we're reading Nickel and Dimed, which every politician should have as required reading. Not their aides. Them. It's a quick read, and very insightful.

And then it's the weekend again.

*sigh*

~~~~~

*A massive storm rolled thru Chicago last night, creating mayhem everywhere that I wanted to be. Poured buckets of rain, forcing me into Borders for a bit after the meeting. (Yay! New Jasper Fforde book out! MUST HAVE NOW) Headed for the Red Line at Lake, where waves of people are flowing thru the turnstyles towards me. I make a face and the homeless guy tells me that the line's down. I make for the brown line but decide that walking from Belmont is just 6 blocks too far, so the bus it is.

I find that every other Lakeview resident had the same thought, because there is a mass of people shifting on tired feet while peering anxiously thru the drizzle and wind for the next bus north. Three come, and none have room for a person, let alone all of us. One comes with space and we surge towards it, unsure of the next bus's appearance. Come to find out, the Brown's down too but we don't know why. People are tired and wet and hungry and snippy, but there are kind pockets who infect us with goodnaturedness. Unfortunately, they can't overcome Mr. Crankypants, whom I hover over in an attempt to neither fall into his lap on the turns nor accidently (God Forbid!) nudge his foot again because it would cause him to glare at me, and I really don't need Henry Gibson shooting daggers at me when I'm close to snapping. He's muttering at the people by the back door, which isn't closing due to malfunction--dire comments on humanity and the like (and the insinuation that none of the bus-riders are human)--because obviously, it's their fault we're not moving, and finally finally gets off. He's soon replaced by a large lime (er, woman dressed as a lime) whose harsh voice stridently announces that the bus is taking too long and she's going to be late to meet her guy.

Um, I hate to break it to you, *sister*, but the rest of us aren't on some joyride to enjoy Broadway at 9p on a Tuesday. And there's thing called traffic that the bus can't Knight Bus itself thru, so sit back, shut the hell up, and chill.

I didn't eat dinner until 9:30. NINE THIRTY. That lime is lucky I didn't smack her upside her sad-ass bleached head and push her off the bus.