This week has gone by surprisingly fast after a great long weekend helping Neil move and chillin’ at home. I’m starting to like my job more each week, and it seems I have more to do each day which makes the clock go by faster. Today my co-worker/ work friend (she was hired the same day as me and is the same age) went to the farmer’s market in Daley Plaza over our lunch hour. We both fell in love with it and plan on making the trek there every Thursday. We sampled some amazing garlic cheese, creamed honey, and just ok banana bread, but I managed to make it out with what I went in for– tomatoes and mozzarella cheese. T-Bone hooked me up with some homegrown basil this week, so I made a caprese salad for dinner.

Fergs and I just returned from our longest walk to date around the lake. I messed up my knee something awful on a run the other day so this trek was a bit painful, but the weather has been too nice to stay in and enjoy my newly installed Comcast (someone stop her– she’s talking about the weather again.) In WAY more exciting news, NPH and I are headed to the Britney Spears/ Nicki Minaj concert tomorrow night!! He got me tickets for my birthday, and I think he’s almost as psyched to go as I am. Roomies Lauren & Rachael will also be in town attending the Katy Perry show, so, you know, insert hangover here. And that, my friends, is my most recent life update. Oh, I bought a toilet brush this week after doing the math on whether I could get away with just buying one of those Clorox ones with the disposable heads (nay.)

A bajillion congrats to Kayla for winner that damn Sub-Jammers competition. I wish we could go, but I would smack you in the head if you paid $300 just to register for some sandwich convention. I will instead turn my vacation interests once again to Vegas. Like a mistress in the night, she’s been calling to me (and it doesn’t help that The Mirage keeps sending me emails. Whoever signed me up for that list, that was a cruel joke, and I love you for it.)

Today was the first weekday in a long while with nice enough weather for me to finally eat lunch by the lake. It’s only two blocks from where I work, so I had plenty of time to hang out next to Lake Michigan, eat lunch (greens with tomato and marinated tofu today– so classy, I know) and watch people run, rollerblade, walk & swim by. To the people who are out there in their tri-suits, swimming against the waves: GO YOU. I also discovered a completely adorbs Farmer’s Market only a block from my building, right outside the contemporary art museum which also happens to have free admission on Tuesdays. Between my work’s free gym and the surrounding areas (H&M, I’m looking at you– sorry, paycheck) there’s plenty of things to keep me occupied for my full lunch hour.

And on the days it rains and I’m too lazy to get into the gym? You can bet I’m looking up flight prices to Vegas like a FIEND.

I need to tell you about the meal I just had. It was at Rocks on N. Broadway, and I can’t stop thinking about it (yes, I’m food obsessed, get over it.) I had the Rocks Burger, their signature item, and it was the best burger I’ve ever had, In-n-Out Burger included. Pretzel bun, bacon, pepperjack cheese, onion strings, lettuce & tomato. I die. They have many different options of fries for the side. I got the Greek fries- regular fries tossed in lemon juice, oregano and feta cheese. Heaven.

NPH got the Leroy Brown sandwich: homemade mac n cheese, BBQ pulled pork & onion strings on texas toast. Seriously. He got buffalo fries- fries swimming in buffalo sauce, natch. I tried it, you might imagine the blissful feelings it created.

If you’re in Chicago, go to Rocks. Especially on Sunday mornings when they have specials on mimosa pitchers for your hangover. If you’re not in Chicago, come visit so we can go to Rocks. The end.

Yesterday morning I opened a new box of cereal (off-brand Kashi Go Lean from Aldi, it has something called “fiber sticks” in it) and had some sort of cartoon moment. As I was contemplating grabbing a knife or scissors to hack open the unbelievably tough waxed paper, I decided to give pulling it apart one more go, and KA-BOOM– cereal exploded everywhere. In the toaster, under the coffee maker, probably into the T.G.I. Friday’s margarita glasses on top of the fridge, but I haven’t looked there yet. A good three bowls of cereal were now strewn into every tiny nook in the kitchen, and the cleaning process took minutes out of my precious breakfast time. At least the toaster’s now empty; I found a chunk of charred toast way down at the bottom when I was banging on it upside down to get all the fiber sticks out.

The girl next to me in the River Room just had the audacity to look over and judge my sanity while I was singing a song to Neil about getting finishing my article. Not many people know this, but I’ve become quite talented at making up nonsense songs and singing them to NPH, who always at least pretends to be entertained. We’ve become quite the musical duo– me making up lyrics about a little cat in a trash can, while he takes more of the Weird Al parody route. I’d like to think I’m the more musically gifted one however, as Neil just takes popular songs and replaces certain words to be about Fergus. My favorite will always be Elton John’s “Fergus Day Nights Alright,” though I am enjoying “Who’s that Hound?” to the tune of Rihanna’s “Who’s that Chick?”

As you can see, I’ve completely given up on academia. Since I have zero, zilch, goose egg to do tomorrow, I suppose I’ll troll the Internet begging for post-graduation employment. Oh, I’ve run twice more since Monday’s doomsday workout, and while it’s gotten a bit easier, I’m still not going Olympic distances. Which frustrates me greatly because I was apparently born with a much larger “All or Nothing” part of my brain than the average person.

NPH and I are getting fat. I suppose the ladies’ magazine term is “love chub,” though let’s just call it what it is here and deem it “beer and pizza.” The winter months were not kind to us, nor were we particularly kind to ourselves during that very long period of hibernation. We’ve reached the point where we’re no longer trying to impress each other (at age 21, wow– this bodes well for the rest of my life) and the most chivalrous thing he could now do for me is take Fergus out without being asked. (My ploy as of late has been speaking to Fergus loudly enough for Neil to hear, “Oh what’s that, Fergs? You have to go outside? Gee, I took you for that long walk today. Hopefully Neil can get his shoes on before you pee all over the carpet.”) Passive aggression is really my strong suit.

Luckily, we both recognize that we aren’t exactly the sylphs we once were and are completely cognizant of the lifestyle changes that would be necessary to reverse this plumping trend. However, as Neil pointed out last night, we have about five weeks left before the real world bitch slaps us good and proper across the face, thus we’re going to continue riding this wave of unhealthy living while we can. Perhaps you’re all familiar with one of Facebook’s more useless features where they recommend old photo albums of yours to peruse through when you should instead be doing a myriad of other actually productive things? Yesterday the ol’ Book wanted me to look at my prom pictures from junior year which were hilarious and frightening and sad all at once. Apparently back in the day my collarbone could poke your eye out (I’m not making this up– I would put up a photo but it’s a group of ten of us, and I assure you at least eight of those people don’t want themselves associated with this diatribe of self indulgence.) Somehow in five years, my collarbone has gotten lost in a sea of cheese fries and booze calories, leaving it debatable as to whether I have a skeletal structure or am merely being held up by pudding and mashed potatoes.

As per one of my New Year’s Resolutions, I’ve been getting more culinary as of late. Time spent in the kitchen is oddly fun to me, and it’s also a way I can sneak less saturated fats and more veggies into NPH’s life a la one of those sneaky moms in the Manwich commercials. I suppose the homemade beer-battered onion rings weren’t exactly a step in the right direction, but I made burgers out of ground turkey instead of dead cow, so they kind of balance each other out, no? An unforeseen consequence of this Emeril-esque adventure was that my hands will now forever smell like onions, and everying I own reeks of stale frying oil. The kids in class this morning definitely stared. After a meeting at work, I informed a co-worker that I was going home to shower, and she laughed like I was joking even though one look at my general appearance could have told her I was not. And my hands still smell like onions.

There is a medium amount of blood on the sidewalk outside our apartment. There’s not a trail of it off into the bushes, so I can’t muster up much concern, but there are also broken bottles strewn everywhere. If there’s one thing Mamie from “The Wild & Wonderful Whites of West Virginia” (it’s on Netflix Instant and an absolute must watch) taught me, it’s that you should always drink beer from a bottle because it can instantly become a weapon in case of crisis or drunken brawl. Due to my passive nature and general happy state when under the influence, I’ve yet to put that little nugget of wisdom into practice.

I need to stop eating Jimmy John’s due to my current broke as a joke status, but that bitch Natalie (she’s currently on a cruise to Honduras, so the offensive adjective is completely justified) introduced me to the #5 and my life hasn’t really been the same since.

Even though it seems winter is just going to last until September, we pretended it was spring yesterday afternoon and had a good ol’ fashioned grill out. Some may also call it a garden party, but half of the attendees used cinderblocks as seats, so I’m not really sure it qualifies. We had mignon burgers because they’re on sale at Hy-Vee {insert here something about how I feel like a very boring housewife for even typing that} and now I’m not sure I’ll ever want regular ol’ ground beef ones again. Holy yum. T-Bone, put those on the menu for my graduation barbecue.

I’m going to spend the rest of the day finding ways to get back to Germany in the coming months. My wanderlust has been kicked into hyper-drive hearing all the super cool places my co-workers are going to this summer (Costa Rica! Greece!) And, after spending 50,000 hours road-tripping over spring break, a seven hour flight now seems like cake.

I’ve had the pleasure of eating at Cheba Hut, Iowa City’s latest addition to an already over-saturated sandwich market, twice since it’s opening a few weeks ago. Now I consider myself more than your average sandwich consumer; I’m what you might consider a connoisseur. During high school I worked at Subway for three years, and for about a semester before studying in Germany I worked at the local Which Wich (which is by far my favorite and still the standard to beat.) I’m a frequenter of Jimmy John’s (which no one in Boston this weekend had heard of and I was all “Whaaa??”) just because their bread is so damn delicious and it’s pretty cheap for the size of the ‘wich. I can never decide whether I think Milio’s is better or not quite as good as JJ– their menus are frighteningly similar, though Milio’s wheat bread is pretty tasty when fresh, and they use actual guacamole on their veggie subs instead of the “avocado spread” Jimmy John’s uses that I’m not sure comes from actual avocados.

SO– you can imagine my excitement when Cheba Hut set up shop two weeks ago. I have to start by addressing the theme: marijuana. The ganj. Smokin’ the reefer. Never before have I seen a restaurant quite as elaborately themed (they promise their employees aren’t toasted when they’re toasting up our subs. They can’t promise the same for the customers though, who I had the pleasure of watching wait quite impatiently for their subs through half-closed, fire engine red eyes.) I think the theme’s cute ‘n all– it’s a bit much when they yell at the end, “Brittney, I’ve got your Chronic.” Ok, I get it. Haha, it’s drugs. The Bob Marley music was far too loud on my first visit, but they seemed to have corrected that by the time Roomie Lauren and I had dinner there a week later. The menu’s decent: plenty of choices– though no Which Wich– but far more appetizing than your Subways/JJ’s/Milio’s. You can choose white, wheat or garlic & herb bread. The first time I had the garlic & herb, it was too… herb-y for me. I’m sure some would I enjoy it, I just happen to like the wheat better.

There’s a sign above the toasted that says it will be a miracle if you get your sandwich in less than five minutes– they take their time toasting it, which can be good or bad, depending on how crunchy you enjoy your food. One of my friends who’s not a huge fan of toast said he thought it made the bread too dry and “bread-y”, which I kind of found with my BBQ’d roast beef & cheddar sub the first time. When your ‘wich comes outta the toaster, you can then tell the toppings person if you want lettuce, pickle, tomato & onion along with some sauces. The pickle comes in a long spear laid on your sandwich instead of slices, and the lettuce one of the times I went was chunked up iceberg (though they had completely run out of product the day before, so I don’t know if this is what they usually use or if they had to run to the store last minute.) There were only two half slices of tomato on my veggie sandwich with hemp cream cheese, though said cream cheese was deeeeelicious. You can put on your standard mayo or mustard, then they ask if you want their special “house dressing” with parmesan and oregano, from what I can tell is just oil & vinegar.

Overall, I would give Cheba Hut three out of five stars. (Apparently I just became a restaurant critic, go with it.) They get HUGE points for delivering. They also stay open until bar close, something Which Wich should definitely do, though my wallet is glad it does not. Cheba Hut’s not exactly bare bones cheap, but their sandwiches come in three different sizes– 4, 8, and 12 inches– so you can pick your poison. Who is ordering a four-inch sandwich, by the way? They won’t be my first choice when wanting a sandwich from outside my own kitchen, but the novelty of a new place still hasn’t worn off, and I look forward to trying some of their more interesting veggie subs before I hit the dusty trail after graduation.

Good morning friends, family, Twitter creepers & those of you who only find this blog by searching “Avoid the Stork.” Recently I’ve gotten bangs (not really by choice, more by way of an overzealous stylist at Pro Cuts. Have you been? It costs about $12 to get your hair cut there. I am far too cheap to care enough about my hair to not get it cut for only twelve dollars), started being oddly productive on Fridays, gotten really into putting honey mustard dressing on my salads, adjusting to putting only one space after a period in sentences which is difficult and completely against everything I was ever taught for 13+ years of schooling, hitting the job search hard, and getting completely Becky Home Ec-y in the kitchen (was my mother the only one who ever used that phrase? It’s probably made up.) In addition to making homemade valentines this year, I’m also making some of the edible variety by way about one hundred sugar cookies– thanks for the cutters for Christmas, Grandma– with people’s names piped on the top. That is today’s project, I’ll be sure and report back on how it goes. I also plan on making these gems before the weekend is over, and in a perfect world I would also squeeze in a meal just devoted to these, but I’d like my pancreas to survive til Monday– Valentine’s Day, my favorite holiday. For those of you who live under a rock or need a refresher, I will be spending my V-Day evening in Moline, Illinois at perhaps the greatest show of my nearly 22 years. Making this event even more blessed is the meal I will be happily shoveling in my face beforehand. The Ozzy/Slash tickets were Neil’s Christmas gift to me, if you recall, thus my German beer hall visit is technically my Valentine’s Day present. Or so he says, but there also better be some flowers or trinkets bestowed to me throughout the day if he knows what’s good for him.

Thank you to my professor this morning who either mysteriously read my blog or just my mind, because he informed us during class that college is a cake walk and our lives will only be busier the older we get. Ausgezeichnet!

Speaking of German stuff, Deutsche Bahn cancelled my Bahn Card. Cue the Hallelujah chorus! I’d emailed them a very painful, “Hi, sorry my German’s pretty bad, could you cancel my card since I’m not in the country anymore,” email on the day after it was scheduled to be renewed (oops) and today got a reply. Apparently you’re supposed to notify them six weeks prior to the renewal date, but were considering this an “exceptional circumstance” and cancelling it as an “act of goodwill.” For as much as those people love rules and reprimanding those who don’t know or follow them, this is all nothing short of a miracle. I hope they had a lovely guffaw over my email and lack of general knowledge about the runnings of their system, but I now retract everything I previously said in hatred about the Deutsche Bahn.

I made NPH and I spaghetti for dinner last night while watch the State of the Union (Obama rocked it) and Teen Mom 2 (boring episode) because I’m the epitome of domesticity. It was awesome, one of those foods I forget exists and never eat often anyway, but once I did I was all, “This is ausgezeichnet!” (Which Google Translate is showing me means ‘awarded’ but so obviously means ‘excellent’.)

Because I was such an amazing girlfriend during NPH’s illness, he decided to take me out to eat as a way of saying thank you. Sure, he could have gotten flowers or some dumb card, but this kid knows the way to my heart. So to Texas Roadhouse we went today, because one: I seem to be coming back from my previous vegetarianism with a vengeance, and two: he had never been. I KNOW. My boyfriend, who might as well have barbecue sauce pumping through his veins in lieu of blood, had before today never been to Texas Roadhouse. Egads. It is because of this amazing, rolls-on-the-table, pick two sides with your entree of ‘cued meat establishment, I am now in a full-on food coma on the couch while Fergus sleeps on my lap and Neil flips between infommercials, Pawn Stars, and the Bears-Packers game. (I’ve decided to cheer for the Bears today for really no other reason than I’m feeling fickle toward the Packers this season.) The ol’ Roadhouse didn’t disappoint (I had the ribs, he had the pulled pork, we shared, it was adorable) and of COURSE I was all, “You know I ate eight of these rolls one time in five minutes to win a roll-eating competition during Relay for Life our freshman year, right?!??!” Yes, Brittney. We all know. I informed my dining companion that I’m 100% certain I could shatter my previous record, but since I was already branded a freak for wearing flip-flops, I decided to not give the neighboring tables anything more at which to stare. (Don’t ask– 713 had a small-ish soiree of 100+ people last night and I didn’t feel like pulling on my fashion boots just to head out to lunch. So I borrowed a pair of Bryce’s flip-flops, obviously.) Apparently I have “homework” that’s “due tomorrow” because we’re still in “college” and life isn’t just one long “winter break.” As you may have inferred from the air quotes, I believe none of this. Priority numero uno is a nap, and hopefully when I wake up, it will magically be again the day after Christmas and I will have zero responsibilities in the upcoming weeks.