The other day Drea and I are walking down the street.

"Did you see that woman?" Drea asks. I look around, confused. What woman? "That woman that just walked past us. She was orange. Like, bright orange!" I shrug. She glares. "You've really gotta keep up."

A few minutes later the same thing happens. "What was up with that woman's pants?" she asks. Again, I am the posterchild of obliviousness. "How are you not seeing any of this?" she asks incredulously.

Finally, walking down Surf, a woman walks towards us wearing a pair of the squeakiest shoes I've ever heard. Knowing my cue, I shoot Drea a sideways glance as the woman walks past us.

She shoots me back the same conspiratorial glance and says, "That's all I'm asking for."

Another edition of Other People's Bookshelves, which the kids are now evidently calling OPB. Who knew?

Lately I've been thinking about developing a party game called Expatriates.

There'd be a variety of cities that could be picked at the beginning of the game. They'd be places like Paris, or Berlin, or Dubai; a foreign city where an American could end up. Then each player would be pick a card out of the profile deck. The card would detail what the player was doing in this city. Possible reasons could be things like they traveled there for their job, or followed their spouse, or they've decided to blow their trust fund in a "romantic" city. Things like that.

Players wouldn't be able to immediately tell each other who they were, or why they've ended up in the chosen city, but answers would come out over the course of the game. Everyone would have to mull around, talking to their fellow players, staying in character. "I'm looking for an English speaking gynecologist," one might say to another. And, if they were lucky, the player they were talking to would have pulled a card that made them a gynecologist. Or, "That's so funny, because that house has been in my family for generations, but I'd never come here until last year." The people would talk, and drink, and be bonded together by the fact that they've finally found other Americans in this foreign city. Fellow strangers in this strange land.

Really, at heart, Expatriates is a social networking game. Like an adult version of that game Murder that little kids play, where you go around shaking people's hands, and the one murderer in the group scratches the inside of your palm, signaling they're the murderer.

If things really caught on, real expatriates in real cities overseas would play the game, only using their real lives.

I just think it'd be a fun game, y'know?

Yesterday, while going through my iPhoto and cleaning out some pictures, I came across some old family photos my brother had put on my computer a few years ago.

There were dozens of them, and I just kept pouring over them, thinking how things looked so different. It's odd to think that someday people will look back and photos of us now, today, and think, "I wonder what life was like back then."

This morning I was reading about cheese on Wikipedia (I know! My life is insane!), and I learned that the U.S. is the #1 cheese producer in the world, making 4,275,000 metric tons of cheese per year.

But what about cheese consumption? We're not even in the top 10!

Greece is first, with 27.3 kilograms per person per year, while the U.S. is at a lowly 14.1 kilograms per person per year.

C'mon U.S. of A.! We call ourselves a nation of over eaters and we're not even in the top 10 of cheese consumption?!

...Or maybe it's just that all that "artificial cheese" in Nacho Cheese Doritos doesn't count towards our consumption average. Hmm.

Last night I had eaten some particularly bad "vegan friendly!" chicken strips.

"I've had good fake chicken before," I told my aunt, who called up me shortly after I had eaten said fake chicken, "but this stuff really isn't sitting well in my stomach."

"Let me give you a little pearl of wisdom," my aunt said. "This too shall pass."

She paused, reflectively, then added: "Hopefully through your digestive system at a relatively quick rate."

Yesterday, walking down Sheffield, I noticed I woman jogging with her two daughters. What made this painful to watch was that her daughters were around 8 and 6 years old.

Lady! 8 and 6 year olds don't want to jog! Maybe they'll play tag, or at best, soccer, but I think jogging (the act of simply running for running sake) is hard enough to convince an adult to do, let alone a small child!

Why do parents make this children do such weird stuff, people? All I'm saying is, I see some steep therapist bills in these children's futures.

Today marks the launch of Oy!Chicago. Oy! is an online magazine/blog/community for Jewish and Jew-ish types in Chicago - as well as for their friends and fans.

As a bad Jew I plan on turning to them for guidance on what kind of hot-button Jewish topics I should bring up at cocktail parties, and I can only hope that somewhere down the line they'll have an article listing the best places in Chicago to get bagels and lox.

But for now I'm simply content recommending the site because my friend Libby writes for them, and I'm always happy to help out a fellow Chicagoan/writer/Jew.

As promised, today I present the deeply satisfying conclusion of Cooking with Josh. Eat up!

I finally put my money where my mouth is and cook something from Don't Fill Up On the Antipasto, the Tony Danza cookbook.

The other day Byron was giddy with excitement.

Byron: Someone thought I was famous!!!
Me: Who?
Byron: Some woman that works at the Prada store downtown.
Me: Were you wearing your sunglasses indoors?
Byron: No.
Me: Does this woman work on commission?
Byron: Errr....

For those of you who thought that these book review videos would be dead by now...keep waiting.

Good ol' Lisa at Capital City Desk wrote about this first, but I just had to steal it:

"Why I Let My 9-Year-Old Ride the Subway Alone"

I don't think I ever want children, but if I do have them I like to think I'd be the kind of progressive and empowering parent that would let their child try something like this.

...Or I'd end up being turned in to DCFS.

The other night I was out with Micah when the Pussycat Dolls song "Beep" came on. For those of you unfamiliar with the song, here are some sample lyrics:

"It's funny how a man only thinks about the [beep noise] /
You got a real big heart, but I'm looking at your [beep noise] /
You got real big brains, but I'm looking at your [beep noise] /
Girl, there ain't no pain in me looking at your [beep noise]"

"This song is really quite genius," I tell Micah, taking a sip of my drink. "How do you figure?" he asks.

"Well, it's kind of like a Hitchcock movie. It takes the main focus of the song and it kind of hides it from the listener, forcing them to use their imagination to create what lays under the beep. Therefore, if a man is more into a woman's chest, that's what he would imagine is under the beep. If he's more of a leg man, then legs are under the beep. The song can be different things to different people, thus being accessible to a wider audience and, really, being whatever the listener wants it to be. 'Baby Got Back' by Sir Mix-A-Lot or 'Legs' by ZZ Top only caters to a listeners specific predilections, but the beauty of 'Beep' is that it can cater to anyone."

Micah stares at me for a second. "Did you just compare 'Beep' to a Hitchcock film!?"

This afternoon I was texting with the Metallurgist while she was trapped at the airport without wi-fi.

Me: So I'm watching MacGyver. He's actually in a metallurgy lab right now. He has to make a bomb.
Metallurgist: How's he doing that?
Me: I think he's using a few grams of sodium metal and putting it in a medicine capsule.
Metallurgist: I could totally make a bomb.

then...

Metallurgist: I hope there's no way for the airport to intercept this.