I've never done that before, and I think the entire experience, rated now after the fact, was somewhere on the sliding scale between totally rewarding and slightly irritating.
Now, don't get me wrong. I enjoy doing nice things for this man, and he definitely deserves the kindness and emotes just the right amount of gratitude to make it worth doing. He is ever so gentlemanly, insistent that I don't NEED to do these things for him, but I actually get pleasure out of being this sickeningly domestic.
For the record, he's doing the dinner dishes right now. I know. Fantastic.
No, my irritation comes from the fact that it took us (two brains, four hands) all of seven and a half minutes to make it all happen. That elapsed time counts trying on two questionable fashion choices and going back into the maze of built-in closet drawers for replacement options. AND ridiculing one terrible shirt in the closet and secretly hiding it towards the back, hoping to never see it again.
Frankly, as much as I love my wardrobe, and its collection of accessories, jewelry, handbags, belts, tops, jackets, skirts, pants, cropped pants, lightweight sweaters, heavy winter gear, lazy-day track suits, hoodies, sweatshirts, hats, and a wide assortment of shoes (I'm not Imelda Marcos, but I may be her distant cousin), I came to a painful realization.
It is just so much EASIER to be a man.
I know. I'm 31 and I'm just NOW coming to this conclusion. Bear with me. I only recently mastered the art of mixing cocktails and beer in one evening. Just barely.
He's going to Vegas on a sales reward trip. I'll be here crossing things off my eternal to-do list. I'm not quite sure who will have more fun. Vegas oddsmakers predict a tie.
As a single woman, I am often on the listening side of many hilarious kids stories from my friends with children. I think they view me as the objective outsider. Or as someone who can sympathize with their plights by the absence of any like it in my life. Who knows, but I do know that I love hearing them.
My appetite for the funny, interesting tidbits ranges from curious ("he said THAT to the store clerk?") to the ill-informed ("I thought she was old enough to sit facing forward in the car.") to the downright aversive ("you had to clean WHAT off of the bathroom walls?").
It is similar, in a way, to the manner in which I carry on a conversation with those who have had the privilege to travel to foreign countries I've not yet visited. I want the details, love the anecdotes, need a mental image, would appreciate a photo album, will laugh at your trials, will share in the glories, and quite am often glad I wasn't there to witness it first hand.
Today's story is provided by my dear friend Jenny. You probably know her from the cleverly crafted comments she adds to this site. Usually her comments rival the original post for humor content, but I won't hold it against her. See her latest work on yesterday's blog about crayons. Brilliant.
This morning, Jenny's kids were playing nicely and quietly in the other room, giving mom a few rare minutes of peace while she surfed the web, catching up on her favorite bloggers. The silence was pierced by her daughter, we'll call her MB, screaming at a fever pitch, "GIVE IT BACK GIVE IT BACK."
Jenny, from the other room, pleaded her son, we'll call him B (to protect his "innocence"), to please give it back so that fortheloveofgod she would stop screaming. B comes running out of the room laughing in a devilish big brother way. Holding nothing. MB is chasing him, still yelling for him to give it back.
A tad bit exasperated, and curious what had incited the matter, Jenny asked them what the heck is going on. Defiantly, MB told Mama that B stole her cake. Jenny was baffled.
There is no cake. It's a pretend, imaginary cake.
That, instead of giving it back to his little sister, B proceeds to smash. MB falls apart. Jenny, in supreme 'Mama Fix It' mode, has to beg B to please put the cake back together and give it back to his sister. My dear friend Jenny swears she stood there arguing about said cake for at least 5 minutes.
Upon hearing this story, our other friend Liz asked if the kids were doing shrooms and Jenny thought no, they're not. Because if they were, they would relax, quit screaming and stare at the shadows. We won't let Jenny buy any. Besides, we don't know a good dealer.
When I was told the story, I complimented Jenny on raising her children with such vivid and active imaginations.
To which she replied, "Sometimes I wish they'd imagine meditation or, say, sign language."
And I thought being here at work in front of a computer was taxing. At least my co-workers aren't in the other room fighting over imaginary baked goods.
Which makes me kindof hungry...come over here with that cake, wouldja?
For the record, if you're out of the washing fluid that goes into your Swiffer Wet Jet, don't go getting all inventive and try to use Pledge instead. It makes your wooden floors as slippery as a politician in October.
In a moment of weak desperation and creative housecleaning, I did it while preparing for guests this weekend, and I've damn near killed myself nine times since then. I would really hate for my death notice in the paper to read:
Single 31-year Old Woman Found Dead in Kitchen at Midnight—Holding a Mangled Fancy Chocolate Bar and Wearing Ratty Pajamas
As part of a committment to include more tactile hobbies and non-drinking activities to my social calendar, I have signed up for a beginner's painting class at a local arts center. I'm taking it with my friend Katie, and I can actually thank her for creating the impetus to get involved.
Tonight is our first session, and I am like a kid anticipating the first day of school.
You know the feeling—you have your Trapper Keeper ready, filled with clean sheets of wide rule paper and color-coded folders, your pencils are sharpened and nestled in the pink plastic pencil box that you painted your name on the top of with puffy paint (so wishing you had an "i" in your name so you could dot the i with a big dollup of shiny paint), the new backpack's tags have just been removed, your lunch is made and waiting in the fridge in a plain brown paper bag, and the carefully chosen first-day outfit is laid out on the bedroom floor.
OCD starts early, people.
Anyway, dreaming of all the fun paints we'll use (I think we'll dapple in watercolor, oil and acrylics), I am feeling a bit nostalgic for one of life's greatest inventions: the Crayola 64 box, complete with a built-in sharpener. Not that you ever DARED to use that horrible contraption—no way. It would gnaw and chew up the precious crayons, and would damage the little wrapper that boasted fun color names like Burnt Sienna or Goldenrod Yellow. You just liked knowing you HAD a sharpener. When it was time for a new crayon because you'd had a good run on Pine Tree Green that month—or, DEAR GOD, one of the colors broke, I am pretty sure I weaseled and begged for a new box to replace the whole thing. That way I had backups for each color, you see.
I just love how the adorable crayons stand in those neat little rows, somewhat resembling a class picture. Each of them is perfect when you open the box, and the smell is something I'd know anywhere.
This year marks the 50th anniversary of this special invention, and Crayola celebrated the milestone with the introduction of eight new "Kids' Choice Colors." For you history buffs (that means you, Cox), the iconic box first debuted on the Captain Kangaroo show in 1958. Remember that show? Do you recall the lovely Mr. Green Jeans? Rest in peace, good man.
My love for crayons wasn't undervalued. My Mom is an artist, and therefore, appreciated the obsession with the perfect box of crayons. In fact, she must've talked about how much she loved them so much because on my parents' 30th wedding anniversary, my Dad (quite the romantic) gave her her own brand new box of Crayons. Yep. She was 53. I think it was her favorite gift ever.
And, I'd be willing to bet the sharpener is still unused. The (Fire Red) apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
My sailor friends have landed back in town for a quick refresh week before they plan to head north from Ft. Lauderdale, up to Charleston and over to Bermuda. Then, in mid-May, they will make their Atlantic Crossing towards the Azores, an island chain off the coast of Portugal.
With them back in Chicago after being on the water since September, casually seated in my living room with beers in hand, it felt like nothing had changed. No time had passed, and our conversations and laughter flowed as normal. So did the beer, incidentally.
As we talked about how good it felt for them to come "home" (neither actually grew up here in Chicago, but have lived much of their adult life in the city) and how they appreciate what they had that much more—it got me thinking.
Can you actually have both roots and wings?
Can you still be "from somewhere" but move on to experience something new, and call a new place "home," without sacrificing the old?
People ask me all the time, "Will you ever move back to Atlanta?" These are likely the people that stood at my going away party in September of 2000 when I promised, loudly and assertively, that I was only moving to Chicago for two years to "get it out of my system." I vowed to come back before their lives had even blinked, much less changed that much.
In the 7 1/2 years that I have been gone, the "roots" of my soul, the deep connections that have made me who I am today, the people have changed, grown, morphed and twisted far more than I could have imagined. All moving in positive, healthy, lifelong directions, but yes, there was much change.
Quite the turn of events:
graduates turned into professionals... jobs turned into careers... apartments turned into houses... boyfriends turned into husbands... hobbies turned into profits... twinkly-eyes turned into babies... infants turned into children... twenty-somethings turned into adults...(sortof) and plans turned into reality.
All this turning and growing and changing makes me wonder about the events of my own life. Do you give up the strength of your past to explore the freedom of something new?
Can you have roots and wings at the same time, or are they mutually exclusive characteristics? Does a desire to have a "sense of place" preclude you from enjoying both the foundation from which you came AND the future toward which you're heading?
Either way, I suppose I am comfortable knowing where I'm from, and enjoying where I am now, despite the fact that I can't be sure where my wings will have me soaring next.
A crazy homeless lady that I see pretty often trolling the tourist briagde on Michigan Avenue stopped me this morning. Not unusual. She asked me for a dollar. Also not strange.
Her approach, or strategy, was totally unique today however.
She said, "Can you give me a dollar for JFK's birthday?"
Uhm...if it is JFK's birthday, why do you get the money? Shouldn't I be sending one of those little dollar bill cards to his family trust or something? Pretty sure you don't have any affiliation to the Kennedy clan. But, you clearly are crazy, so maybe there's the link?
JFK was a Democrat, and therefore supportive of providing funds for the disadvantaged, but I was left wondering how the request made any sense at all. And, when I said no, she mocked me for half a block. Loudly.
Should have tossed my $2.15 Starbucks at her. In honor of JFK's birthday, that is. I'll show YOU what Chicagoans can do for you.
I'm not a gay man, a cheesy tourist, or a granny from middle America.
But, I must confess, I do love me some musical theater. In honor of last night's American Idol, where the theme was the music of Andrew Llloyd Weber, I figured that musical theater was as good of a topic as any. And, frankly, I was flat empty on other more intriguing ideas today.
My old roommate Jill and I used to go a lot, and even had season tickets for one grand year of Broadway in Chicago. I'll avoid telling you during how many shows she fell asleep. But I will say that I'm still baffled by how one can conk out to a full snooze right in the middle of the French Revolution. It was tres (Les) Miserables, I assure you. Overall, we loved being a part of the classic culture of Chicago.
Anyway, I have seen many, many shows, and was impressed by them all. For most of them, I now own the soundtrack and when no one is looking (or the windows aren't down in the car), I belt out the tunes as if I were the one on stage. My key takeaway for each is also included, for your memory lane reading pleasure:
Les Miserables—first show ever, at age 13, with Jenny and her dad at the Fox Theater in Atlanta; we were all dressed up and felt very special. Black velvet, a hair bow and tights have never meant more. Doesn't mean we looked that good, but the lovely strawberries in our pre-show sparkling cider may have led to a life of drinking. I blame Mr. Goff.
The King and I—one of the many shows that my Mom took my sister and me to, cleverly using the half-off coupons from the local grocery store; our girls' night treats were exquisite, and I even liked the movie rendition.
Phantom of the Opera—the music makes me cry, and the candles/fog scene is outstanding, but the whole premise is just a tad bit strange, no? Or am I that vain to find it difficult to believe she'd fall in love with a creepy attic-crawling figure in a plastic half-mask?
Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat—all I remember is the giant patchwork coat. I'm sure it is a good show, but I can't bet on it.
RENT—loved it loved it loved it. Heard on the radio in Atlanta that they were giving away the front few rows (part of the author's plan to gain attention from/audience members from younger, more broke generations), but when I got there, the lady sold out right in front of my face. My date felt bad, turned to a scalper, and paid a fortune. I really liked that move. Him, not so much, but seeing the show from the 10th row was killer.
The Lion King—expected furry costumed theme-park-style animals, and was pleasantly surprised at the artistry of it all. Seriously didn't expect that.
Jesus Christ Superstar—was a little offended. Maybe I was taking the whole "mock Jesus' crucifixion" a little too seriously?
Oliver—great show, but all I can think of is my mom playing Oliver when she was young in the school play. I think she was THAT skinny that she made a great orphan. Boy.
Miss Saigon—two words. Heli. Copter. I cried a lot in this show, both times I saw it. Beautiful story, great music, fantastic stage effects.
Hairspray—really great show. Where else can you see a can of ozone-killing aerosol so proudly celebrated?
Stomp!—who knew you could make music that sounds so great from a few garbage cans and a broom?
Mama Mia—fantastic, and was again really surprised. Yes, this is a pretty freaking cheesy storyline, but the tunes are great. ABBA forever!
Wicked—sat really close and the costumes blew me away. And all that green paint! Where can I get that for next year's St. Patrick's Day?
Chicago—the movie was so much better than the stage show, I'm afraid. Sorry, thespians. Except for the Cellblock Tango, which is great no matter where you see it.
The Producers—yes, it was good. I wasn't that blown away. Funny, strange, yes. Would ever see it again? Not a chance. Maybe I missed out by not seeing the original cast?
Urinetown—gross. Stupid. Forgettable. Do I sound like Simon Cowell?
Speaking of Simon, here was my absolute favorite (goose-bump) performance last night. I predict a David vs. David finale. Which would be fine by me...
Now that the weather is warming up, and the wool coats have been (optimistically?) put away for the season, women everywhere are sporting their new spring coats. Trenches, lightweight jackets, and coats in all sorts of lovely spring colors are the new "black wool" replacement.
I have a pet peeve related to this wardrobe item. I know, I know. Who has a pet peeve about spring coats?
The peeve is actually about ALL coats, but seems like a good thing to mention now. I consider this post a favor to all females, a "do good" moment for me towards all humanity.
UNTACK the back flap. Seriously, ladies. The manufacturer puts weak string in a little X down at the bottom of the back flap to protect the flap from tearing while it is shipped, unwrapped and sold to unsuspecting women. The threads are supposed to be cut before wearing the coat. It's called a kick pleat for a reason. You should be able to kick backwards through it! (See it up there on the right? NOT tacked together. Separate.)
I can't tell you how many women are running around Chicago (and likely all across this great country) wearing the back flap still tacked down. It looks silly, MUST make it harder to walk, and doesn't show off the cute little details that make these women's coats so fashionable.
Do me (and all of your fellow ladies) a favor. Because, let's face it, men don't even notice you're WEARING a coat, much less get the minutae involved. Just UNTACK the flap before wearing it.
I have other things to be peeved about, and trust me, I'll share them with you. Until then, just consider yourself warned. I'm half tempted to go up to women I see on the street and rip the offending flaps apart.
My brain is zapped completely dry in advance of tomorrow's big new business pitch. My eye makeup is smudged to all hell, my really cute outfit is no longer even attractive, and my stomach is growling so loudly that I can barely hear my iTunes. It didn't help that I wore fancy high heels today and my feet hurt from about the knee down. I am pretty sure that I no longer have a bloodstream. My body is working strictly off of coffee and Dr. Pepper.
Admit it. You're humming the tune to "Nine to Five" now, aren't you? Go with Dolly, and enjoy your night. I'll toast to that.
I'm going home to faceplant in some Shiraz. If only we had THAT in the free vending machine.
As if traveling wasn't enough of a stress, airports in New York and Los Angeles have announced they will be soon equipped with body scanners that allow security screeners to see beneath a passenger's clothing to detect concealed weapons.
The machines, which are about the size of a revolving door, use low-energy electromagnetic waves to produce a computerized image of a traveler's entire body. I hope that the everyday American can figure these things out better than they can maneuver the revolving doors on Michigan Avenue.
But, seriously. Great. Now we're going to hear celebrities who are dieting to avoid looking fat in the aiport scans. Aren't they the only people we ever hear of (or see photos of) traveling through NYC or L.A.?
The black and white, 3D scans aren't as vivid as a photograph, but they do reveal some of the more intimate curves of the human form. Supposedly, (as in, similar to what Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson likely thought), the captured images will not be recorded or stored. Passengers' faces are blurred to further protect their identities.
Sounds about like the photo booths often placed at the back of a dive bar. With the blurring coming from the last round of cocktails, of course.
But what I want to know is, do you get to keep a photo strip of your four best poses?
As a young(ish) woman, I have spent the last decade, admittedly, trying to figure out men. As my girlfriends and I can attest, they are simple creatures whose actions and words often betray the layers of complexity that may be found within.
That is, I thought that until I discovered, through a blossoming and very healthy relationship, that men are actually pretty simple through and through. As Seinfeld once said, "When a woman asks a guy what he's thinking, and he replies, 'nothing,' it's true. We're actually not thinking about anything." This theory is seconded by the recent "nothing box" discussions seen in this funny (and true) video.
The subject is the difference of how men and women's brains are wired. Men are more simple, according to the speaker, Mark Gungor. Women's brains, which will come as no surprise to anyone who is a woman or has ever known one, are connected like a superspeed highway with many twists, turns, overlaps, interconnections and jumbles of wires. A topic, to a woman, is never a singular one. It is attached to everything else in the brain.
For example, when a man mentions a party to a woman, she isn't just processing the invitation, she's thinking about what she'll wear, who will be there, if they'll accept her into the group, how she would feel if they didn't, what she needs to do in order to get ready for the event, what she may be missing out on if she does attend, and how the man in question will respond to all of the above. Because she'll undoubtedly share most of these intersecting thoughts with him, much to his dismay and/or confusion. To him, it was just an invitation to a party.
Men's brains, to the opposite, are organized into boxes. There is the Sports Box, the Food Box, the Sex Box, the Work Box, the Friend Box, the Family Box, the Beer Box, the News Box, the TV Box, the Weekend Box and the Girlfriend/Wife box. Hidden way back beneath all of the other boxes are the unsightly In-laws Box, the Ex Box, and the Exercise Box. When a topic comes up, a man's brain goes to the box in question, accesses the information necessary to compute the response, and then puts it back away, being careful not to touch, open or disturb any of the other boxes. It's like a well-organized garage, albeit with a little dust and a few random "collectibles."
And, finally, there is the "Nothing Box." This is the one that when a man is sitting still, walking down the street or watching TV, he accesses. This results in absolute nothingness. No thoughts, no activities, no obsessions, and no required response. When a woman asks him what he's thinking while this box is engaged, his honest reply is, "nothing."
This isn't to say that men are less intelligent, or less engaged in everyday life, it is just an assessment on how men like things to be. Simple. Why confuse things if they are better left alone? Why add complexities where one simple answer/activity is enough?
I think this theory of men's simplicity is best exemplified, of late, by the recent commerical for the new product, the Old Spice Hair & Body Wash. View it below if you haven't had the privilege to see it on TV just yet.
Because it would just be TOO MUCH TROUBLE to use two separate products. One for your hair and one for your body. I mean, come on. Men just want things to be easy. Give me a product, that I can buy for under four dollars at CVS, that I can open in the shower, rub all over my body AND my head, and then I'm finished. Hand me a towel and I'm ready to go. I am guessing this product can be found in the very small, rarely considered "Grooming Box."
Unlike the female wires of makeup, body image, salons, shopping, hair products, cosmetic surgeries, figure flattery, and other more complex, and misunderstood interconnected issues, the Grooming Box has two things inside. A razor, and this lovely Old Spice product. [Warning: Blanket Generalization Alert—this excludes many metrosexuals and most gay men. I'm certain, to their credit, that their Grooming Box is easily accessible, fully-packed with the latest products, tips and salons. Come on, they just smell too good for this not to be true.]
At least then there's no mildewing, hairy, slimy soap to drop in the shower. Because the "Cleaning Box," which includes scrubbing the bathroom, rarely sees the light of day. It is placed WAY back in the brain, just to the left of the "Anniversaries & Birthdays Box."
Since today is your birthday, and I can't be there to celebrate with you, instead I'm treating you to a slow walk through memory lane. It'd be a jog, but with our bad knees, we'd both be hurting. A walk will do.
My earliest memory of music is you playing the Eagles album in our old house—the one with the brown paperboard cover that had the name of the band embossed on it. I recall sitting there rubbing the letters while you sang the words out loud. I don't recall any dance moves, and given your "hands above the shoulders" style at weddings of late, that may be for the best.
Your musical tastes today often are the subject of fodder for us now—I am pretty sure you are the only person who loves Jon Secada, Rick Astley, Pilot of the Airwaves, and that obnoxious Six Flags commercial song. You redeem yourself slightly with your steadfast appreciation of good acapella tunes, and any rendition of Amazing Grace that iTunes has to offer.
Ever since I can remember, you have opened Christmas presents with the glee usually reserved for small children, and the biggest, floppiest bow usually ends up stuck to your head. I wouldn't trade that for anything.
Summers meant airshows, and I can thank you for my love of the fighter planes zooming overhead every August at the Chicago Air & Water Show. The sound alone makes me smile, and recall hot Atlanta summers standing in the middle of a field staring straight up. My skinny legs always itched from the tall grasses, we inevitably got cricks in our neck from the frozen posture, and my shoulders grew increasingly more freckled over the years, but the time spent with you was undoubtedly worth it.
Playing sports was our way to make up for you not having a son, and we loved being out there on the court/field/pool to represent your love of the game. Hearing you call out "Come on, Tiger!" was enough to make me forget the lousy shot I'd just taken, and hustle my way back into the action. If only I'd been as good at any of those sports as another famed "Tiger," I may have been able to give you a bigger gift this year.
Road trips, typically to St. Louis, were long and arduous, but you always knew how to earn some giggles. With your extra long arms (yet another trait I inherited), you'd reach back and grab our ankles from the driver's seat, causing us to erupt and shriek, making the stretch across the Chattanooga mountains more interesting.
You remain the only grown adult I've known to consistently order a glass of milk with your dinner at a restaurant. The look on the waiter's face is often worth more than the tip.
The smell of Home Depot will forever remind me of those Saturdays when Mom gave you a "honey do" list and you decided to drag us along, letting us ride the big orange flat carts, while you shopped. Who knew sawdust and plywood could be so much fun?
As with your car building obsession now, I was always the only girl I knew who could wander down to "Dad's shop" and find model airplanes stretched across the basement, made of balsa wood and super glue, featuring two Barbie pilots—one blonde and one brunette—proving once again that you liked having your girls along while you explored your hobbies. I finally have recovered from the time that you admitted you had to chop off Barbie's legs to get her to fit in the cockpit.
In addition to car building, your devotion to X-Files, Star Trek, Grease and Speedvision ensures that you are a unique individual. With control of the remote.
Getting emails from you now guarantees a laugh as you explore the hilarious world of text lingo. OMG, I'm not sure who in your office taught you, but I'm guessing their daughter is 14. LOL.
Since I'm not there, I can't run in the room and give you a giant bear hug, only to curl up later and sit as your "lap dog" despite the fact that I'm way too old for it and the club chair creaks under our combined weight. I can't help you grill the burgers with the screen door standing open, doing anything I can to evoke your Woody Woodpecker laugh. I can't fight over the last piece of chocolate cake, only to succumb because it's your birthday, and you're bigger than I am. I can't share in your latest achievements on the hot rod, and tease you for your Einstein-wacky eyebrows. I do, however, know that you're proud of your girls, and your encouragement means so much to me, even across the miles.
I was asked to move offices a few weeks ago, and have been waiting for our transient IT guy to be in town long enough to actually move all my corded things and plug them back in so they all work when he walks out.
He was here today, and hence, I'm in my new digs.
This office is literally 4 doors down from my old one, but it has a much better view of the sliver of Lake Michigan that I can see (facing north, the southernmost tip of North Avenue Beach), and the same view of the Allerton Hotel Tip Top Tap sign that I could always see. I have a full view of the uppermost 60% of the John Hancock Building, and that is just nice.
All in all, the view's the same.
However, the perspective is totally different.
Since it is a slightly bigger office, I have...drum roll....a bookshelf. With NINE shelves. Spanning the entire length of the wall to my right. Industrial by nature, they are a combo of black shelving, wood ends and raw metal piping. But, it isn't their design that excites me.
It is their function.
I hadn't had a bookshelf in the last office, and therefore, wasn't able to properly display my SCHTUFF. And by schtuff, I mean, my framed photos, knickknacks, cool collateral samples, gimmicks from vendors, candles and such. Some of it is crap, some of it is memory-laden, and some of it is filler. You always have a little filler when you have NINE shelves to cover. Spare me the judgement.
And, not the least of it, on this bookshelf marvel, I get to show off my books on branding, advertising, marketing, the consumer, strategy and other things that make me look smart when people snoop. Dressed, on either side, by the fancy schmancy bookends that my Mom gave me for Christmas—made of heavy silver, one is an "@" and one is an "*" and they are very cool. Reminds me that I can be a writer, if not by trade, by hobby.
To my left is what I'd guess is a 12-foot cork-board wall. I've already tacked photos, my calendar, sticky-notes, phone lists, etc. to it, and will be dressing it even further as I grow into the space. At the very top, and in just the right angle, hangs my Georgia Bulldogs flag. Since it is the super G logo, despite the red and black color combo, people often ask me if I am a Green Bay fan. They chuckle. I scowl.
Behind me is a sad excuse for an office credenza, and I'm guessing the floor in here is uneven, because two of the drawers—containing my file folders—keep sliding open. I've pulled a MacGuyver on that one and taped them shut with black mockup tape. I'm pretty sure that's a symbol of how often I go back through things once they are filed neatly away. Yeah...never.
And, finally, in front of my behemoth of a black MDF desk, is a lovely pair of 80s-inspired fabric guest chairs, flanking a metal table where I have the "doctor's office fan" going with the latest magazines. All in all, it's homey, and welcoming. As best as it can be without the new furniture coming in yet. Which, from what we hear, is eventual. As in, eventually, if you wait long enough.
The corner is empty and needs a plant. A fake tree will do, right? The walls are bare save the corkboard one, and are yearning for some framed photos—I have just the set. Black and whites of the beach in Chicago will do. Remind me where I'd rather be.
All this rearranging, decorating and decluttering makes me feel good. Accomplished, organized and happy. Probably too much so. But, I have two guest chairs in here if you'd like to stop by and discuss my neuroses in person.
I'll be the one moving things on my shelf to the left one inch...no, to the right two inches...
I've been tagged by a great blogger that brings me joy every day along with my daily coffee.
Paige lives in Philadelphia, but something tells me that if she lived in Chicago, I'd be sharing that coffee with her in the morning. Sitting across from her, telling rambling (yet directional!) stories that are colorful, filled with details and transport the listener to an actual place in time, with real-life events dictacting the fabric of who we are today as grown women. In fact, Paige, consider that an invitation.
My office building is above a Starbucks, so that should narrow it down should you come to Chicago to find me. The latte is on me.
What is a tag, you ask? Apparently in this cyberworld, it is the equivalent of the childhood game, yet there are more complete instructions than "go run wildly across the street while hollering 'You're it!' at the top of your lungs."
What's a meme, you ask? According to dictionary.com, a meme is a noun that means a cultural unit (an idea or pattern of behavior) that is passed from one person to another by non-genetic means. Whew. I'm glad it isn't going to be found in my DNA. That would be awkward.
Anyway, the meme that I've been tagged for is: Six Quirky Things About Me. I know you may have just read 87 Things About Me so forgive me for the self-revelations and introspection theme I have going here.
Here are the rules to the meme put out there by Paige.
Rules: * Link to the person that tagged you. * Post the rules on your blog. * Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself. * Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs. * Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
So, here goes. Unveiling the quirkiness that makes me who I am. And, quite often, makes my friends laugh really hard at me.
1. I am terrified of snakes, in a really unhealthy, abnormal and irrational way. I didn't grow up in a rainforest, didn't have a huge backyard, and never have had a bad experience with one of the slithery fellas. Just don't like them. AT ALL. And, to make this phobia even more quirky, I can't look at them on TV (shut my eyes, often screeching) or in a movie (same behavior) or in a book (hid the "S" encyclopedia from myself as a kid). It is terribly inconvenient when your boyfriend likes the Discovery Channel, but he's making do. The trip to Costa Rica in June should be interesting...
2. I have a really good memory for names, faces, places and often, numbers. My friends often joke that I'm the Rain Man. However, this memory fails to capture the stuff from more than about 3 years ago—my college friends tell stories and I'll ask questions and they'll look at me and go, "Uhm, you were there. Wearing a red dress." Okay...I have no choice but to believe them. And, immediately refer back to photo albums to jog my memory.
3. My mother is to blame (or credit) for this one: when it is chilly out, I immediately find myself saying, "BRR." Not as in Brrrrr. As in, B. R. R. My Mom also calls "lipstick" "yips." As in, I've got to put on my yips. I say it too, now, and my friends know what I mean. I know, I'm a 6-year old.
4. I have a very definite morning routine. I do every step in exactly the same order, every day. Shower, moisturizer, dress halfway, foundation, powder, eye makeup, deodorant, brush teeth, dry hair, straighten hair or put it up, finish dressing and accessorize. Breakfast is thrown in the purse to accompany the first cup of coffee (of two) at work. If I mix it up, I inevitably forget something and show up to work with eye makeup on just one eye or sporting just one earring. The pirate look doesn't really do much for me.
5. I am a total creature of habit when it comes to food. I've never had anything at Corner Bakery but the DC's Chicken Salad, and the only sandwich I can claim having tried at Jimmy John's is the BLT, and the Potbelly Chicken Salad is my only experience with that great restaurant chain. I can't help it—I'm of the frame of mind that if it ain't broken, you don't fix it. Don't even get me started on the limited number of side items that have found their way into my purchases. Salt & Vinegar chips? Yes, please.
6. I am obsessed with HGTV, and at any given time, a minimum of 7 episodes of Divine Design are sitting in my Tivo waiting for me to view them. And I do. The disappointing thing is that now, I've seen 'em all. Candice Olson is amazing, and because she doesn't ever really mention budgets, I figure she's spending the big bucks to make the rooms look that good.
The 6 bloggers that I'd love to see complete this meme are: Sarah,Jacyln, Monica,Vicki,Trish, and Natalie. Good luck...finding 6 quirky things that you are willing to reveal about yourself is harder than you think!
As if you needed an excuse, I have 87 handy reasons not to focus on work today. It can wait until your lunch break if you're feeling all loyal and hardworking and stuff.
Check out a new list of 87 Things About Me that I've just added to my profile, but backdated to properly store it at the commencement of this blog.
If you could use a beer, or just a distraction, there's 87 tidbits of not-so-juicy, and maybe only sortof funny, things to read about. And, feel free to open up the comments. I'm sure you'll have a few. Go easy on me, it's Friday.
As for providing you with the weekend kickoff beer, you'll have to settle with just the above photo of my sister Lauren, circa 1982. I'm not sure, but clearly she's up to no good. See the sneaky "am I gonna get caught?" look in her eyes?? Impressive.
Mom, don't worry, we don't think you were neglecting her...she was just thirsty.
The Office comes back to television tonight, and I'm so excited I am doing a little dance in my office. Seriously, I am.
If only you could see it. On second thought, it is probably for the best that you can't. (The lady staying in the Marriott Michigan Avenue, on the 24th floor facing south, doesn't think my dance is very funny. I think she's scared.)
I feel pretty certain you'd be looking at me with a Jim face, and I think it is too early in the morning for that.
Walking back from lunch, I always manage to spot at least one oddity that is deemed blog worthy. Today's entry is this:
A black Mercedes, complete with tinted windows, shiny rims and a vanity plate that said, "THKUGOD."
I, too, believe that God is good, is all around us, and answers our prayers. But unless that woman had been praying for a new 4-door sedan, I'm not quite sure I understand the connection.
Does God pay the monthly lease payments? Did the money for the car come from the church collection plates? Did she pray every night for God to fill her empty driveway? Did He Himself drive it up into the 4-car garage?
Either way, I am reminded of a reverend in Atlanta my Mom worked with to decorate his home.
His name, and you can't make this stuff up, is Reverend Creflo Dollar, and he is quite "famous" for his work as the head of the World Changers International Church just south of Atlanta.
Claiming that he doesn't preach love of money, only God, he is under inquisition by the Senate for his Rolls-Royces, private Learjets, million-dollar Atlanta home and $2.5 million Manhattan apartment, all tax-exempt gifts from the ministries and his congregations. He claims that his wealth furnishes proof to his followers of the validity of his teachings and is a leading apostle of what is known as the “prosperity gospel.”
In a DVD put out by his church, called Does God Want You to be Poor?, Dollar says that Jesus was not poor and his disciples were not poor. He says faith can transform poverty into an abundant life. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't recall any mention of Jesus and his apostles living life of the wealthy. Most Bible stories include references to love, compassion and forgiveness, not of riches, clothing, and abundance.
When you click on the home page for his ministries, the first box of content you see says, "A Plea for Support for Our Ministries." Off to the side, you can pledge your "love gift" and in the center, you can buy Dollar's books, support his online broadcast, or buy downloads of his videos. Not exactly the compassionate, love-filled prayerful messages I'd hope would appear front and center on MY church's website.
No matter what your opinion on this mixing ministry with money, my favorite part of my Mom's decorating story was that he wanted my mother, a classy, conservative, talented and all-too-kind interior decorator (with a fine arts degree and a love of fine furnishings) to decorate his entire house using only purple, black and gold. I think my Mom had to work really hard not to laugh when he insisted that she work in some "gold lamé into the scheme."
I kindof hoped he'd pay her not in cash, but in a one-year lease on a gold Rolls Royce. Then, the vanity plate could have read "THKUREV$$" and brought her all kinds of prosperity.
In honor of tonight's NCAA Championship game, here are the Top 10 Reasons Why I Like College Sports:
10. You can root for your team whether they are any good or not. People expect it of you, and I hate to let people down.
9. You can go to a crowded bar, and instantly have new friends (to con a chair from) just because you're pulling for the same team. Works like a charm.
8. You can road trip to various campuses and use it as an excuse to tell your own college stories that begin with, "yeah, this is cool, but when I was in college, we..."
7. You can holler, hoot, swear, moan, laugh, scream, cry and yell—all within the span of 3 hours. Therapy can't even touch that kind of cathartic release.
6. You can wear a sweatshirt, ponytail and tennis shoes to a bar and not be underdressed or overlooked.
5. You can win money against your friends in sideline bets, such as how many dribbles each team will take down the court in said number of minutes. Or how many cheerleaders will have fake boobs. You decide.
4. You can make nice with the cute guy/hot girl/loser/jerk/boss in your office just by asking about how their team is doing in the tournament while at the water cooler.
3. You can officially be a fan of a grown man dressed in a sweaty furry animal suit, convulsing and doing the macarena on national television, without anyone raising an eyebrow.
2. You can automatically have plans on a boring Saturday without even trying..."come on, there's a game on!" works every time.
1. You can drink during the day without prompting someone to slip you an AA brochure. Enough said.
Go Jayhawks!*
*Not my alma mater, but I'm a team player. And, I know enough KU grads here in Chicago to watch what I say. Yes, that means you, Brenna.
Growing up in Atlanta, April was the month of fabulous 75+ degree days and eternal sunshine. I'm sure it rained quite a bit, but those soggy days don't stick in my memory quite like the warm days where the sun is blinding, the birds are chirping, and the car windows are left down all day.
April in Atlanta is that perfect time, where it isn't yet July and your back isn't yet sticking to the car seats. You can go all day with the house windows open, no heat and no AC, and it just feels nice. The grill gets a good workout, and the back deck is the new living room.
Baseball games are the background music to a Saturday afternoon, and long naps are required, commenced long before the 7th inning stretch. The mosquitos haven't yet found their way to your backyard, and the trees are starting to look green again. Sunday mornings are complete with the sound of lawn mowers firing up and doing their thing all across the neighborhood, and kids play football in the street stopping only to yell "CAR!" as the neighbors come home from Pike's Nursery to plant the pansies in the empty pots on the front porch.
With the added hours of daylight, the dinnertimes start later, and the family is all smiles. Placemats are dragged out to the back deck, where the wrought iron table is wiped clean of pollen for the feast off the grill. Screen doors are oiled and prepped for a long summer of use, and flip flops and sandals replace the boots of the earlier months.
The flowers are all in full bloom, and the softball leagues are out practicing. People know that this is the best time of year, save for September when the football season begins, and take advantage of it. April in Atlanta is spectacular, and I do think it is a gorgeous month. One of the best.
On the flip side, April in Chicago is a temperamental woman.
Some days she's lovely—encouraging all residents to abandon their down coats and woolen mittens for a light spring jacket and a pair of Ray Bans—and the city sidewalksare full of families pushing strollers, couples holding hands, and kids playing games. Cornhole games are dragged to the front yard, and the Cubs jerseys are worn with pride. Cold beer is poured into red Solo cups as the gang predicts a winning Cubs season, dripping with optimism and hope. The tulips planted by the tens of thousands that line Michigan Avenue finally come into bloom, and you are shocked by the range of colors that exist there. Tourists fill the streets, but the wind is light, so you don't mind.
The anticipation of summer in Chicago is reason enough to get out of bed in April. You can almost taste the warm months, and the sounds of the street festivals begin to flood your mind. You know that summer is close, and the winter clothes are down to the last few wearings before shoving them to the back of the closet for a few glorious months. The eve of summer is almost as good as the three months that this season gets here in the Midwest. People know that time in the sun is a cherished, special thing, and no one here wants to miss a moment of it. Pushing the season, the beaches and lake paths are full of people grasping onto the few fantastic and unseasonably warm days here, and you can almost convince yourself that there will not be any more questionable days.
Then April turns nasty, revolts against the beauty of spring, and has a cold flash for a few days, making you wish you hadn't jumped the season and pulled off the boots. The down coat seems more appropriate on these days, but you just can't bring yourself to wear it, so you just go cold. Clothing is confusing on these crabby April days, and summer feels a long time away. Fans at Wrigley look more like fans at a Bears game, bundled and shivering against the harsh wind off Lake Michigan. Optimism wanes but hope remains. The plants you eagerly bought and potted into your balcony flower boxes wilt and look sad, while the frost glistens on the deck rails. The windows haven't yet been cleaned and the remains of winter are everywhere. The park is sad and lonely, and the beaches call out for visitors who are brave enough to go there.
So we wait.
I believe that April in Chicago is a true test of the human spirit. Teases you just enough to wet your appetite, then takes it all back and reminds you that it won't be consistently beautiful weather until the middle of June. Shows you just what you can expect, and then makes you hold out for the reality of it all.
But, it sure is worth it when it arrives. I remain optimistic, full of hope, and a tad bit chilly without my down coat.
Miss Molly is coming to visit this weekend, and I can hardly contain myself. We're having sleepovers, which unlike the ones we had as kids, will include lots of wine, and I can't wait to sit opposite her on my sofa in our pjs and talk until our eyes are bleary and we deny that we're tired.
She is the reason I moved to Chicago after one fateful weekend in St. Louis, and I have so much more than just that to be thankful for because of her. I'm just a better person for knowing her, for being near her, and for basking in the glow that she radiates.
At any rate, I hope you're as blessed as I am to have an amazing (and record-book-large) extended family. I hope you, too, have a cousin that can make you laugh until wine comes out your nose, lets you cry until everything bad just goes away, convinces you that feeling that way or this way is normal and that you'll be just fine, and knocks you back with love in the kind words she'll inevitably write in the thank you note she picked out just for you.
I leave you with the above photo because it just makes me laugh. She's the little darling one on the left, and I'm the giant in back—with the bangs that start yesterday—behind my adorable sister Lauren. Can you believe I am only 15 months older than Molly??? I look like I could bop her on the head and eat her for lunch. With a side of pickles.
One of the bloggers I read each day posed the age-old question, what would you grab (assuming all people and pets were safe) if your home was on fire?
After pondering this question for about 10 seriously thoughtful seconds, here was my reply:
The sensitive side of me would want to grab my photo albums, but there are far too many to drag down 13 flights, so I might just use Kodak Gallery for that. I'd have to lunge for the 8x10 black and white of my mom the day she and my dad got engaged in 1972. She looks amazing, and I don't have an electronic copy. Which reminds me to add that to my eternal to-do list.
The practical side of me would grab my Passport and purse, although they always tell you to grab a utility bill to prove residence. Or the deed to your home. But who's going to find that stuff fast enough? A fireproof box would solve that, and my friend Laura has been preaching 'bout those for quite some time. Another list item.
The materialistic side of me would grab my favorite brown fuzzy coat and the last pair of jeans I truly love. Cause a girl can't go naked to buy new clothes, now can she?
The ridiculous side of me would stand in the middle of the room, freeze, panic, take three steps towards the bedroom, take five steps towards the kitchen, panic, freeze, and start to cry. While leaving without anything in hand.
And, yes, I live on the 13th floor. So, either I'm really lucky and will never need this list, or I'd better get more prepared.
*Side note: when the horrid-sounding fire alarms went off in my building last March, I did none of the above. I calmly put on a sweatshirt, grabbed tennis shoes, and walked down the 13 flights of stairs (thinking mostly of the elderly women who live on my floor and wondering what to do about them), only to greet 100+ of my neighbors on the curb.
Living in a 2-tower condo building on Lake Shore Drive with 700 units makes for quite a sidewalk spectacle at one in the morning, believe you me. Especially when the 17th fire/rescue/police vehicle showed up with lights ablazin'. I'm quite certain that they, too, are suckers for a little late night action.
My favorite part of the whole thing (and I can say this because despite the flames shooting out from the south tower condo windows, no one was seriously hurt) was watching the straggling young people come out in makeshift outfits and "bed hair." The varying levels of shame on their faces indicated to me who was with a spouse, who was with a boyfriend/girlfriend/partner and who was with a, well, one-nighter. I couldn't help myself.
Because I was standing there alone.
Now, I'll turn the tables on you, as she did to her readers. What would you reach for?
I am a firm believer in acting like a kid. Not all the time, mind you, but on rare occasion I consider it a very healthy thing to do—let loose, laugh a lot and just behave in a silly way.
It is quite freeing, I tell you.
Last night was a prime example of letting go, whooping it up, and relishing the little things. Brett and I declared last night to be Dave & Busters Olympics 2008. He had a pre-loaded game card from a past work outing, and we were ready to go. After fueling up on fried foods and a bottled beer (not all activities were childlike), we were ready to go.
During dinner we plotted out the game plan. Two ribbons were at stake: FIRST Place, and LAST Place. First place warranted the tagline "Total Domination," while Last place was left with "The Low Moe."
Five key events were chosen: Skeeball, Pop-a-shot, Gunslinger, Daytona 500 Racing and Nothing But Net. Other random sideline events were declared to be warm-ups or time-fillers during NBC's television time-outs: Colorama (roulette-like game), Jump Around (e-jumprope), Spin-o-Matic (wheel of fortune) and Motorcross Bike Racing.
As the athletes prepared for competition, the trash talking began. I was confident that Skeeball would be my stealth killer, and Brett felt sure of his Pop-o-Shot abilities.
NBC and ESPN are reporting the following results on the sports ticker this morning:
Skeeball Highlights: Brett dominated early, and Colleen came back in the second half with lots of balls flying into the 100 cup. Athletes' Reactions: "Was it always this hard?" Outcome: Colleen can roll ugly brown balls better. Colleen wins!
Gunslinger Highlights: Colleen spent half her time figuring out how to hold the rifle, and Brett took command and the Western Saloon was his. He scored 10 times more points than Colleen, but didn't cheer quite as loudly as she did when she finally hit the beer bottle target. Athletes' Reactions: "You suck at this. Close the OTHER eye!" Outcome: Brett is the meanest man in the West. Brett wins!
Television Time Out—athletes are seen spinning a giant Spin-o-Matic and yelling "big money, no whammys" at the machine. Both hit it big, and the tickets started spewing out of the machine. Childlike celebrations abound.
Daytona 500 Racing Highlights: Brett, in his lean blue racing model, led for 497 of the 500 laps, only wrecking and rolling once. Colleen survived six nasty crashes, and finally learned how to measurably slow at the curves. Athletes' Reactions: "There's a brake?!" Outcome: Colleen made her southern roots proud, coming back in last 3 laps. Colleen wins!
Pop-a-Shot Highlights: Colleen, getting serious, puts up a ponytail. Brett smiles knowingly as he spins his miniature basketball. Games were close, often only separating the pack by 1 basket. Balls kept bouncing to other courts, but the athletes couldn't be bothered. Athletes' Reactions: "What the $#*@^? I used to be good at this game!" Outcome: I am afraid Colleen might get in trouble for parading her win on this one, so it will go subtly stated. She dominated.
Television Time Out—athletes are seen failing miserably at the Electronic Jumprope game. Both are embarrassed and walk away in shame (towards the bar), declaring that "the dumbest game ever."
Nothing But Net Highlights: Colleen swishes her first shot, and then proceeds to airball more than her fair share. Brett gets warmed up, and his form was just as good as his glory days in high school. (This is the giant basketball hoop, and it just seemed SO far away and SO high to Colleen). Athletes' Reactions: "How do I keep completely missing the basket? And, why am I starting to sweat?!" Outcome: Brett never let go of his lead, scoring on average 16 more points than Colleen. Brett wins!
Motorcross Bike Racing Highlights: Colleen and Brett choose the Chicago cityscape as the background for their course. Athletes competed in separate events against foreign competitors. Colleen crashed her bike into the El tracks, Buckingham Fountain, the walls on Lake Shore Drive, and took out an entire al fresco cafe on State Street. Brett managed to figure out how to pop wheelies, and proceeded to showboat through the entire downtown, but didn't measure his speed that well on Lower Wacker Drive. Both athletes were extremely impressed with the graphic surrounds, and can blame that as the distracting factor for poor performance. Athletes' Reactions: "Do we really have to mount and straddle this thing?" Outcome: Colleen came in 5th in her heat, and Brett rose to 4th in his. Lousy performances, and no medals were awarded, but Brett wins!
Television Time Out—athletes are seen putting their last D&B points down on Yellow at the Colorama machine. Similar to roulette, this game teaches kids that for a truly big payout, you must forgo the sports and just gamble. Athletes win big when the blue ball lands on Yellow, and the machine spits out 150 tickets. Athletes shout in excitement!
Athletes were able to cash in their money for something better than gold and silver medals...CRAPPY FAIR PRIZES! The pair settled on a Chicago Bears mini-football, a Dave & Busters shot glass, and an orange rubber snake. Just to taunt Colleen with.
At the end of the competition, it appears that it was a close series of events, but ultimately, Bob Costas declared Brett the winner of the overall Dave & Busters Olympics. Hanging her head in shame, Colleen accepts defeat like a 10-year old, and threatend to "take her ball and go home."
I'm sure you all saw this news story yesterday, but it is just too weird to let it go without discussion. A 40-year old man in Ohio was caught, and charged with a felony for, having sex with his picnic table.
After you digest that little nugget, I'm sure your next thought is, uhm, how? (Hold the 'why' thought. I am not sure I can answer that one).
Turns out this guy's a genius, and a crafty little pervert. He flipped his own backyard picnic table on its side, and used the umbrella hole for, ahem, pleasure. His neighbors caught him in the act, on video, on multiple occasions, and I for one am glad that video has not yet been released. Although I'm sure trashy Fox News channel will release it soon enough. One has to wonder if the picnic table had consented to the act...
The next question you may be asking is, ok, that's gross and strange, but how is that a crime?
Apparently Table Pervert lives within a certain number of feet from an elementary school, and since he was in the nude performing a lewd act, it is a felony. And, it was in broad daylight.
Did I mention that the guy is married with three school-aged children? That's one way to teach your kids about resourcefulness.
When I was discussing this topic with my friend Jenny, she recalled an incident of similiar gross proportions during a summer residing in New York City with her father. Her dad's building was on 3rd Avenue, in a very nice part of town. She was coming home from dinner with friends at about 11 pm on a weeknight, and just three doors down from her dad spotted a guy literally having sex with the sidewalk.
In her words, "I mean, one could argue that he was having sex ON the sidewalk, but given the lack of actual partner, I can’t help but think the cement was his intended."
The best part of Jenny's story is that he was not just going for it, he was talking dirty to it. Trying to get the sidewalk into the mood, you know. When he noticed her walking by, he stopped, stood up, and pulled up his pants. At least he has some decorum.
Talk about chafing.
And, I notice that it is Wednesday as I once again write about perverts. Maybe today truly is Hump Day?
A woman who showed up Sunday outside John Cusack’s Malibu home—despite a restraining order barring her from approaching the actor—was arrested on suspicion of stalking.
Do you think she went with the old 'hold the boom box up outside the window' approach, just to get John to Say Anything?
Or did she go all High Fidelity on him and list out the top 10 reasons why he should be friends with her?
Did she claim that it was Serendipity that had brought them together?
Nope.
In filing for his restraining order, Cusack accused her of throwing over his fence a bag containing love letters, rocks and screwdrivers.
Screwdrivers? I do hope they mean the kind with orange juice and vodka. Yum.
Otherwise, her behavior (and my puns) are just Grosse. Point Blank.
I just packed a suitcase for a man. 
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