Today feels like a Wednesday. It is, in fact, a Tuesday. Fact: this is the first week I’m working a regular 8-5 M-F work week. Due to weekend conferences, holidays, and afternoons off, I’ve never worked one of these at my job before. We do have a potluck tomorrow so perhaps I can pretend it’s a ragin’ party. I made pesto pasta salad, and I don’t know about you, but that was always one of our requirements for a damn good time in college.

Speaking of college, tomorrow’s date is 7/13. For anyone who ever had the pleasure of stepping foot inside the glorious place with the same address, we ask that you observe the holiday by getting black out drunk wherever you are. Unfortunately for everyone who actually had to live there, we all (and yes, I’m included myself as a resident) have big kid jobs and might have one light domestic beer before calling it a night.

I feel absolutely terrible for bemoaning my long distance relationship when there are thousands of military families out there living without their loved ones for very scary years on end, but occasionally I do get very sad, self-pitying and overall wallow-y about being apart from Neil for at least a year. My father might take this as an indication that we have moved up a Defcon (yes, he seriously inquires about our relationship as if it’s some sort of defense maneuver by the Armed Forces) which it probably is, but there’s no need to discuss that in the privacy of our own home when I can just announce it on a very public yet sparsely-read blog. I’m mostly upset about the hundreds of miles between us because I’m the sole caretaker of one Fergus M. Jackson, Esquire who, pardon my French, has been an asshole lately. It’s like he always wants to play with me or hang out on my lap or needs to go outside to pee or be petted and loved and fed. The nerve.

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.)

Alive? Check.

Functioning? Barely.

Hugest, weirdest, craziest, most stressful time in my life? You betcha.

…and I still haven’t even moved into my apartment yet! Soon, though. My name is officially on a lease– I’ll be in before next week after some maintenance is finished.

I’ve essentially become best friends with NPH’s family. The only part I don’t like is how long of a commute it is from their suburb into the very touristy part of the city where I work.

Until I move, my life is a cycle of getting up super early, riding the train, working, riding the train, eating, sleeping, repeat. I know, so glamorous. Afterward, it will be less riding the train and more… TV watching? Far too exciting to handle, beware.

To my family who’s been wondering: I have not yet signed any lease, and I haven’t moved to Chicago more than the boxes piled in the backseat and trunk of my car. I start my job in two days, so technically I’ve moved, but I’m still hanging out through the graciousness and hospitality of NPH’s family. When it does come time to settle for good (this weekend???) all my stuff is all packed and just waiting in IC for a moving van.

I was going to embed a video from last week’s episode of South Park, the best few minutes of television ever to air in the history of cable television, but Viacom pulled it from YouTube. Just know that Slash was on as some sort of mythical Santa Claus character, and I’ve never been more proud.

One large pat on the back goes to me for remembering to continue updating you on my apartment hunting saga.

When we last left off, I had only seen two places. Thankfully, that number has at least tripled, and I feel much more optimistic about the fact that I most likely won’t be sleeping on a park bench when I begin my job in a week (!!!) Last night, I saw a one bedroom in Buena Park that restored my faith in the Chicago rentals market. It quickly became the top contender, though I still had a day full of appointments to get through before making a decision.

I woke up quite early on this rainy morning to look at a few places in Logan Square. One was a hell no from the beginning, but the second was AWESOME, but not worth it location-wise (close to public transporation, kinda sketchy neighborhood.) And then, I found it. IT. The place. The place. (Or so I thought?) Right next to the lake– like RIGHT next to the lake– dishwasher, huge bedroom and living room and larger kitchen, air conditioning, elevator, fitness center. The catch: they only take dogs up to 20 pounds. Now, I will be the first to tell you that getting a dog in college was dumb with a capital D, but I’ve made my bed so will now lie in it. And to be honest, I’ve gotten pretty attached to that hound, and I don’t want to live my life in Chicago without NPH and Fergus. (And for those of you wondering, he’s visibily not 20 pounds, and will only get bigger. Fergus, I mean. Well, Neil, too.)

Disgruntled, discouraged, I went to view my final place. It’s actually really great, and made me much less sad about possibly have to do my dishes by hand. It might not have a dishwasher or a lake view, but getting both of those things on my first time out would just make me spoiled! It’s actually closer to downtown, and is in a much more “happening” (yes, I just threw down vocabulary expected from only a geriatric) neighborhood than my above dream apartment. I will sleep on it, and see if the other place is willing to take my adorable hound, as my realtor really wants me to do so he doesn’t lose the sale. Either way, I really hope to be back in Iowa City at some point tomorrow because, as lovely as this has been, I just wanna go home. Which I won’t be able to call that for much longer. Sad face?

Someone found my blog by searching “stupid blonde German bitch.” Yes.

The day of my commencement was spent not actually attending the (what was later described as) painfully long, dull three hour ceremony, but rather bathing da Fergs, festooning a strapless dress from freshman year into a passable shirt, and hanging out with multiple surrogate families. (I told mine to stay home since I wasn’t actually walking; we’ll celebrate together this coming weekend.) I tagged along with Roomie Lauren’s hilarious, wonderful kin to lunch and lots of celebratory shots. Later, NPH’s family came and we all went to dinner, ate cake, and discussed the housing situation in the greater Chicagoland area for a while. The rest of the night was spent much more tame than you’d imagine for having something so large to celebrate, but it was raining and frankly, after doing this for nearly four years, my body is quite tired. Perhaps why, after a relatively productive Monday, the first of “summer,” the first in the awkward but glorious time between school and starting work in the real world, I got sick. It hurts. I am beyond cranky. It’s some sort of sinus thing that has manifested itself in my lungs. It burns. Did I mention I’m cranky? Knowing that my mother will straight up murder me if I dare be ill during the many graduation festivities she has planned for this weekend, I’ve been taking it easy and laying around, drinking tea, and texting outrageous soup demands to NPH every hour on the hour.

I read Tina Fey’s Bossypants in one sitting on Friday, and Portia de Rossi’s Unbearable Lightness in one stretch yesterday. I cannot wait to get my grubby little mitts on Steven Tyler’s autobiography that just came out this month.

See, Roomie Lauren– I didn’t even once mention your hot older brother in this post!

One million apologies to my most dedicated of followers who have been anxiously awaiting any sort of post while I’ve been gallivanting around town, avoiding this blog as well as most things reminding me that I’M LEAVING soon. Some slightly large news: as of 10:30 this morning, I am officially a college graduate! I only had one final this year, and while I probably could have failed and still passed the class, I in fact did pretty ok and am fairly confident I will be receiving my diploma. I’m not walking at commencement (something about my dad saying, “I’ll pay you to not make me sit through that ceremony”) so all that’s left is quite a bit of celebrating. Things are looking pretty fantastic on the career front, though I’ll save that for those of you who know me beyond my sarcastic Internet persona which is surely a front for my paralyzing insecurities.

I suppose I could update you on how I went home for Mother’s Day or how NPH had quite a successful birthday on Tuesday, but at this point: I’VE GRADUATED, BITCHES– and that’s really all that matters. If you are looking for a gift, please send cash, checks, yen, gift cards, IOUs, and spare change to my home address. I will also consider it a gift if you never ask me, “What are you doing after graduation?” “Ooh, what does that company do?” “Where are you going to live?” “Who’s going to take Fergus?” “What’s Neil doing?” or, possibly my favorite, “Are you two going to stay together while you live in different cities?” I’m quite seriously considering printing out the answers to all of the above frequently asked questions on index cards and passing them out at the graduation festivities my mother has planned that will span all three days of next weekend. Seriously, just say “Congrats” and pass me a beer. You automatically win the game.

Did I watch the royal wedding live? No. Did my boyfriend? Yes. He texted me at 5:28 am “I think you’re gonna like her dress.” NPH knows me well then, I suppose, but then again I haven’t read a single bad thing about it. Kate/Catherine/Duchess of Cambridge looked HOLYCRAPSTUNNINGGORGEOUS. I’ve watched what I need to online and now feel sufficiently royal wedding-ed out. I’m not a fan of the people going out of their way to be downers about it. It’s ok that you don’t care, but this is big doings to an estimated 1/3 of the world’s population, so shut your pie hole. The bride is gorgeous, they look truly happy together, and I hope the press leaves them alone. But it’s British tabloids, so that won’t happen.

Wednesday was my last PRSSA meeting ever. I’ve been involved since the first chapter meeting of my freshman year, so it’s a bittersweet sigh of relief. We went to Hope Lodge last night to make dinner for the guests, tonight is our “downtown social”, and Wednesday is our final banquet where we exec get to pass the torch to the newly elected members and run for the hills.

Speaking of sprinting away from things: I have five classes and two finals between now and when I’m officially graduated. Let the festivities begin!

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.