(no subject)

I had a dream last night that R got an executive position with some big corporation downtown, and he showed up at my flat in a swanky suit and said, "No, we won't be able to hang out anymore, I'll be working twelve hour days."

DISPLACING MUCH, SAM?

R will never be a corporate executive. It would severely cut into his Drudge Report time.

I keep worrying I spelled something wrong in my cover letter or put the wrong address or something. The way the application for the job is set up, it's all digital, so it's possible for me to go in and correct something, but that way lies madness. So I just have to pretend to myself that I mailed in my application and the hiring person already read it, and there's nothing to be done about it now. It's supremely awkward applying for a job with someone you know personally, but I can't imagine it's less awkward for the hiring person than it is for me. If she doesn't give me the job, she still has to see me a couple of times a week.

I told Mum about the job application, which may have been a mistake. She has always been incredibly supportive of my career choices, from changing my college major to attending graduate school to taking an office job instead of yet another unpaid internship, but she's still a mother, and will always Know I Can Do Better.

(Funny side story: my grad school offered "honour sashes" for sale, where a graduate could buy an academic-looking satin sash to present to a parent/mentor/friend to wear at the graduation, so everyone knows they know someone on the stage. They're not very fancy, they only cost about $10, but I bought Mum one and I think it is her most prized possession. The day I received my Master's was one of the proudest days of her life and she got to show off to everyone that her kid was an MA. She loves that damn sash.)

ANYWAY, she's been gently nudging me to start moving up now that I've been in the job for a few years and can prove I'm a consistent, reliable bet. She was super-excited when I told her about the application, way less ambivalent than I am. The capslock, oh, the capslock.

(no subject)

I have made chili!

Don't get impressed, the spices came from a packet.

There's a scale in these things, which I don't think I would have realised if I hadn't lived a) in Texas and b) with R, Mr. "If it's liquid, dip chips in it". In his world, there's "fancy chili" which comes from Byron's Hot Dog Haus, and "chili" which comes from a can.

Whereas Texas has made me aware that there is also "fake chili" which you make yourself but from canned/prepackaged ingredients: cook the ground beef, add a can of beans and a can of tomato sauce and a packet of spices, simmer. Then there's "real chili" which involves actual tomatoes and knowing what spices are involved and sometimes molasses. Bonus points if you put this in a dutch oven and bury it in coals. This is the kind of chili where if you're from Texas you can't talk about it with someone from Oklahoma because it'll end in a fistfight, or some form of multi-generational feud.

Bet you didn't think I could spend this long talking about chili, did you? (Unless you're from Texas or the southern midwest, in which case you totally knew.) I'd do a post about pizza but I don't want to get banned from Chicago. I like it here. Except for the pizza.

PS: Your Chicago Coyote of the day.

(no subject)

Origami Club calls this fold "A Chicken That Is Born From An Egg".

I think it looks more like an angry baby dragon, or possibly a genetically engineered dinosaur of some kind, but your mileage may vary.