Speaking of...

New Year, New Blog

2009-01-07T15:35:00.003-06:00

Happy New Year! I hope you had a safe and lovely holiday and are busy kicking off 2009 with a bit of optimism or at least a hot man in your bed. Wink, wink.

The past two weeks or so has certainly been a welcomed blogcation for me. I visited with family, basked in southern cooking and a bajillion "y'alls" and "yes, ma'ams," read far too little, and found a bit of happiness where I least expected to. Stay tuned.

That said, it's been terribly difficult to return to "normal." So much in fact that I've decided to relocate to WordPress. As of today, "Speaking of..." is now "Nic Narrates." I hope you'll visit soon....

Merry Christmas- Hope the bra fits!

2008-12-23T08:13:00.006-06:00

So, yeah, the economy is running on hamsters.

People are getting rid of their pets because they can't afford to keep them anymore (for a nominal fee, wouldn't that be a great present? Especially given the circumstances). There apparently was a run on Uno at Target this year because it was completely sold out at the Target I went to- you should have seen the "Under $10" end cap display in that toy aisle. And now this.

I was recently a victim of this myself. I took advantage of the fever-pitch panic-stricken email alerts from retailers this Christmas and entered my promo codes to get 25% off my entire order and free 2nd day shipping on a Victoria's Secret order. It was definitely time for some new bras and they never have my size in store (because I have no boobs to speak of) and with the weather nasty outside (we're finally in double digits again- whoopee!) I excitedly ordered the long "Jane" pajama.

It shipped, it came, and it went. Someone stole my Victoria's Secret package from my front lobby! Which is kind of ridiculous if you think about it. They can't return it to a store for money because of the VS return policy and what are the chances the bras will fit anyone beyond junior high? Give those bras for Christmas and you're likely to insult the giftee.

And the thing that really gets me is it's not like it was a great big shiny Amazon box or a sure-thing Target package. I mean, whatever's in there; that stuff has got to be awesome! But Victoria's Secret? Really?

Of course I wrote a nasty note and left it on my door (which I intended to use as a picture here, but in my rage I actually, honesty, really misspelled "neighbor." I know, I know.). Public shaming proved no match and the bras remained pilfered. Thanks to VS's seriously notable customer service though, without question or hesitation, they're resending the order to my work address today.

That said, I still think it's kind of gross that someone is out there wearing my underthings. For shame.

Toolbag of the Year: 2008

2008-12-17T14:56:00.000-06:00

Seeing as this is likely the last Toolbag Wednesday of the year for me, I wanted to take this opportunity to rehash the Toolbags of yore. There were guppies and racists, pregnant smokers and salt and vinegar chips, and there were those who almost but not quite made the list. The honorable mentions included the break up, John Mayer, my ghost, The Commuter, the slow fade, and this craptastic Chicago winter.

Of those that did make the list; cast your vote now for the Toolbag of 2008. Here are your choices once again:

Dear Santa,

2008-12-16T13:26:00.001-06:00

Okay, so I admit I haven't always been a good girl this year. But if you give presents for effort, please consider the following:

Charcoal grey Ugg(ly) boots
A buyer for my parents' house.
Cheese platter and knives
For Emo to find the courage to talk to girls.
A short winter
For my Grandma's new-found cancer to go away.
Godiva chocolates
Wooden spoons
A baby for my friend who's trying.
For my Dad to cry less about his Dad's death Christmas Day four years ago.
For my Mom to manage stress better.
Flannel pajamas
Knee socks
Normal pap results again.
The patience to author the book I've already written in my head.
For Kit to find love and happiness with someone.
For all those I cannot or am unable to contact this Christmas to somehow know I'm thinking of them too.
Cupcakes
Some bow-chika-bow-bow action. Please.

Thanks,

Nic

I am Tina Fey, Tina Fey is Me

2008-12-14T09:25:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I think about how I spend the majority of my day, my weeks, my years; and it can get a little disheartening. When I was a little girl, I wanted to grow up to be the person in the zoo who took care of the baby tigers. Yes, I was that girl with all the drawings and posters of tigers on her bedroom walls.

Nowadays, I sit in a cube. It's grey, or 'gray' if you prefer, and fluorescently lit. It is akin to a stall actually, and sometimes does resemble a barn when odd odors emanate from the lunchroom down the "hall."

Although the scenery leaves much to be desired, Graphic Designer Friend, Emo, and I have spruced up the place with "Bozo," the blow up clown punching bag that we attack from time to time (think Office Space; copier in field scene), a number of Happy Meal toys, a plethora of pictures about inside jokes, celebrity crushes, and handmade seasonal decorations (like her Rob Pattinson turkey for example), and one foam sword used to fight off integrity violations and the work-day antics of ex-boyfriends who don't know how to take 'no' for an answer. And because we work in marketing, we seem to be able to get away with a lot more.

So, yes, the people are (mostly) good and we have more fun than we should in an office environment. But when I think of all the hours I spend watching my "career" marinate in its own dirty bath water, I wonder what else I might be doing instead.

My first thought of course jumps straight to firemen. Not as in doing firemen (dirty), but as in being one. Yes, a fireman. Not firewoman, or fireperson; fireman. As in a man fighting fires, sliding down poles, racing toward danger, saving people and kittens, and looking after the firehouse Dalmatian. I love the firemen. I don't know why. The firemen make me happy. And if I were bigger and could haul a limp body from a burning building, I would do it. I would. I'm not afraid of fire, quite the opposite (drowning), and think I would be well suited for a job that helps people.

A less physically demanding option that still helps people would be a psychologist. I really love the stuff. I really love figuring out why people act the way they do and what's really going on behind what someone is saying or doing. Or maybe I've just gotten used to having to do that in my own life. Either way, I think it's fascinating and I think I'd be good at it. Plus, then I could make some serious coin (I'm so street) and move to Evanston in one of those great big beautiful Victorian homes with a giant yard and trees that reminds me of where I grew up only without the rural context.

A less physically demanding and less degree-requiring option would be to own my own flower shop. I love flowers. Flowers make people happy. And I like to make people happy. And I can futz around learning about and arranging flowers without any care for time. This is actually what I say I'm going to do when I retire someday. Because, you know, none of us is ever really going to be able to retire.

We all know, however; that I'm not going to go and run away to become a fireman, or a psychologist, or a florist. Which is why I'd totally settle for being Tina Fey when I grow up.

Because she's awesome. Because she drinks red wine on her treadmill (actually, that one is Liz Lemon*) and I think you should be able to eat pizza on the elliptical. She's funny- witty even, a key orchestrator of the inaugural Lohan intervention, a smart writer, mother, wife, actor with a killer Palin impression, a good role model, a feminist who still will don an evening gown, and a just plain down-to-earth woman who encourages other women to eat. Plus, she knows Alec Baldwin and everyone loves her.

Yup, I'd totally settle for being Tina Fey. Maybe a firefighting Fey, or Florist Fey...

*Did you know that when you google Liz Lemon, all these scary ass Jesus drawings come up? Try it, but don't say I didn't warn you.

Blue Christmas

2008-12-12T09:26:00.013-06:00

My youngest brother and his girlfriend are hurtling toward that heartache of heartaches: the holiday break up.

Who of us hasn't been there? Who of us hasn't asked, will we stay together through Christmas? Do I still buy the all-out present even though I know it's probably over? Do I put on a brave face and power through the Christmas dinner with each other's families? Do I hold out past NYE? What is the deadline to evacuate before it becomes unnecessarily hurtful, tacky, emotionally cruel, just plain mean?

For whatever reason, I feel like they aren't going to last until Christmas; told my mom as much in confidence before I left after Thanksgiving. During my time there, his girlfriend was barely around and when she was, she seemed dead set on being contrary. Their bickering was monumental, and as he tried to be close to her, he unwittingly (and literally) repelled her.

While I was there, my parents and other brother individually expressed their concern for him, for how she was treating him. They felt certain that she's cheating on him. It all caught me off guard. My family has always really liked her.

She's been such a good fit for my brother, has even fit remarkably well within our family, which is no easy feat and has proven off-putting for a number of would-be significant others over the years, including Kit. We all like her, very much, and want to believe she wouldn't cheat on him, but....they're both young; she just turned 21 and he's 22 and it is what it is. And now my family has turned on her and is closing ranks.

I really hope they're off base though. I hope that it's just a space issue. That now that he's transferred to her school, that they have the same part time job, the same friends; it's all too much...togetherness. Or maybe I'm the one who's off base.

Either way, I'm going to hate seeing my brother go through a break up with her if it ever happens. We all go through it at some point; it's a hazard of dating, of love. But it will be a first for him and it will be sad to see how it changes him.

As I sit typing this, my mom just called. She broke up with him last night.

Jen Aniston's 2008 Christmas Card

2008-12-11T09:44:00.008-06:00

If this doesn't say "Eff you Angelina and your stretch-marks from having my skeevy-stached ex-husband's babies after he cheated on me with you," I don't know what does.

Toolbag Wednesday #16: [Expletive] Blagojevich

2008-12-10T09:50:00.007-06:00

Okay, so this one is a cake walk.

Just as Chicago, like a proud parent, stood tall with its burgeoning 2016 Olympic bid, not to mention the deliverance of one Barack Obama; we've been swiftly brought back down to earth by that old ball and chain: political corruption.

Thank you, G-Rod, for reminding us where we come from before our heads get too big.

Thank you for referring to Obama's open Senate seat as, "a [expletive] valuable thing, you just don't give it away for nothing."

And thank you to your dear wife, Patricia, who was heard egging you on in the background of the FBI recording, saying "Hold up that [expletive] Cubs [expletive]. [Expletive] them."

[Expletive] Toolbags.

Flacid Christmas

2008-12-05T15:51:00.004-06:00

I know it's the Baby Jesus' birthday and "Santa's Big Day" and all, but I just can't seem to get it up for Christmas this year.

Maybe it's the crap weather or the crap economy or the general pall that has fallen over my motivation to do anything other than have a glass of wine and watch Britney: For the Record again; but I'm so not up for any of this holiday mumbo-jumbo. Weren't we just here? Has it really been a year already?

Normally, I'm all Christmas-carding it up and am knee-deep in wrapping paper by now. Instead, I've been busy cancelling holiday plans, scaling back travel, and seriously considering not making Christmas cookies at all (Graphic Designer Friend seemed so sad when I told her about this last bit that I've decided to still make three kinds).

And for the first time ever, I'm not putting up the Christmas tree. That's right. Holiday cheer is losing out to sheer logic. At this rate, I'd have the tree up for only two weeks, I'd be gone for the next two, and then it'd be time to take it down again. Meh.

I even got my family onboard with a white elephant exchange. FINALLY. This year, we're instituting the First Annual [Nic's] Family Yankee Swap (ironic because we are Yankees!). I have to admit, I'm nervous to see what my brothers and dad bring.

Finally, and perhaps most telling of all that I've lost that "loving feeling" toward Christmas [more accurately, this one was by popular vote], we're not even having Secret Elf at work this year. I know.

F U Winter*

2008-12-04T11:11:00.007-06:00

I left my house this morning wearing a veritable sleeping bag. A down puffer coat that covers from head to ankle. I can barely walk in this thing. I also donned snow boots, knee socks, heavy twill pants, an undershirt and a sweater, a scarf, a hat and hood, and gloves.

It was 13 degrees this morning: four degrees with the windchill. FOUR.

I love Chicago, but God, I fucking hate winter. Also, I feel like I smell like chalk today. Good old fashioned chalk. I don't know why- I just do.

*Is it just me or does the photo kinda look like it's saying "fuck you, winer," only they didn't know how to spell "wiener"?

Place Settings

2008-12-03T10:46:00.005-06:00

Holiday visits with family in recent years have tended to devolve into my locking myself in a bathroom at some point. Without fail, I'd find myself in dire need of some peace and quiet, to simply breathe for a moment without having to fight to be heard, respected, and accepted. I needed a break, and unfamiliar with SC, not to mention lacking a get-away vehicle, I'd run to the only room that locked.

See, I'm a bit different from everyone else in my family. I'm not sure how or when it happened exactly; maybe it was an accumulation of slights or embarrassments over twenty some odd years, but I've grown up quite at odds with them in fact.

Whereas they all swear excessively and speak crassly and without tolerance, political correctness, tact, or emotional consideration; I'm quieter, more subdued, and "prissy." I'm a bit of a joke in my own family for the way I organize my place setting, for my insistence that if they must use the term, that they instead say "C-U-next-Tuesday," and for my refusal to treat racist humor as just plain harmless fun.

But despite our differences, I love my family very much and appreciate them and their unique form of support and reliability. They're my family, the only one I've got, and I love them even though I don't always agree with their choice of words or actions, as I'm sure they don't always understand or agree with mine.

Knowing that, I never once felt the need to seek out the cold-tiled seclusion of the guest bath this past Thanksgiving. That was the little girl me, hiding behind the locked door, uncertain how to cope. The grown up me finally flung open that door, leaving the crying little girl in awe behind, and has found a proper place at home at last.

Dillard's is My New Boyfriend

2008-12-02T16:16:00.012-06:00

They've opened a new Dillard's in SC where my parents live. The day after Thanksgiving, my mom and I decided to celebrate my dad's new job (HOORAY!) with shoes. She got some sexy lady boots:

And also revisited the Eighties apparently:

For my part, I wound up committing highway robbery. I was talked into (read: "This whole table is 40% off") trying on a pair of Cole Haan flat books not unlike the Ralph Lauren "May" boot I've been scouring the Internet for in my size for no less than two months.

These boots are $350. I got them for $126. After boxing them up wrong, they then rang up wrong, and the guy helping us and a manager had to override the register to give me the discount. As it turns out, they weren't supposed to even be on sale, let alone at nearly 80% off.

I am officially going to hell. After all the time they spent helping us and all their friendliness, I didn't point out that they must have made a mistake, but instead grabbed my fancy new boots and ran with mom in tow. She says I shouldn't feel bad at all about it, and she's my mom, so I kind of have to listen to her, right?

I thought so too. And then I acquired what may be the cutest effing coat ever:

More on my Thanksgiving in a Red State shortly....

Third Annual Turkey Day Craft Hour

2008-11-26T07:38:00.002-06:00

Yesterday, Graphic Designer Friend and I celebrated the season with another Turkey Day Craft Hour. We started the tradition three years ago when no one was left in the office before the holiday except for the two of us and Emo (and he was napping). That year, we made turkeys by tracing our hands and pasting construction paper feathers onto them. Last year, we printed out and colored Horns of Plenty (I don't know why, but that makes me giggle every time). This time, we revisited the turkeys, but chose themes. Oooo, fancy!

So GDF is majorly into the Twilight stuff. I can neither confirm nor deny that she holds a major crush on the Robert Pattinson and may or may not refer to him as her boyfriend. Who doesn't really? (Me! He hasn't washed his hair in SIX WEEKS and his face bears a striking resemblance to The Cagey One, which makes me all sorts of frustrated. Mostly in the not-getting-any way. Wa wa...)

You'll notice that Graphic Designer Friend couldn't quite choose one photo of said Pattinson, nor could she bear maiming his hotness by doing anything more than cutting out all the other people in the photos, resulting in a collage effect for an overall happy "Fangs-giving."

While she was busy giggling, I went straight to Gossip Girl with my very own Chuck Bass (he's blowing you a kiss). I admit I got a little happy with the out-of-season pastel construction paper and colored markers, but who doesn't love plaid, argyle, pastels, stripes, and madras; wearing them all at once? The Bass is clearly a seminal fashion plate for today's fashion forward male.

For added festivity, he's got a martini handy (we're fresh out of scotch, I guess) and is already dropping the one liners: "If you think that was long...". I can't be certain, but in this instance I think he must be drawing a comparison between the length of time it takes for this Bass to cook and the length of....oh. Naughty.

Happy Turkey Day!

Thank You, Beyoncé

2008-11-25T07:15:00.000-06:00

We've discussed this before...just not with the scary alien-looking hand hardware or all that fearless hip gyrating (seriously, isn't she afraid something might, uh, slip out?).

"But, I really did lose your number..."

2008-11-24T15:42:00.001-06:00

I think my Pearl heard I was shopping the iPhone because it bit it this morning. Actually, it wound up bathing in coffee and now smells like hazelnut. Which at the time smelled good, but now is making me gag and feel all sticky and stuff.

This of course means I've spent most of the day overreacting; googling how to fix a wet phone, trolling my phone records to track down my mom's number so she doesn't freak out when I don't call her back IMMEDIATELY, and generally complaining to everyone within earshot.

The deceased is currently resting on a pile of silicone thingies that you aren't supposed to eat and which come in shoe boxes (thank you zappos). At last look, the phone still won't dial out and only seems to register the number 4 key.

I'm thinking this is the Universe telling me very clearly that it's time for me to a) get a new phone already, jeez; and b) lose quite a few of those old numbers.

One Side of Two

2008-11-20T06:15:00.005-06:00

Someone asked me the other day if Kit was real, and I couldn't help but laugh a little to myself. I couldn't make him up, nor the last five years of emotions and experiences even if I had the most prized ghostwriter. He has been my deepest love and my deepest sadness. And he is real.

It seems lately there's been quite a bit of speculation about him:

Is he or isn't he the Appliance Fairy?

Why won't you just talk to him already?

Don't you know he adores you?

Last night I dreamed you guys got back together and didn't tell us- so did you?

And there have been the warnings as well:

He's less fixed than he'd have you believe.

We were thisclose to staging the intervention.

Looks like he has someone new who doesn't know his games yet.

You're hogging a good one; get out of the way.

I think sometimes people forget there are two sides to every break up. That it isn't one heart that mourns, isn't one person's pride that's wounded. I've tried to remember that and treat Kit fairly when I've written about him. I chose him for a reason. I came back to him time and again over five years not because he is a bad person or because he's made mistakes, but because I loved him and wanted to forgive him. I always wanted to believe he was better than his faults.

And after all that, maybe the fairest thing I can say is that yes, there are two sides. But, this is mine.

I don't write about him that often, not considering all that I could say. I try not to actually. I know he reads, as do many of the people in his life. Maybe to some of them or some of you it seems that I write about him more than I should or that it's unseemly (?) that I would write about him at all anymore. But, five years, you know? And the thing is, I'm still in it.

I'm still sad about feeling compelled to give up. I'm still hurt by what he did and did not do. I still wonder just how much of the man I saw and the relationship we shared was created by what I wanted to see rather than by what actually was. And I doubt whether I really was the one who none of the others could even come close to for him, or if I was simply the one who stuck around. I'm still afraid to see him, to speak to him, to hear his words spoken to me, to have to fight back the tears that still fall even as I type this.

So I'm silent. I don't write, don't call, don't return the clever take-me-back gifts, don't even take them out of the box. I don't trust myself not to be taken in and hurt again. Again. By him.

And yet, without encouragement or hope, he persists. And yet, I know him too well to believe his bed is empty, to believe he spends his weekends alone, typing at his keyboard even as I sit at mine. I know better. For all his pretty words and extravagant flowers, he's moving on too, trying to at least, and certainly doesn't pine away for me.

I know, several times over, that he is just as capable of turning me into the other woman as he is of turning me into the wronged woman. That if he's not fervently in pursuit of making me the one, he's fervently in pursuit of making me one of many.

More than anything, I think that is my greatest sadness and the greatest lie of our relationship. I believed if I was good enough, everything and everyone who came before would just melt away and he'd love me the way I hoped-wanted-needed him to at last.

Toolbag Wednesday #15: Facebook Cult Members

2008-11-19T09:31:00.009-06:00

You know who you are. You giggle at lunch about who said what on whose "wall" and about so-and-so's "status." You go on and on about the crazy funny pictures you just put up. You debate the merits of making your page private vs. public. And you question the etiquette of "friending" family members.

And then you tell me, "You should get one! I can't believe you're not on Facebook! OMG!!!" like it's the only way I can get in touch with you. Like I'm a freaking DINOSAUR for relying on emails, text messages, and phone calls to stay in touch. Never mind that I see most of your delightful faces on a regular basis anyway!

Besides, I already have this blog, which as far as web sites go would always be more meaningful and rewarding to the writer in me. And I'd hate for it to get jealous by my running off with some new-fangled and meaningless URL. I can't even work up the nerve to elope with WordPress (although I think that day is nigh).

More than any other reason though, the more I'm pressured, the less interest I have in Facebook. In fact, I'm just going to come right out and say it: I want no part of your cult. Yeah, that's right, I said it. Facebook is a cult and I refuse to bow down.

So even though it's what all the cool kids are doing these days, and despite your clever offers to skirt my old-timey disinterest by trying to create a page for me; don't think I don't see through your thinly veiled attempts to lure me to the dark side. I cannot be ridiculed or mocked or shamed into having a page.

Now, you kids run along and have your fun. This grandma promises to still love you and text you from that relic, the smartphone. Kthxbye.

BB and Apple Would Make Pretty Babies

2008-11-18T16:44:00.006-06:00

My contract with AT&T couldn't be ending at a better time- I'm finally in the market for a new phone.

I got the Blackberry Pearl two years ago when it was still kind of the new kid on the block, but I am SO ready to chuck it at the wall. Its browser speed runs on hamsters and loads web pages like you'd imagine the Internet looked back in '97. And just for kicks, the stupid external speaker just up and stops working every so often, which means I miss calls all the time because the damn thing doesn't ring (dropping it seems to remedy that).

My main issue though is with AT&T. I have an inordinate amount of dropped calls.....on my couch of all places. Yes, my couch. I can place calls in the stix, in the backcountry of SC, from the UK's Peak District no less, but not from my very own couch. It irks me to no end.

And yet, I am still considering that beauty, the iPhone. Now that they've worked out some of the kinks and it's available at a lower price, I'm nearly ready to make the leap. I'm more or less aware of the pros and cons, and still find it fancy and alluring. But....will it work on my couch? Probably not. Sad face.

So.....Verizon's got their own new toy to catch my eye: the Blackberry Storm, which is available this Friday, I believe. It has a glossy new touchscreen, you can tilt it and get a full keyboard that responds to tapping, it has a better camera and a video option, and apparently will also have an App Store available in the spring. No Wi-Fi though.

That said, after all the bells and whistles, what I'd really like to be able to do is come home from work, sit on my couch, and be able to talk on the phone without having to redial multiple times or stand in my kitchen to return phone calls. I know it sounds crazy, but I'd really like my phone to work as a (gasp!) phone.

On the Next Arrested Development...

2008-11-14T14:23:00.002-06:00

Although I only came upon the show within the last two months (one positive outcome of my brief liaison with The Cagey One), I was giddy to learn yesterday that Arrested Development is finally going to be a movie.

This of course means I'll get to enjoy more of His Hotness, Jason Bateman, in suits once again. Also, big thank you to the Gap for their new winter ads. Oh, Bateman, you don't need The Patchwork Scarf for $34.50. I'll keep you warm. Swoon.

This also means that we're in for more mad-cap stair-car driving (always watch for hop-ons), more of Tobias the never-nude's double-entendres, more of Gob's illusions (it's not magic!), more "no touching!" and more ANNYONG. The show that proved that Justice (the dog) IS blind, that "gangee" means Grandma and "pop-pop" means Grandpa, and that you ALWAYS leave a note (or the one-armed man will get you) is back.

And, if none of the above makes any sense to you, you know what you need to do. All three seasons are on Netflix, so get to it. You won't be sorry.

Waffles and Whine

2008-11-13T09:27:00.009-06:00

I stood on line next to a man at McDonald's this morning (yeah, we're back to that these days) where we joked about the crazy-ass efficiency of the people behind the counter. They put the fast back in fast-food. They actually seem to care that you have a train to catch downstairs.

That's about when I noticed that this man was kind of what you might call "handsome." Okay, he was hot. Tall, nice head of hair (HOH to all you brookem fans out there), friendly, distinguished looking, and a great smile. Oh, yeah, and married.

Just then, the woman behind the counter screeched "Bacon, Egg, Cheese McGriddle! McGriddle!!!!!" (hey-go big or go home) as though it were my actual name. Just as well.

"Married," I muttered, sourly reaching for my breakfast. "Married, married, married. Of course."

I didn't care if anyone heard me, didn't even care if The Hot One did. The truth is, I seem only to perk up these days around the ones who end up being married. On Halloween, done up in my best Blair Waldorf garb (Emo was Chuck and Graphic Designer Friend was Serena- we heart Gossip Girl), the only guy who caught my fancy was Frank Sinatra. Ol' Blue Eyes seriously rocked that suit. Married. Boo. Hiss.

Although, maybe I should consider this latest development as a step in the right direction for me. I'm finally finding myself attracted to guys who can and want to commit. Just not to me apparently (sorry, I had to. I'm riding the self-pity train these days).

It does beg the question though; what am I doing wrong? Why am I still single? Because I must be doing something. And I'm not the only one asking. I've got Grandma, a few old friends, and those random-people-who-know-nothing-about-you-but-you-talk-to-for-a-spell all asking the same thing.

I kind of hate it, to be honest. I'm guessing that's how all my married friends feel when asked about whether they're pregnant exactly 12.2 seconds after locking it down. I know people mean well when they ask things like this, but sometimes it can wear on a person, you know?

And me, well, I just end up having one of those forehead-slapping moments inside my own head, "Shit! That's right. I AM single. Straight up single with no prospects. At all. Really- why is that?" Outwardly, I end up joking with the askers that "I must spend too much time with the wrong ones." AH HA HA HA HA! Isn't that just hilarious.

Maybe it's actually true. Either way, it still bites. And I'm pretty sick of being bitten because I know I want someone to share myself with. And I want their laughter and quirks and passions too. I want to believe there's someone out there for me who will think I'm someone to hold onto. But today, and this week in particular for some reason, I just don't (see? I told you...self-pity train).

That's why I'll be busting out the waffle-maker later this evening. I plan on having cinnamon waffles and Pinot Noir for dinner in front of the TV because The Office and 30 Rock are on and I love all of the above. Because I'm single and you can do that sort of thing when you're single. Hell, I might even wear sweat pants. That's right.

The downside of course is that after said waffles, wine, and Baldwin I'll be going to bed alone, falling victim to yet another night of likely sex dreams. Lordy, do I ever miss relationship sex. Boo. Hiss.

Toolbag Wednesday #14: Racist Gun Owners

2008-11-12T10:23:00.005-06:00

Holy hell. This may be the most blatant case of Toolbaggery. To. Date.

Anecdotal reports from around the nation suggest the sudden surge of November gun-buying is far surpassing the normal hunting-season spike that often occurs this time of year...Some [buyers] say they are worried that the incoming Obama administration will attempt to reimpose the ban on assault weapons that expired in 2004. Others fear the loss of their right to own handguns. A few say they are preparing to protect themselves in the event of a race war.

Race war?! You've got to be effing kidding me. Now, not only do these people (and let me say, "these people" can also be applied to my Dad, my Uncle, and my Grandpa) want to own guns for the principle of it and for "hunting, mostly," but also, you know, to shoot black people. Just in case. Is that also a God-given and Constitutional right? To be RACIST?

The article goes on to ask the question you "hate to ask," but can't avoid:

"Why are white people buying assault weapons?" said Ben Agger, a sociology professor at the University of Texas at Arlington who wrote a book about the Virginia Tech slayings. "I almost hate to say it, but there is a deep-seated fear of the armed black man, because Obama now commands the military and other instruments of the justice system. They are afraid Obama will exact retribution for the very deep-seated legacy of slavery."

I'm exasperated. I have no more words.

Recession Shelter: No Head Count Reductions Allowed!

2008-11-07T15:08:00.003-06:00

Recently, Best Friend Ever told me that I could come live with her and her now husband in the attic of their Cape Cod. I may have to seriously consider that offer.

While my job has been pretty much a stable gig and my company does well even in the face of recession, our parent company is...um....it's bad.

It turns out, I should feel lucky that the money I'm making today will *hopefully* still be the money I make in 2010. I say this because *to the best of my knowledge* I *should* still have a job through the fourth quarter.

The alternative has me a bit shaken. I have no real back-up plan, so if I get laid off or really sick or something, that's it. I won't make rent or be able to pay any of my other bills. And while moving in with my parents 13 hours away is always an option though never desirable, even that back-up needs a back-up now. My parents are looking into filing bankruptcy and walking away from their house.

Given these developments, I took a moment to myself this afternoon. After the debrief conference call to discuss the (non)earnings conference call earlier in the day. After the words head count reduction, hiring freeze, and merit/wage freeze were promoted as cost-savings measures.

I crawled under my desk. I did. Trouser pants and high heels be damned. Emo, for his part, sat staring at the gray wall of his cube. He didn't even flinch in the face of this here crazy.

Beneath my desk, I curled up into a ball, tucking my purse under my head, and pulling the chair in to hide my uncertainty. It was nice in an oddly institutional gray and Berber carpet sort of way. And that's when I decided I could really benefit from classing up the joint.

That way, every time I read a headline about the declining stock market and rising costs, or get another email update from HR about the impact of the "economic downturn" (can't we just call it what it is? ECONOMIC SHITSTORM), I can crawl into my Recession Shelter and wrap myself in the Sleeping Bag of More Luxurious Times, strap on my Dooms Day Be-Gone Ear Muffs, and take a few or eight swigs from the bottle of Jack for a Jacked-Up Economy until it's safe to come out again.

Or until HR has gone home for the day at least.

Sans Bun in The Oven

2008-11-06T07:35:00.003-06:00

Remember when I wrote about this? Well, despite an apparent Appliance Fairy sending me a few replacements (a discussion for another day mayhaps), my effing oven just tossed itself into the fray. My GAS oven, whose stay-lit-pilot-dohicky (yes, that's the formal name) broke and leaked gas into my apartment. Awesome.

Even awesomer was the Maintenance Dude (oh how I miss the former guy, Branko was his name- seriously) who told me not to go anywhere near it, but not to worry about "such a small amount of gas leaking;" he'd come out in the morning to "take a look." Not worry? Not worry?

I opened the windows and slept with my bedroom door closed, but I still awoke to an apartment reeking of gas. One better was when I got home from work that night only to discover they located the problem but neglected to actually fix it. WTF.

Irate, I got the Maintenance Dude back out to my apartment, who proceeded to tell me: "you really should use your oven more often," offering some additional guidance that perhaps I could "throw some Tombstone's in there once in a while." Heh, heh, heh.

Apparently, in addition to being all handy and stuff Maintenance Dude also has a sense of humor. As it turns out, I'm guilty of living the non-domestic single life. There is nary a bun, scone, pastry, or any other form of baked good in my proverbial and actual oven (except at Christmastime when I bake cookies for everyone I know- and by cookies I mean actual cookies).

For the Grandkids, Someday

2008-11-05T01:52:00.001-06:00

Ticket in hand, I stood in the streets with some 60,000 people, passed through four security checks, and just made it in. There are few words to describe being there except to say it was emotional and I couldn't help but be overwrought by its effect.

I made it home at 1:30 this morning, I'm bleary eyed, and the playback shows my video skills leave something to be desired, but it was worth it. Worth the wait, worth the crowds, worth being late to work this morning.

Lighter Fare

2008-10-29T06:48:00.000-05:00

After this week's developments (looks like my Dad might have a job opportunity!), I finally got around to carving my pumpkin last night- the pumpkin that my deer-hunting, Republican, Palin-loving Uncle gave me from his garden. I can't wait to send him an email with this picture attached! MOO-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA!!!

Also, thanks to Emo always reading some fancy concert message board while I pester him to "tell me stories" and "explain to me why there isn't any strudel in the office," we both scored tickets to Obama's Election Night Party in Grant Park before it became a wait list. Thanks Emo! You're an officer and a gentleman and a scholar.

This is a Tough One

2008-10-28T13:55:00.003-05:00

Six years. Three states. Five jobs. Three layoffs. Two firings. Three apartments. One rental house. And one home on the market two years this February. My Dad was laid off yesterday. Again.

I can't believe this is happening. I mean, it's happening to everyone now, but it's been six years of this for my parents. And I just don't even know what to say to them anymore.

It's a lot for them, and as much as I love my parents, I have to admit, they're falling apart and can't cope. They still believe that businesses should be loyal to their employees and customers, that any act of ruthlessness in the world is a personal attack on them. On top of this, they're both emotionally unstable and refuse to seek help from that "quackery" they call psychiatry. I'm on the verge of force-feeding them both some Zoloft.

Which speaks to one of the things I struggle with most in my life: the role I play in my family. My parents seem to lose their way in a crisis and use me as their outlet for venting and look to me to guide their next steps. At first, it made me feel good to be there for them, it felt grown up. But it's gotten to be too much. Over time, I've grown exhausted, resentful, guilt-ridden, and tapped out.

I want to be there for them, to help them, but what I really want is to simply be their daughter.

My Lady Doctor Must Think I'm a Whore

2008-10-27T14:06:00.002-05:00

I had an early appointment with the Lady Doctor this morning, which meant I had some "upkeep" to do last night. It's been a few weeks since there's been any reason for said upkeep (okay, it's been more than a few weeks- it's been fucking forever), so there's no way I'd take that workload on at 5:30 in the morning.

The whole etiquette around going to the Lady Doctor is kind of comical to me, nerve-wracking, but comical. Even though she must see countless lady bits every day, I always feel it my duty to tidy mine up as I would for any boyfriend. I don't know why, but I always have. It just seems like the polite thing to do. Also, I worry about my socks not being nice enough. I concede I am a dork.

For all my concern, I wonder if doctors even take notice of those sorts of things? If they think you're old school for maintaining a lot of ground cover? Or if they think you're just being lazy, or obviously not getting any? I wonder if they give an "A" for effort in keeping it in the bikini line? Or if they think you're a raging whore as evidenced by your visit to Brazil?

One thing is clear; I'd be a damn judgmental doctor.

I. Give. Up.

2008-10-26T21:57:00.004-05:00

The Cagey One and I have spoken a total of nine minutes this month. Nine. The last time we spoke, he said, "I'll call you later or something." Trying to back off gracefully, I waited. That was two weeks ago.

I thought that he was different, that he wasn't "that" guy. I saw more in him and from him than this inexplicable disregard. But I guess I was wrong. It all makes me feel....foolish. I feel foolish.

I merit much more than the slow fade. And, for whatever reason, I feel like I merit much more from him especially. Maybe it's because we're from the same hometown, know some of the same people, and were up-front about not playing games. Or maybe it's just that I actually really like him.

Whatever his reason for not calling me back, for not even sending a "have a good time in NYC" or a "how was it?" text, I'm not ashamed to say that I know it's not my fault. And I'm not ashamed to admit that he's made me feel no better than some random girl he met in a bar.

I know I'm worth more than that. I thought he knew that too.

Fear of Swimming

2008-10-24T09:28:00.008-05:00

A friend of mine, going through a break up, wrote to me the other day. Struggling with the disparity between what they want, what they've always envisioned, for themselves and what their life has shaped up to be thus far, it was an email that I could have written, that many of us could have written at some point in our lives. It happened at 21 and then again at 27 for me.

"Another break-up. How did I get here? I didn't want to be 32 and single. When I was in high school I saw myself married and having kids by the time I was this age, with a yard to take care of and Little League on the weekends...I try to do things the right way, but I can't seem to nail down this whole love thing. Why don't I let people in?

The funny part is, I don't think I'm sad about it. But I'm sad about not being sad about it. This person was wonderful. The only real problem, as she put it, was that she liked me a lot more than I liked her. And I couldn't even argue that it wasn't true. "

Yes, my friend is a guy- an ex-boyfriend actually. And although he and I are now both single and adrift in the dating world again, we're not alone in our fears about having missed the boat.

As it turns out, women aren't the only ones who worry about these things; guys do too. And some of them, like my friend who has ever been the writer, are able to articulate it in ways that transcend gender and cry out for empathy.

I'm glad he and I have kept in touch over the years. He was there for me at a pivotal point in my life and knows my soul, my sadnesses, my joys. I'm glad to have the chance to be there for him too and that he chose me to confide in. But he did so because all his other friends are married and have kids now. Except for him. Except for me.

"I think it's time you finally learned how to swim," I replied.

How To.....Waste Time at Work

2008-10-23T11:04:00.007-05:00

On my iGoogle page, I have a variety of silly widgets: my horoscope, a live-cam shot of the Eiffel Tower, a fortune cookie that spits out fortunes, and a daily wikiHow among others. Valuable stuff, really.

Today, my wikiHow (it's exactly how it sounds: wikipedia, but a "how-to" version) included this gem of worldly knowledge: "How to Live in Your Car." How. To. Live. In. Your. Car. I shit you not. I can't decide if the people over at wikiHow are merely trying to be helpful given the current state of foreclosures or have a wickedly sadistic and timely sense of humor.

Of course I clicked on the link and read the article. In it, one nugget of wealth included how to make something called a "poop tube." Yes, that one even has its own wikiHow page. After finishing the article, amazed by the amount of forethought required to properly live in one's car, I explored some of the related wikiHows.

The first, "How to Become a Hobo," was particularly striking because "hobo" isn't really a word you hear every day and kinda sounds all old-timey and whatnot. Also, the whole concept of this being a how-to is hilarious to me because a) the whole "hobo" terminology and b) I missed my train to work yesterday and sat waiting as a freight train crawled by, laughing at how ridiculous it would be to hop on and ride it all the way to work, waving in my business casual garb at the cars stopped at the railroad crossings. Yeah- easily amused.

The article itself is pretty entertaining in that it helps one to weigh the choice of becoming a "transient worker," as well as learning an auspicious sounding "hobo code." Oh, fancy.

The second related wikiHow was, "How to Stay Positive When You Know Your Life Sucks." Gee, um, I mean, I just don't even know. At first it sounds funny, and I went into it thinking there'd be a fancy quiz with a sliding scale on just how bad your life sucks, but no. It's actually serious. That said, the article's inaugural piece of advice is kind of circumspect: "Put away your violin. People who go around saying that life sucks are really just attention whores looking for pity." Talk about tough love! "Oh, you're depressed? Attention Whore!" Eek.

While the wikiHow may not be a perfect science, at least you can also learn "How to Get Your Wife/ Girlfriend to Watch Sports" or "How to Text Faster" (now with video!) among many other valuable things in your quest to waste time at work.

Toolbag Wednesday #13: Salt & Vinegar Chips

2008-10-22T13:32:00.009-05:00

Today, I experienced something so foul, so unholy, that I had to decry its facade of tastiness and expose its stealth-like toolbaggery for what it is. Today, I ate salt and vinegar potato chips for the first time. Boo. Hiss.

After opening the bag, my first thought was that they smelled like the vinegar water my mom made me use when I was growing up to wash the windows with because she believed it cleaned better than Windex. Not exactly an enticing selling point of a food product, but I didn't let that deter me from actually trying the alleged treat.

It took me nearly forty-five minutes to finish the bag from Jimmy John's. After the first chip, I realized that they taste like burning. Yes, burning. Also, that I do not like them. At all. But I didn't think that was reason enough to simply stop eating them. Maybe I would grow to like them, I thought. Maybe they're an acquired taste.

Which is when I decided to get strategic. I began to throw each subsequent chip to the back of my mouth to avoid the "tastes like burning" product feature. I also applied lip gloss in case any of that crazy-ass sea salt got on my lips (seriously, why is sea salt so much stronger than regular salt?).

As I was applying said layer of wax, my co-workers, Graphic Designer Friend and Emo attempted to stage an intervention. Even though they found my plight comical, they pointed out that I needn't finish the bag if I found them that terrible, that I could just throw them out. But, you know, starving kids in Ethiopia, right? So I soldiered on.

I began to break out in a sweat. I tried to avoid the ginormous chip chunks, all extra sea-salty and potatoey. My tastebuds were revolting against me. I might have somehow accidentally gotten sea salt in my eye at one point. The chips were winning.

But then, with her sword drawn (really, she had a sword. A foam one that she and Emo bought me when I was feeling weak and sad at work one day), Graphic Designer Friend stepped in and smashed the bag and the two remaining chip chunks, knocking them to the floor. She simply couldn't bear to see me grimace and squint my way through another minute of salt and vinegar toolbaggery. A true friend if you ask me.

For my part, I've had my fill of salt and vinegar flavored chips and their wanton tastebud searing ways. Never. Again.

I Heart Autumn in New York

2008-10-21T07:51:00.001-05:00

I'm back from three lovely days in New York. I could write and write about all of it...how I surprised myself by accepting another glass of wine from a stranger at the Met, then invited him to go skating at Rockefeller until midnight. Or how glorious it is to get fancy party shoes on sale for $20 (!!), especially when the store is called Shoegasm. Or how lucky I felt to sit on a doorstep in the Village sharing cupcakes with my oldest friend, who took the commuter and spent a day with me. Or how awestruck I was by St. Patrick's that I stayed for mass like a good little Catholic. But instead, I have a new toy and perhaps a picture really can be worth a thousand words......

Household Appliances Unite in Protest Against Local Bachelorette

2008-10-16T08:44:00.017-05:00

Apparently, I've over-stayed my welcome in my single gal apartment.

My small appliances have been staging a slow but steady protest, nay revolt, against me over the past seven or eight months and it's reaching fever pitch.

Without much fanfare, it began one nondescript day when the blender up and refused to blend. It simply would not budge. Would not chop, mix, stir, nor liquefy. I know this because I stood there pushing all manner of buttons, giving it a shake to and fro, to no avail. No smoothie for you!

Shortly thereafter, the vacuum took up with the blender. That's not to say that they ran away together like the dish and the spoon, but they certainly were in cahoots. The vacuum went passive aggressive on me, pushing dirt around the room. Oh, you wanted ME to pick that up? Well, I never.... At this point, I'm thinking the only real purpose my vacuum would serve is to call dibs on a shoveled parking spot in winter (if I still had a car).

And then there is the sorted tale of the Crock Pot. I've resigned it permanently to POW status (it is an all but foregone casualty of The Break Up along with my favorite pajama pants). I only mention it now because I am certain that it does not mourn me as I do it (it hasn't even written!), and I therefore lump it in alongside its plotting extended relatives. But oh the soups and roasts we used to make!

Taken together, all this dysfunction might have been chalked up to a fine coincidence of domestic strife. But then the impressionable toaster was persuaded to join into the fray.

As I happily bopped about the kitchen one morning, reading the paper online and keeping the teapot on the stove from getting all uppity- overzealously squealing and such- my toaster began to smell....funny. Nose-scrunchingly funny. By the time I got it to spit out the bagel it was toiling to toast, it shot out some flames as well. Well, I'll be, I thought, aren't WE the show off this morning! (Also, there might have been some swearing.)

Although said toaster would clearly rather not, I continue to press it into service from time to time, undeterred by its would-be pyrotechnics. Yes, yes, that's a good little toaster. I'll just hold the handle down while you decide what you'd like to do with this bread. By all means, take your time.

Which brings me to my point: thanks to all the extra time I spend standing at the toaster these days, while it considers its job description and I count the dust bunnies strewn about by my unamused vacuum cleaner, I've come to realize something.

I'm at the point in my life where all those affordable (cheap), trendy (crappy), stand-in (because in your early/ mid-twenties you probably aren't doing anything much that's domestic) appliances are beginning to break down. And the thing is, most people (it seems) avoid the hassle of having to replace said appliances because they're busy REGISTERING for new ones. AHA!!!!!!

Here comes the.....stainless steel blender with the glass pitcher, the roller-ball Dyson that never loses suction (seriously, how freaking awesome does that thing look?), and the bagel-friendly toaster with the easy-to-clean crumb tray. And herein lies the fun and unexpected single gal dilemma.

Do I really want to "go all in" given the fact that maybe someday there might be another person, another home, even perhaps a registry? Do I really want to spring for the Dyson now? Or do I want to wait for, for....what exactly? Exactly.

While the debate rages on internally, luck would have it that the appliances have chosen to play their trump card. They've enlisted the coffee maker, who let's face it, should know better. Not to be left out, it appears to be developing a bit of a hiccup, bristling at the idea of not burning the shit out of every pot of coffee it produces.

Don't tell Mr. Coffee this, but I suspect he's merely acting out for attention. Which quite frankly, until I've had my coffee, will get him nowhere.

Toolbag Wednesday #12: Pregnant Smoke Breaks

2008-10-15T09:43:00.008-05:00

Uh, I can't believe I'm even about to say this, but apparently some people still smoke while they're pregnant. Yeah, I know. I witnessed this firsthand on my way to the train station after work yesterday. Thankfully my commute has been Commuter free for the last three days, but I'd have rather not seen this either:

No, that's not actually Exhibit 1 in my "You-Suck-As-A-Person-You-Big-Meanie-Toolbag" arsenal (I'm not that quick with the camera phone- also it has a flash which kinda gives away any would-be surreptitious photography), but this is a fairly accurate representation.

I'm not above admitting that as I walked by the carelessly puffing away future mother in her maternity office garb, I stared, gawked even, with mouth agape. I literally looked around for hidden cameras. This has to be fake, right? Right? And it's not like this lady could even pull a Lily Allen and claim she doesn't know she's pregnant. She had to have been at least seven months along.

Now, I KNOW that lots of women smoked and drank all through their pregnancies in the Fifties and Sixties and had perfectly normal children yada yada yada....but weren't cigarettes, like, different back then or something? And didn't science, like, not know any better then either?

I can't believe we're still doing this. Is this what we're still doing? Really? Doesn't the glaring warning pasted on the side of every box (oh, and I don't know, maybe the social stigma?) serve as a legitimate No-No Guide on what you really, really shouldn't be doing when you're pregnant?

That lady's got some balls to be doing what she's doing, to be ignoring everyone who must be giving her the stink eye or even speaking their minds (they must be, right? Can you imagine the look she gets when she picks up a pack?). She must be a real rebel, marching to her own tune.

In fact, come to think of it, maybe she found as much value in heeding those silly birth control directions as she clearly has in heeding that worry-wart Surgeon General's warning about smoking when pregnant.

Yes, I just called a pregnant lady a "Toolbag."

Breathing Out

2008-10-14T10:24:00.005-05:00

It’s fall again. And things are slowing down at last. I’m getting back to life as usual. The Saturday morning farmer's market in the twilight of its season. Long walks along the lake before I curse its chilly, windswept expanse. And cozy Sundays at home under a blanket on the couch watching Netflix movies.

After a frenzied summer filled with travel to visit family and friends, mastering the Macy's wedding registry, braving my ten-year high school reunion, and the surprise of dating again; I welcome this fall in particular and the room to breathe it brings.

I welcome it, but find myself with far too much time to think about....things. Things that keep me up late into the night. Between the literal and figurative ghosts in my life, I guess you could say that lately I've been feeling a bit beaten down, a bit exhausted, and more than a bit in need of a break.

So, my listless heart is off to New York again. To get lost in that nameless mass, to stroll in an iconically autumnal Central Park, to take coffee in the Village, to wander aimlessly for a time, if for but a day or two at least.

And yes, I will be alone- as anyone is ever alone in New York. Happily.

A Still Life

2008-10-10T10:53:00.007-05:00

I saw The Cagey One last night. He is still cagey. Still an amazing kisser. And still a complete gentleman to me, despite all evidence to the contrary.

For my part, I'm still incredibly intrigued by him. Still wanting more. And still protective of a very patched up, limping heart.

I've pulled way back on this one. And it's unfortunate because I don't typically put myself out there to begin with. True, I wasn't looking for a relationship, let alone to really date, but sometimes you meet someone so right that it takes hold of you. And you know from experience not to disregard it because of timing or fear or a million other possible obstacles we toss in the way, deluding ourselves into thinking they'll keep us safe.

I've gotten pretty good at throwing out my own obstacles. Often I'm the one shunning the designation of titles or the determination of status. Often I'm the one who fights tooth and nail for time to myself, to keep my old habits and patterns. Whether it's an unwillingness to take the emotional risk or a fear of commitment or intimacy or whatever, I tend to be the one who's cagey in my turn, finding fault in the irrelevant, picking pointless fights, quickly growing bored.

But here I went ahead and put it on the line anyway. I have to admit that despite the response I received, I'm proud of that. I'm proud of myself for weathering the storm, for experiencing profound sadness, and for not becoming a jaded, bitter singleton. I'm proud of myself for still believing in the possibility of love, for trying again.

And yet, it's still unfortunate. I still like him so much. And I'm still uncertain of where that leaves me.

Toolbag Wednesday #11: Alcoholic Voters

2008-10-08T07:19:00.004-05:00

Which candidate would you rather have a beer with? For serious.

This is the question that some voters, swing voters it is said, consider a legitimate means to picking their candidate. Now, before I go all CAPS LOCK on your ass, I'd like to at least say:

Hooray for voting! Vote, vote, vote!

That said, these people are freaking TOOLBAGS. Toolbags who are turning the PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION into a glorified run for prom king.

Call it what you will, but the "likability factor" should not be how one decides who ought to be the next PRESIDENT OF THIS COUNTRY. Votes should be based on FACTS, not a FEELING. Votes should be based on a candidate's stance on the economy, foreign policy, education, and health care. With even the tinsiest bit of research, one can see that McCain and Obama are not carbon copies of one another.

Whats more, and I hate to break it to you would-be swing voters out there, the President isn't ever gonna be your drinking buddy. I know, I know, it's very sad; yes, I've crushed your dreams. I'm a dream crusher, it's what I do.

But take heart- considering some of the winners I've sat across from during a couple rounds of speed quarters or played a few hands of Asshole with, why the hell would you want the person who RUNS OUR COUNTRY to be the kind with whom you'd knock back a few beers?

Voters like this scare me. With the next election a mere 26 days away, I worry that they'll cast their ballots as they did in '04 (I mean, let's face it, Kerry probably doesn't even drink beer, so that wasn't a fair contest anyway).

If I could, I'd ask them, the ones who not only elected but re-elected our fine President; how'd that work out for 'ya? Still think there's weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? Oh, and how's your retirement fund faring these days? Your mortgage rate? Gas and heating bill? The amount you're paying for groceries?

In all seriousness though, none of this is at all funny. Or even mildly entertaining. The uncertainty is scary, the reality sad, and the space between the two just sobering enough to know it's the end of an era. Hell, given the current state of the "American Dream," maybe we really DO need to crack open a few or twelve (if we can afford it).

Besides, everyone already knows that Obama is clearly the one you'd get your drink on with anyway. Huh. Come to think of it, what I meant to say was, carry on.

The Commuter

2008-10-07T08:44:00.001-05:00

Remember when I made a passing reference to the dude I think has been hitting on me during my commute? The one who got all handsy that time?

Well, since then he’s become a fixture on my way to and from work. He’s overly friendly and chatty and STILL handsy- what the heck is that all about anyway? At first I thought he seemed like a decent guy, if a bit presumptuous, but now I'm not so sure. He's kind of annoying the hell out of me. Okay, maybe not kind of; he is.

Literally every morning I see him pacing the platform looking for me. That is, if he hasn't tracked me down on the bus to the train first. And before I get off the train, he tries to nail down the exact train I will be on after work so he can also take that train and ride the bus with me. Again.

And then last Wednesday, he unwittingly took my phone from my hand and proceeded to type his number into it and call his own (so, what, now we’ve exchanged numbers?). Since then, he’s been texting constantly for me go on bike rides or join him for tea at Argo or meet him out at a bar or come over and watch The Office. Emo, my friend at work, says I should tell him to "slow his roll." A wise man that Emo.

The thing is, in addition to the angst I'm feeling toward The Commuter for hijacking my beloved reading time, I'm not interested. At all. Which means it’s a very big deal that I've even tolerated him for as long as I have (I do realize this makes me sound like a total biznatch).

So, in an effort to avoid him and catch up on some dearly missed reading, I've begun switching up my routine. Yesterday, I took a different bus route and sat in a different train car than usual. I even got the train conductor in cahoots with me by keeping my whereabouts on the train a secret (which is good because apparently I was being looked for).

This morning, I even managed to take an earlier train (no small feat for someone who HATES MORNING) and ended up sitting in front of Angry-Page-Turner-Woman (I nearly asked her why she was so pissed at the magazine she was tearing through for forty whole freaking minutes. Unless it was an article about how *awesome* Palin is, I can't see what a magazine could do to receive such abuse....sorry, couldn't resist).

As for avoiding The Commuter, last night I wasn't so lucky. I took a super late train home, but then there he was the only person waiting at the bus stop. Wait, let me rephrase- he actually came running from an adjoining park where I guess he'd been "hanging out." He wasn't even on the train I was on! WTF!?

On the bus, he proceeded to high tail it to sit beside me (while I immediately dialed my mom and blew him off). And, what's worse, he stayed on the bus past his stop. Not because he had anything to do- he did this last week as well- but because, he told me, sometimes he "just likes to ride the bus all the way to the end." Again, WTF!?

Maybe I'm overreacting, but it's starting to give me the creeps.

Burnt Pancakes

2008-10-06T09:21:00.004-05:00

Mother eff. We have a Berger situation here. As in Jack Berger. As in the one who gave Carrie that "zsa-zsa-zsu" feeling after the whole thing with Aidan got shot to hell, then broke up with her on a Post-it. "I'm sorry. I can't. Don't hate me." Hmph.

Granted there hasn't been any Post-it activity in these parts, but the emotionally unavailable part? Bingo. How do I do it? How do I manage in a city of 2 million plus to continually choose guys who appear all interested, oh yes- appear, and then turn out to be so....vacant, unattainable, cagey?

I had the whole "I-wish-you-called-me/saw-me-more-regularly" chat with the new boy (you know, the one I inexplicably wanted to make pancakes for).

Well, la dee dah, I thought to myself as I carelessly broached the subject over a few cocktails. And SLAM! There's a response I didn't think I'd hear. And SLAM! I'm the silly girl who picked a guy to open up to who "doesn't want a relationship," who "doesn't want to get too attached." Well, la dee dah.

I feel like I just got shot-down for being too short to ride the roller coaster of love.

The thing is, he wanted to date when all I wanted was for him to kiss me (as whorish as that makes me sound). So I just don't get why he bothered to go to the trouble of asking me out, of dating me at all, if this is actually how he's felt all along.

The next morning, I stood there, hand still on the doorknob, lost in thought amidst that sometimes stillness of single life. I'd said good bye mere moments before with the nagging feeling he wasn't ever coming back (despite the second toothbrush in the bathroom and despite leaving behind Arrested Development season one).

Facing yet another closed door, I stood there and began to realize I'm just one more girl who likes a boy who's just not that into her.

Chicago's 'Fresh Faces' Need More Beauty Sleep

2008-10-02T10:07:00.024-05:00

Last night, I volunteered again for the Gen Art Fresh Faces in Fashion show. Last year, I was stuck up front with the guest list (I accidentally almost didn't admit the Mayor's wife's entourage- if you're there for Maggie Daley- SAY THAT).

This year, I was a woman on a mission. I was getting in that damn tent come hell or high water (sorry to the girl I sent to coat check in my place under the guise of the event planner needing someone immediately- A FASHION EMERGENCY!- go! go! Don't think- just GO!).

In the past, I've paid for a ticket. I've stood in the back, even finagled a sixth row seat at best. I have to say, helping out with the event has given me more access to the designers, models, buyers, and media than paying my way ever has.

That said, I spent the hours before the show mostly standing around. I watched the run through and successfully dodged getting pulled to be a dresser (read: Little J) or front of house. During the cocktail reception, I was instructed to keep the models from joining the martini-swilling-canape-scarfing revelry despite their best efforts to sneak past me. And then I found myself seating the VIPs. Hooray!

It was at this point that I brought my best bitchface and booted out a couple from the third row who were supposed to be in the sixth through eighth rows (I seriously thought this chick was going to punch me). And then spoke with WWD and People who drilled me for a scoop on the local celebrities and buyers in attendance.

After host Pete Wentz' "speech" (there to promote his Clandestine Industries lifestyle brand), the lights went down an hour later than scheduled and I took a no-show's seat in the front row just as a very cute and pregnant Ashlee Simpson snuck in directly OPPOSITE ME, where they proceeded to hold hands and whisper throughout most of the show.

Billy Dec (who looked lost most of the time) and Steven Rosengard from Project Runway season four (who politely smiled and squinted, tilting his head at the handiwork) were also seated across the runway. Call it a perk of volunteering, but I got a seat you can't buy and a VIP gift bag to boot!

The show itself, if you're unfamiliar with Gen Art's format, consisted of five or six local designers. This year's Chicago show included Elise Bergman, Eskell, FREI Designs, Sophia Reyes, Shorty Clothing, and menswear designer Philip Sparks.

While I'm all for supporting local fashion, I have to say in comparison to past years I found the designs yawn-worthy, and in some cases, a bit "design school project." The finishing on some of them wasn't what I thought it would be and some of the color choices were....odd. Although, to be fair, I found Sophia Reyes and Shorty to be well-received highlights of the evening and favorites of those sitting around me.

Sadly, however, the models themselves seemed bored with their garb and poorly prepared to walk in the heels provided by Akira. And the spiritless applause from the crowd spoke volumes. I'd say we all missed the designers of years past: I'm thinking Lara Miller, Michelle Tan, Shanel Regier, and now MIA menswear designer Kent Nielsen (I loved his colorfully tailored style).

Mostly, I enjoyed watching people's reactions to the designs far more than the clothes themselves. But hey, what do I know? I was just a volunteer; happy to crash the party.

Toolbag Wednesday #10: After-the-Fact Boys

2008-10-01T09:29:00.010-05:00

I know this will probably make me sound like a jaded mess, but I have to ask, why do guys (most of the ones I've known anyway) only want me after-the-fact? After the break up. After their rebounding is over. After they've gone off to what they thought were greener pastures, only to realize what they had wasn't so bad. After they witness me moving on.

Why is it that my value seems only to be seen through the lens of reflection?

An ex-boyfriend recently told me he messed it up and wished he'd hung onto me when he had the chance (no, it isn't Him actually, but we'll be addressing that one shortly). I don't know if that's supposed to make me feel better or not, vindicated, or whatever, but it doesn't. Instead, it seems to be perpetuating a newly-developed penchant for throwing things. Like tantrums. Or my phone.

I just wish there was some way for guys like him- the ones who've known me, who still do- to somehow magically convey to the new ones (and perhaps one new one in particular) what they could have in me. That this one, this one right here, has value. That I'm a freaking keeper. A KEEPER, I TELL YOU!

I'm about to give up. Chalk it up to liking the wrong kind of guy. Go into hibernation for the winter and maybe let my heart hope again come spring. I'm just so sick of all this after-the-fact crap. If only...if only. Why can't I just find someone who looks at me, sees me, and knows what he has when he has me?

Where are you?

How Do You Say to Someone...

2008-09-30T09:46:00.001-05:00

I really like you. As simple as that.

I like the way you think about things, the way you laugh, the way you write with your left hand. I like that you read the paper and take your coffee black. I like the way your face lights up with surprise when I say something that makes you laugh, the way you shake your head when I pretend to spar with you over politics, the way you inspect my apartment to make sure I'm safe.

I like that you know where I come from, know instantly what parts of me still harbor a small town sensibility. I like that you recognize I can handle things myself but sometimes appreciate your input. I like that you said you wanted more than to kiss me, that you called, that you took me on a bona-fide date, that you wanted to see me again and again and again.

I really like you. And I know, just know, call it what you will; that you like me too. But you're already pulling away from me, pushing me away from you. So soon.

Don't ask me how, but I also know, just know, that if you wouldn't, we might have something here, might actually be something to one another.

Or maybe you already know that too.

You Like Me, You Really, Really Like Me

2008-09-29T09:58:00.000-05:00

So get this; my little blog that could has won an award!! A shiny, real, honest-to-goodness award:
I've never gotten one before, and in honor of the giver (Long Red Cape, who knew?), I promise to write a Toolbag post forthwith. Well, in the next couple of days anyway because there certainly has been some toolbaggery of late. Of the teeth-grinding variety. Stay tuned.

For now though, the business at hand. I am to recognize (only?!) seven of my favorite blogs in turn. My short blogroll would normally make the selection easy (I seem dead set on flouting blogroll etiquette by linking only to those I read daily-yes, I know how Google Reader works- so if you're to the left, you're already a favorite).

That said, I'm picking an eclectic few that (mostly) aren't already listed but on which I tend to lurk (okay, so I just heard myself and realize that makes it sound like I'm trolling the Internet for 13 year olds. Chris Hanson, please do not invite me to your skeevy-looking rec room).

1) Things My Boyfriend Says- she hasn't posted in a long-ass time, but still offers a smattering of hilarity. I wonder if they broke up.....

2) Joy- because she's a fellow townie and she is fancy. Also, her sex life has me in awe. Seriously girl, how do you manage?

3) Anonymous Coworker- this is a post-mortem award for the blog that made me laugh the loudest while pretending to work. Go ahead and read the archives. But first know that the humor is not for the faint of heart. Or stomach.

4) Stuff Nobody Likes- of course. I love Stuff White People Like, so this works for me too.

5) Copyranter- I do shitloads of lame ass writing for my job and catch myself regularly criticizing other people's professional work (see: Aussie hair care commercial). This blog feeds my inner critic.

6) Surviving Myself- this is a new one for me, but thus far, I have to say, I really look forward to reading about his New York snarkiness and citified random observations.

7) Chica- last, but nearly least, to my earliest reader and the one who first linked to me. She has one of the sweetest, most-down-to-earth perspectives and is always a delight to read. Shout out to the UK!

Okay, now that I'm done being all Linky McLinkerstein, get to reading!

Co-Payless Epiphany

2008-09-27T07:07:00.001-05:00

I've seen a therapist for two years, but sometimes it's a complete stranger who can help me see things more clearly when I least expect it. In the cleaning supplies aisle at Jewel the other day, I had just such an encounter.

"Dave": "Oh, hey! Mary, right?"

Me, thinking: Mary? Really? Do I honestly look like a 'Mary'? Natalie maybe, or Sarah. But Mary?

"No? You look so familiar. Are you new to the neighborhood?"

Me, thinking: How does that even make sense?

"I'm new to the neighborhood and was just thinking of where to go to see a movie around here. Maybe you and I could check one out sometime," he says.

Me, thinking: Liar. You asked me out two years ago on a neighborhood sidewalk.

With that, I shoved the Magic Erasers I'd been comparison shopping back on the shelf, choosing to end the conversation in lieu of cleaner walls.

"I don't think that would be such a good idea," I began.

"No? You're not married...at least, there's no ring on your finger."

Me, thinking: Well look at you Super Sleuth.

"I just started seeing someone," I offered instead, not that that's the only reason I'd rule this one out.

"So how long have you been cheating on me?" he says with a skeevy ass smirk.

Me, thinking: Dude must get that A LOT to have such a retarded rejoinder.

"It's...um, still new, I guess...."

"Then, not a boyfriend. So?"

"No. Not a boyfriend. But I think I might want him to be."

The One Where We Talk Plot

2008-09-26T07:13:00.006-05:00

Okay, so DO NOT read comments for this meager posting if you have not seen last night's Office episode. I'm talking plot with anyone who will have me. Here's the part where you post a comment. So....get to it!

Christmas in September

2008-09-25T10:13:00.007-05:00

Oh, Pam. Poor, sad face Pam. Why did Andy have to steal Jim's thunder? Jerkstore.

And Dwight. Poor, broken down Dwight. Sitting there, defeated, after Angela accepted Andy's proposal. Who knew you'd rekindle things moments later?

And Michael. Poor, ridiculous Michael. Why can't you see that as much as you want kids, Jan is totally effed up?

I can't wait, am perched on the edge of my chair, to find out what's going to happen on The Office season premiere tonight. When I woke up this morning, it was the first thing I thought of just like I was five years old on Christmas morning or something.

Because Emo is on top of all the latest news and plot leaks, he has informed me (which is as much as I'll let him) that it is going to be freaking awesome (even though we know Jam will be in a state of......transition? Guessing! I have no idea what will happen- I promise!).

Merry Office Season Premiere!

Better Than Morning Coffee?

2008-09-24T09:15:00.003-05:00

Sometimes in the morning, after my train has dropped me off in the burbs, when I walk the 10 minutes or so to my office, an oncoming freight train approaches from the north.

Walking toward it, I wait as it meets me on the bridge where the sidewalk narrows over the road full of haplessly racing commuters below.

I wonder what it must be like for the engineer to see someone walking so close by. I wonder if he worries more, as I do, in wintertime about someone slipping on the icy sidewalks. How easily someone might fall.

And then I close my eyes and feel the whoosh of the wind it creates as it passes within a few feet of me. My hair is tossed behind me, my eyelashes flutter, and something about it makes me feel....alive.

It's Baaaaaaack

2008-09-23T01:33:00.005-05:00

I think my ghost may be back. It's 1:33 am and I just bequeathed it the bedroom for the rest of the night.

It woke me up. It....touched me. I swear. I felt the bed shake lightly, like a cat had jumped onto the foot of the bed, tip-toeing toward me as I lay with my back to it. And then ever so slowly I felt this odd but constant pressure all over my back at once, pushing down on my spine. I couldn't take it anymore and I turned over. Bravely, I thought. But then it poked me on my right side, making me flinch. And when I did, it felt like there was something heavy laying beside my leg. After that, I decamped to the living room, where it as yet has never ventured.

What the eff is going on in here? I mean really, I don't know how much more of this I can take. I got rid of the TV that it so liked to turn on and play movies with. Which is when it started to up the ante and begin touching me- slapping me awake on my head, running a finger down the bottom of my foot. Seriously. How'd you like to wake up to that?

I'm so freaked out right now I had to call someone- anyone who might be awake. And lucky for me (and my poor mother who was this close to getting the call), my friend Mara is working crazy ass retail hours and I could call her, knowing she just got home from work. But now it's quiet in here again and I'm seriously waiting for my freaking bedroom door to slam or some messed up junk like that.

It's Like This

2008-09-22T18:49:00.008-05:00

Some days you find out you have jury duty......in Rolling freaking Meadows. A full 26.7 miles, or an hour plus in Chicago traffic time, from where your carless ass cannot drive. Where you'll do your civic duty while feasting on a cornucopia of vended saturated fats.

Some days the guy who you think has been hitting on you during your morning commute gets all handsy, reaching for your knee as he carries on about Tango Sur.

Some days you sit at your desk with disco-ball head boppers on- removing them only for meetings, which was debatable at that- because somehow their absurdity makes you frown just a little bit less.

Some days you see a single crisp white bra strap on the sidewalk and laugh out loud despite yourself, wondering how that poor woman will manage.

Some days you step in office-park goose poo on your way home and YOU DON'T EVEN CARE.

Some days you realize you can't concentrate for shit in spite of the tender prose upon the page.

Some days you open the door to your quiet apartment and it's less a comfort than a disappointment.

It's been one of those days.

Wine Tasting

2008-09-21T13:34:00.003-05:00

He kisses me in all the ways I've always wanted to be kissed.

Softly and with purpose. Holding my head in his hands, running his fingers through my hair, tucking a loose strand behind an ear. He pulls me closer, hands on my lower back and hips. He tilts my head backward, grazing my neck, a bared collarbone. He pins my wrists. And I’m breathless when he goes for a sip of wine.

“You’re bad,” he smiles, shaking his head.

I muster a “why,” although I can guess the answer.

“The way you’re looking at me.”

“How’s that?” I ask with feigned innocence.

“I can’t....you’d need a writer from one of your books to describe it,” and he nods toward my overworked bookcase.

“Then kiss me again until you've found the words.”

And he did, tasting of Cabernet.

Here I Go Again

2008-09-19T14:03:00.001-05:00

There is a boy. How do I write of my school-girl glee for this one?

I’m smitten, I think. I’m the kind of giddy where I smile stupidly every time I think of him, every time his name is on my phone. I can't help myself.

He’s pretty. I tell you readers, he is oh so pretty. And it tickles my fancy to no end. The kind of pretty that isn’t at all “pretty,” but in every regard screams man. The kind that can hang things around the house. The kind that gets out of the double-parked car to greet you at your door for your date. The kind that properly orders, then unpretentiously swirls his wine. The kind that can pick you up and throw you down on the bed; knows exactly what to do with you.

He’s funny in a quietly unexpected sort of way, with just the right amount of sarcasm. He's smart and quick-witted and appreciates my sense of humor. And he listens and respects and makes me feel special. We share the same values (except- of course- politically) and have similar interests and a common background- we actually went to high school together, but met at our 10-year reunion. He's the perfect mix of small town upbringing and city capability. And most important of all, I can be myself with him- completely.

This boy does things to me. He makes me want to listen to Sinatra. And I want to make him pancakes. Don't ask me why. I just do.

I know I like him way too much already, but there it is. I'm ready. Ready to try again. Ready to take the chance.

Random and True

2008-09-11T14:28:00.006-05:00

Because it is THE worst time of year in the office this week (client event for 300 next week), because (as you know) I have PMS, because cake miraculously did arrive the other day right on cue and is now gone- along with the chocolate Jello pudding, and because I just finished making a fort out of the foam board I was in charge of cutting up for signage: I will tell you something random and true. Because I'm tapped out. Because I know you care.

It hurts my feelings when someone is sitting next to me on the bus and immediately gets up to sit elsewhere when there is more room. Even though I know it's because people like to have their own space, it still makes me feel bad. I like to have my own space too, but it makes me wonder if they think I'm weird or smelly or deranged or something.

This morning on the bus, I found myself actually silently willing the man sitting next to me not to race away so quickly. Isn't that sad?

I shook my head at myself and went back to picking at my purple nail polish and looking out the window. And he; he stayed despite the crazy girl sitting beside him.

There's a Zoo in My Tummy!

2008-09-09T12:02:00.004-05:00

Holy hell, am I PMS-ing! AAAAAHHHH!!!!!!!

I’m that skit on SNL- you know the one- when Tina Fey brought it back old school and made fun of the birth control commercials for the pill that all but eradicates your period. Yeah, I’m the one with the pink ax in the office (many expletives have been thrown down like an ax today). More literally, I’m the one plowing into the six-year old’s pink birthday cake.

Mmmmmmmmmmm, caaaaake. GIVE ME CAKE NOW!

Seriously, give me cake. I'm hungry. Case in point, so far I have eaten no less than a banana, a McGriddle, a bag of Fritos, saltine crackers, one of those Nature Valley granola bars that are so rock hard they almost chip your teeth, and a baggie full of animal crackers- I believe there was a lion, a giraffe, and a hippopotamus, but it might have been a manatee missing a head.

It's 12:06 people- I haven't even torn into my can of ravioli yet, like that's gonna slow me down.

What is the deal? Some months I get the zits with their own heartbeats and others (like this one) I can eat my weight in junk. Then, there are the months (also like this one) when I’m a raging bitch (okay, honestly it's probably more like every month, but today especially). I feel like I could throw things and kick walls and generally flip out. WTF.

Ooo!!! Just remembered I have a chocolate Jello pudding cup in the fridge.

Kisses.

Exorcism

2008-09-08T12:13:00.000-05:00

Eleven years of exes, so many things unsaid:

Even though we agreed to never contact one another again, I still think of you from time to time and wonder how you are.

Sometimes when you'd kiss me, I'd scrunch up my nose in as-yet-unrealized disgust, then mock smile to cover it up when you'd catch me.

I invited you to stay on my couch after you'd had too much to drink. I was happy you forgot the couch wouldn't be delivered until Wednesday.

I'm sorry you got caught in the crossfire. You genuinely cared for me and I treated you frivolously.

When you called me by your ex's name, I cringed, but ended up taking it as a compliment.

I don't fault you for not being more assertive. But taking custody of my friends for fear you'd lose your own was ruthless and spineless.

You're the only guy I've ever been with to validate myself. It worked. But of all my relationships, you're the one I regret.

I realize now I undervalued your quiet and thoughtful merits. I still don't think you were right for me, but my guilt sometimes plays tricks on my better judgement.

I never cheated on you, but for a long time, when I rightly suspected you were, I wanted to.

I think that you and your type are disgusting- especially the way you grappled with the parking attendant about a $5 difference while I sat waiting in your X5.

I worry I'll never love someone again as I loved you. You brought out the best in me and I've never been happier. Love hasn't been the same for me since.

My Laptop's Not Cool Enough for the Caribou

2008-09-07T17:18:00.005-05:00

I've turned into one of those people who hauls their laptop to the coffee shop and parks it for a couple hours. I'm here to get some work done...so far I've managed to buy something like 15 songs on iTunes, priced airfare for Thanksgiving (already a freaking fortune), polished off an espresso Cooler, and determined that the guy behind the counter is both extremely hot and not into chicks (I'm on his turf). Oh yeah, and I've written like three lines of the script for the MC of next week's client event. Ooops.

That said, in glancing around the Boo, I've realized that my poor little (or not so little actually) Dell Inspiron 1100 is so....vintage. It's embarassingly old compared to all you crazy kids' new shiny laptops these days- so thin and light and fast. I think my Dell has performance anxiety, and in view of the neighbors, wouldn't you? It's the brick phone to your iPhone.

This was the laptop I got for grad school six years ago. Holy crap. SIX years. Where did the time go? It was the laptop I got from my Dad for "all the things I didn't do." It was a gift for never getting arrested, knocked up, addicted to Meth, etc. That's Dad.

Maybe it's time to get a laptop for all the things I have done.

The Pink Elephant in the Convention

2008-09-04T15:46:00.003-05:00

I am by no means unbiased, apolitical, fair and balanced. I also am generally opposed to placing my political beliefs upon those around me, including on this blog (unless it’s to decry my own apparent penchant for only meeting and dating Republicans as it were).

That said, whether you’re labeled a “right wing hate-monger” or a “liberal whack-job” (I prefer Raging Lib myself), you can’t help but find yourself incredibly uppity about McCain’s surprise choice for VP and the littlest surprise that she’s brought with her (maybe if it's a girl, they'll name her Liberty!), all of which gives me great concern.

How many women, uncertain about their candidate or steadfast supporters of feminism in America, will be swayed? How many will look past the facts of her governorship in Alaska and be romanced instead by the exceptional delivery of a well-crafted speech? How many will rush to align their vote in defense of a formerly unknown female politician simply because they too are mothers, mothers of special needs children, or mothers of soldiers? How many already have dancing visions of a woman in the White House at any cost- morbidly envisioning the demise of the unelected?

The instant and uneducated gravitation; that's what I'm concerned about. Which is why I ask, who is this Tina Fey-looking Sarah Palin anyway?

Emo, my formerly Republican coworker, watched her speech last night and identified her thusly: “She freakin’ Dick Cheney in a skirt.”

Emo has obviously done his homework. Except for a few moments when she (and here’s where I get really biased) outlined what sounded like the coming of the apocalypse, she didn’t much stand for anything other than to identify herself as a bulldog with lipstick, a PTA member, and a hockey mom who also happens to be a Washington outsider, opposed to the “good ole’ boys” and their chicanery. She’s just like one of us, didn’t you know? She’s a woman, a mother, a soon-to-be grandmother. The personal appeals are staggering.

As it turns out, among her other proclivities toward drilling in her state and gun control, Palin is known for preaching abstinence. Which means that it cannot help but be thrown back in her face that her own daughter is a prime example of how effective that can be.

Despite not being a parent myself, I don’t think all responsibility for the choices of the child, or in this case the 17-year-old young adult, can be heaped wholeheartedly upon the parent. And whether the call for the privacy of one child in the family way, while making an example of the other on his way to Iraq, is an acceptable political mother’s prerogative is not for me to say (but simply note?).

What I can say is that however one decides to judge Palin the mother, the values- the political values- of Palin the candidate ought to be manifest. Not the pink elephant at the convention.

Switching Loads

2008-09-03T19:58:00.013-05:00

So many things I could write tonight. The thoughts turn round within the over-filled dryer of my mind.

I left him first. I left him last. But in between, he left me stricken.

And now I receive a well-intentioned message. A deus ex machina to resolve any lingering doubts.

Did I turn my back on love? Did I pretend to understand too little? Did I fail? Was any of it real? Was it me?

Heaven forbid he wind up alone, I once thought. But of course he wouldn't. No, not him. Not ever. I'm pleased it doesn't hurt me to learn he bought a ring and planned a home with someone else. I'm pleased it doesn't involve me, doesn't touch me, anymore.

Let him have, or not have, that life with someone else instead. Promises were made, I put in the time, I earned it; but I like the possibility of my own outcome far better. I prefer its honesty.

So many things I could write tonight. So many things tumbling with one end purpose in mind.

Taking a Breather

2008-09-02T11:18:00.001-05:00

I'm not one for lists and all, but last week was off the charts with boy activity and while I debate just how much more to share, here's some miscellany about me....

I hate Easter grass. Hate it. Hate, hate, hate it. It makes me all kinds of irrational to see its static-filled wantonness sticking to things, or worse to me.

I pride myself on my ability to buy the perfect present, which was also one of the best compliments I've ever received (from my Mom).

I hate it when people say "apps" instead of "appetizers." Also, "appeteasers." Offenders should be bitch-slapped. Or forced to eat at Chili's or Applebee's every night for a year.

Listening to "Ocean Avenue" by Yellowcard makes me feel like I'm having a panic attack.

Sometimes I catch myself laughing really loud at a TV show in my apartment alone, stop, then laugh even harder for getting self-conscious for nothing.

The best part of my gym is the foam soap that smells like apples. It's my favorite.

I still think that people are inherently good. Yes, I'm serious.

I can't stand to spend more than 20 minutes in a grocery store, including checking out. And I will buy generic or store brand everything to save money, only to blow those savings on pricey ice cream and fancy wine cause I clearly have my priorities straight.

I get embarrassed for people on American Idol and have to change the channel because it can be that uncomfortable.

My absolute greatest fear in the world is drowning. Those scenes in Titanic when people are floating to the ceiling as it fills with water. AH!!!!! I had a dream the other night that I was Rose and instead of saving Jack, I looked at the water-filled stairwell and said "the hell with you" and got in a lifeboat instead.

I wish I didn't have spiteful, sarcastic, and cynical thoughts half the time (okay all the time), but I also love that I'm not afraid to temper them with stupidly sentimental and emotional things too. Also, I wish my boobs were bigger. See what I mean?

I love the smell of cucumber, the sight of peonies, and the sound of church bells.

I used to want to be Scarlett O'Hara. About two years ago, I realized I admired Melanie more. I think that means I've grown up.

I break my cookies, chips, and bananas into smaller pieces before eating them.

Every guy I've ever dated (minus one in grad school) has been a Republican. I live in a blue state. WTF?

I always knot and tear apart my straw wrappers before throwing them out to see if someone is thinking of me. This morning at McDonald's when I got my iced coffee, someone was....

Unfiltered

2008-08-30T08:32:00.001-05:00

His name flashes on my caller ID. His voice is on my voicemail.

"I was just thinking of you," he says breezily.

"I was thinking how nice it would be to see you, to talk to you again."

And then, "I miss you."

I didn't want to hear it. Any of it. I had steeled my heart against his words before they were spoken, willing myself to avoid temptation. But it never came.

Instead, I dropped the phone on the couch cushion beside me, angrily shaking my head as tears welled up and my lower lip jutted forward like it did when I was five.

"No. No, no, no, no. NO," I whispered, then whimpered aloud to the empty room.

He always does this. His timing is impeccable. And I still don't trust myself. Even after everything. Even how I feel today, this minute, more than five months after it ended.

I know better than to think I can quit smoking and still have a few casual cigarettes while I drink.

A Happy Ever After

2008-08-28T15:07:00.012-05:00

Best Friend Ever got married over the weekend, and in her true tasteful style no less (strapless sweetheart neckline, mermaid silhouette, raw ivory silk, a single gardenia in her hair).

Although I seem to have been in quite the pitiful state when they got engaged on Easter last year, and despite the irony of my own relationship ending on Easter of this year, I'm happy to report that I was in a very different place at their wedding.

Yes, there were tears, but only happy ones when at last they stood side-by-side and exchanged their vows. Even now, typing this at my desk, it makes me tear up!

There's just so few real love stories, I think. At least in my own life. Mostly, I find myself wondering why now, why that person, what's making them get married at all, won't it just get fouled up? And then I get sympathy anxiety for those about to marry. It's completely bizarre.

But not so with BFE. She married her high school sweetheart of 11 YEARS. Their wedding weekend felt like I was with family....like I was home. I was so happy to see them all, in fact, I didn't even care that I was sans concealer as I raced into the kitchen to greet her parents on Saturday morning.

And after the vows and the cake cutting and the toasts and the cigars; I surprised even myself as I leaned down to claim her bouquet from the tile at my feet. I don't normally go in for that sort of thing, but then I didn't really catch it after all, did I? And I figured, if it came my way, why not me?

Here's hoping that maybe a bit of their happiness and luck rubs off...

Crash and Burn

2008-08-27T08:59:00.009-05:00

Unwittingly, I found myself rehearsing The Speech in the shower this morning. I guess without ever really making a conscious decision about it, I've decided to end it with North Shore.

I totally suck at this. I've only ever ended a handful of relationships and I never seem to be completely certain about it. More often than not, I've gone back. But my initial instinct has always proven the right one.

The thing is, when there's nothing really wrong, it's difficult to find a reason to not be with a person- at least for me- especially when you know they're kind of a catch. So it goes with North Shore.

A mutual friend of ours told me as we were about to go on our first date that "he means well." At the time, I was perplexed by what she said because she wouldn't or couldn't explain. But now I totally get it.

He does mean well; picking me up from the airport, bringing me flowers, always calling and keeping in touch when he travels (which is every week). But...he's not very affectionate. He never hugs me, he rarely touches me, and oddly, he never kisses me outside of the bedroom unless it's as a greeting or a good bye. In contrast, I am actually the affectionate one, which is a complete reversal from Kit and I- not that the imbalance there was any better or even preferable to me.

I think the thing that bothers me the most though (more than having next to nothing in common) is how he acted when I had a horrible nightmare and woke up crying. He seemed entirely put out by it and immediately rolled over and went back to sleep without any attempt to comfort me.

Maybe that's immature of me to put such an emphasis on it, but I think it speaks to a larger issue here, which is that I don't feel I'll get what I need based on what I'm getting now. And it's not something I'm going to demand or ask for- it just isn't there. Despite all his good intentions.

Message in a Bottle

2008-08-25T13:15:00.001-05:00

Today is your birthday. You were never mine, and I was never more to you than your dad's on-again/ off-again girlfriend, but I will always remember this day as yours.

And I'll always remember the day we took you to see where you were born, where you first lived as a baby, and the year you raced out of your bedroom dressed up for your fancy grown up birthday dinner. In my mind, I'm imagining how much taller you must be this birthday and which sport and subject is your new favorite.

It's strange not knowing you and not having you in my life anymore. You've been such a light and have changed me in ways I'm still realizing. I worry that you’ll think the silence I keep means I never cared, that I didn’t want you to be a part of my life, or that I gave up on you and your dad. I worry that you will forget me, or that someday you will find reason to hate me.

I’ve had a difficult time saying good bye to you. I can’t. Loving you and letting you go is an entirely different heartache from letting your dad go. It’s a yet unresolved piece of the break up I feel keenly.

But if I could, I would tell you over this silence and distance that I love you, that you are still the cutest boy ever, and that I miss you terribly. Every day.

Cause For the Heebee Jeebies

2008-08-21T14:34:00.008-05:00

Okay, so, can I just take a moment of your time to ask what is P. Demp's deal? Why is he all Tour de France? And all the time no less? It's like every other picture I see of him is either from the red carpet or him on a bike. Which would be fine except for how geeked out he gets. Case in point:

Here we see dear Patrick on a morning bike ride in his LA neighborhood. I don't know about you, but the last time I went for a bike ride around my neighborhood, I wore flip flops, a tank top, and shorts.

Is he really Patrick "McDreamy" (formerly of the USA Professional Bicyclist Association) Dempsey? Is this bike ride brought to us by whatever the hell company that is splashed all over his manness? I just don't get it. The man loves him some spandex....and it kinda weirds me out to be honest. I wish he'd stop. Also, get a hair cut.

Ah hell, who am I kidding? I'd still make out with him. Carry on.

All Too Soon

2008-08-18T13:12:00.003-05:00

So I've been dating and I'm at the point where it's begun to feel.......limiting. And it's making me restless. Like one of those infuriating girls in a novel who has the good luck to meet and charm the “good on paper” guy, only to lope off with a drummer or a grad student or an ex-boyfriend. That’s me.

The guy I’ve been seeing casually, North Shore we’ll call him, is one of those guys- a “good on paper” type. Successful at his job, a Chicago condo owner, close to his family (if to a fault), and with the recommendations of our mutual friends; North Shore is a decent person who treats me well and has, it turns out, had a crush on me since we met three years ago. And although I hadn’t really planned on dating so soon, I found myself less afraid of the prospect when dating again presented itself with him.

That said, I’ve reached an impasse. I'm at the point where you step aside and say to yourself, "if we keep this up, what's ahead?" There's the immediate future, the next four to six months: the weddings, double dates with the already marrieds, the holidays. And the likelihood of the next year: moving in, getting a dog, decorating. And then there's that day with the three-months salary diamond (because everything he does is quite proper), followed by a move to the North Shore (can you hear my groan from there?).

I'm supposed to want all of that. I'm supposed to appreciate it's stability, especially in light of so much previous instability. And maybe I've finally learned my lesson there. The thing is though, while it's not exactly wrong, it's not exactly right either.

My uncertainty about North Shore stems from my recent realization that we really don’t have all that much in common. Whereas I love the arts, reading, travel, riding my bike, checking out events around Chicago, and good wine and fancy restaurant food; he likes to stay home, watch the Cubs and the Bears, drink beer and eat take out bar food, and generally avoids crowds and anything associated with them. He doesn’t cook. Ever. He doesn’t even know where his grocery store is. He doesn’t dance and he doesn’t like the outdoors. And he doesn’t want kids until he’s 35 (yikes).

In contrast, I’ve only been able to gather that we both like the beach, napping, Scrabble, and dogs. Is that enough? Should it matter?

I’ve never dated someone with whom I have so little in common. And because it’s been casual thus far, it hasn’t been a problem. But now that an invite to a destination wedding in the near future has been extended, I can’t help but begin to freak out. I’m concerned about allowing him to purchase my ticket and the commitment it locks me into for the next two months.

Maybe it's that I'm a girl who needs a bit more excitement. Or maybe I need a better balance between a stable future and the freedom to shape it at the same time. Whatever it is, I can't shake the feeling of being held down, boxed up, tucked away. I can't shake the part of me that needs more. Someone I can travel with, cook dinner with, dance with. Something or someone who doesn't leave me wondering "is this all there is?"

Also, he’s a Republican.

Bad Bridesmaid: Part Gazillion

2008-08-15T15:45:00.001-05:00

Now that I've had the (perhaps requisite) time to reflect upon the black taffeta bubble-skirted wedding hoopla, I'm at last ready to regale you (if anyone actually still frequents this sadly kept blog) with the details. Think: pork, country music, grown men in shorts and tennis shoes, a bride mandated dance routine, and koozies. Oh yeah- it was fancy.

What is most important is that my friend was happy with the way it all turned out. That said, it was the most exhausting weekend, setting up tables and centerpieces and the bar and the chairs and the shepherd's hooks and rehearsing and running around with a photographer and the actual ceremony and reception. And that's even after blowing off the brunch (i.e. "hey everybody, come clean up the reception site").

She really did make a beautiful bride though. She was the bride we all picture ourselves as when we're five years old, swishing our bedspreads around the kitchen floor. And her father's toast was touching....the words every girl hopes her father has for her on her wedding day.

But....

There was seating for 150, 205 replied "yes," and around 30 "just showed up." There was only keg beer in red plastic cups and whisky, vodka, and rum drinks (oh, and a random bottle of sour apple Pucker). The ceremony was outside by a cornfield and the highway, and we lucked out by it only being 90 degrees that afternoon. And when it was time for the vows, the officiant got the groom's name wrong.

At the reception, there was the dollar dance (tackiest thing ever- or so I thought) and a bride auction with an actual auctioneer (tackier). The groom removed the garter with his teeth (ew). And I ended up being paged to the dance floor after refusing to join in the tossing of the bouquet. Later, the dancing turned into something one would expect to see (and hear- P*ssy Patrol at a wedding? with children?) in a college bar around 2 am before the lights are about to come on. The groomsmen also decided to remove not only their jackets but their shirts too and started a jack line on the dance floor in their ties and vests with plastic beer cups in hand.

And then, the groomsmen I was paired up with (an engaged father of a one-year-old) decided he was ready to jump ship mid-way through the reception and told me he "wished I was his." Although it was a sort of sweet thing to say I suppose (better than "I want to bang you"), it was pretty inappropriate. But then, I guess, marriage (and weddings for that matter) are a little different where my friend comes from.

Toolbag Wednesday #9: The Bathroom Troll

2008-07-23T09:30:00.005-05:00

It's been a while since I've celebrated toolbaggery in the world, and this one's long overdue. I give you: the Bathroom Troll.

Like that cartoon troll who hides under a bridge in some cracked out fairy tale, requesting a fee to cross and tricking princesses into all sorts of terribleness, this woman is more often than not a bathroom stall away from jumping out and locking you into conversations you don't want to have.

Conversations about her daughter, her daughter's boyfriend, her daughter's boyfriend's cocker spaniel named Fred who went to the vet last month to get his "glands" squeezed. Conversations about her weekend watching a sport that no one in this country gives a hoot about. Conversations about the right hand ring you're wearing. Seriously lady, it's ON MY RIGHT HAND and obviously not an engagement ring, so don't grab at my hand and invite yourself into my private life!

This habit is especially egregious in my world. I am very opinionated about bathroom etiquette. In particular, I regard it as bad form to take the stall next to an occupied one when there are three other perfectly good ones available. I also can't believe that it needs saying, but apparently it does; always wash your freaking hands (I'll spy through the crack to see who you are and then refuse to buy your cookies at the next bake sale), and never wash your feet in the toilet (a woman in line for the ladies room at Navy Pier actually said she was going to do this last weekend- for real). And last, but by no means least, do not for any reason "hang out" in there like it's a god damned lounge or something. Get in, conduct your business, and get out. It's that simple.

Which brings me back to our Toolbag of the week. The Troll loves the bathroom. Loves, loves, loves it. It's like she thinks it's play time and that because all women go to the bathroom eventually, she instantly has SO MUCH in common with you and you're suddenly life-long friends.

My most recent run in with the Troll involved me hiding out in the stall to avoid her while she took her sweet ass time; 1) washing her hands, 2) drying her hands, 3) fixing her hair, 4) brushing her teeth, 5) flossing her teeth, 6) wiping dry the entire counter top, 7) washing her hands again, 8) drying her hands again, and 9) stopping by the mirror one last time before leaving. No joke. I was marooned in there for 15 minutes.

At which point, some other woman (probably one of the Troll's minions) came in to, get this........do her dishes. WTF?

What's Up Down Under, Indeed

2008-07-22T13:29:00.007-05:00

While bonding with my new couch over a marathon of Run's House one lackadaisical Sunday, I found myself rewinding this commercial no less than 8 times in shocked glee to figure out just what the hell was going on there. I even slow-moed it, finally deciphering that it is in fact a pouch and not...something else altogether.

Apparently, I'm not alone in my appreciation for the bizarre turn the Aussie Hair Care team has taken their mass marketing. Last week, the commercial earned the austere recognition of VH1's Best Week Ever.

Just think, someone actually approved this TV spot. Someone actually thought it was a good idea. But really, when you think about it, when isn't it a good idea to have a money shot of your brand's mascot expel your product from a nondescript anatomical location? Everything about that says "awesome," no?

It's a Science Really

2008-07-21T15:18:00.002-05:00

Sheepishly, I admit I haven't been posting much lately. That damn high school reunion came up (wore a deep blue-purple draped tube dress and bronzed sling-backs), I lost and somehow recovered my wallet and all the cash that was in it (!!!!), went to Charleston for the Fourth of July holiday (which proved ever so slightly different as they played "Dixie"), and fainted on the bus home from work one night, (i.e. my worst fucking nightmare about being single in the city- that and the whole choking to death in my apartment thing).

This last and most recent development has turned into a two-week odyssey to figure out just what the fuck is wrong with me. Which is why they made WebMD, right? Accordingly, and in combination with my other lower back symptoms, here are some of their potential diagnoses:

Vasovagal syncope (fancy "doctor" speak for "you fainted, yo")
Hypotension
Snake or spider bite
Anemia
Carpal tunnel syndrome
Vitamin B12 deficiency
Lyme disease

Sweet. Why not?

When Reading Pisses Me Off

2008-07-17T09:44:00.008-05:00

So I'm reading this new book, Emily Giffin's "Love the One You're With," and it makes me want to kick the main character, Ellen, in the head. For real.

It's the kind of book one should be able to read with ease in three or four days given the time. It requires no thought whatsoever. And yet, I've been dragging my feet for weeks now and still am only about half way through it. Truth be told, I don't particularly like Giffin's writing style, but that's not reason enough for me to put a novel down for good, especially when trying a new author.

Instead, each time I read a page (one page!) and Ellen mentions how she's so happy with her husband, Andy, but can't help thinking about the way that Leo's hand brushed her own that day in the diner after bumping into one another, my first impulse is to fling the blasphemous diatribe at the door on the Metra, all the while shaking my head at her sheer stupidity.

In the moment, I can actually see myself throwing the book and everyone wondering what the hell is wrong with the crazy girl on the train. It's like having Terrets of the mind. Of course, I don't actually do any of this, just like I don't actually stand up in church and ever-so-audibly assert "no" as I imagine in my own mind while everyone else is kneeling in prayer.

That said, I've really caught myself off guard with this one. I had no idea I'd have such a reaction to a plotline that circles around the premise that there's always that one guy that holds a certain power over your heart. No matter how long it's been or how happy you may be. I should have known better than to assume there'd be no repercussions to my reading such prose.

But there I sit, snapping the book shut with a groan every three or four pages as Ellen narrates her ill-advised love triangle. I can't not read it, but neither can I seem to find any enjoyment in the opposite. What I have found, however, is that this story somehow has provided me the opportunity to realize I'm not susceptible to romanticizing what almost-but-never-was for me. So as much as I still want to kick that predictably nostalgic Ellen in her head, that's reason enough for me to keep on reading.

Unrequited

2008-06-30T10:41:00.004-05:00

I saw this on Post Secret and felt that all too familiar pang. That recognition of unfairness, of the words I so wanted to hear, then heard far too often.

Sometimes it just doesn't matter anymore. Sometimes it's just, more than, too late.

Step Away from the Blackberry, Ma'am

2008-06-27T07:46:00.006-05:00

So I'm getting ready for work this morning when my tummy rumbles. And my first thought is:

"Did my phone just vibrate?"

Yeah. I know.

Bad Bridesmaid: Part 5

2008-06-26T07:55:00.008-05:00

Oh holy hell, here we go.

I got an "invite" in the mail from Mara's soon to be mother-in-law for the rehearsal and dinner, and caught myself shaking my head at the saddest thing ever. The whole idea of sending an invite when I'm a bridesmaid struck me as odd too, but that's beside the point.

It was printed on 8 x 11 plain computer paper in all caps Arial font- without adornment, sentence structure, or spell checking apparently. Hors d'oeurves is a difficult word, and there's conflicting spellings online, but...hordeurs? If you think that's bad, how about misspelling the bride's name? For real.

The invite went on to direct me to wear shorts and flip flops (because the reception hall will not be air conditioned?) Oh, and I should bring a dish to pass (I wonder if anyone has cornered the market on a jello mold...).

Maybe it's just me, but the whole thing just seems wrong. When I asked a coworker what she thought about it, handing the fledgling print out to her, she looked up at me in dismay asking, "what is this?" Exactly.

This isn't really about me complaining (for once). Instead, this is me feeling weird for my friend about the state of events. The whole process has been a disaster. Most recently for example, the bridal shower her mother "planned" (where five people sent in their RSVPs and 25 showed up and proceeded to eat the fruit salad out of the plastic serving tub with their fingers) was a brand of disaster that left me firing up the Jimmy Buffet Margaritaville blender at noon on the dot.

Later that day, half the girls who were supposed to come to the bachelorette party backed out at the last minute- kindly leaving the maid of honor and I to pick up the $200 hotel (okay, so I am complaining about that). The ones who did come didn't chip in at all and didn't even bring a gift. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure why they even came because they were only there for two hours. And now this.

I just don't even know. I mean....uh...I...ummm....yeah. I guess I hoped for more for Mara. I hate myself for thinking this way- for judging- because it's her wedding and maybe she's fine with everything (though she didn't seem fine at the shower) and my concern is misplaced. It's lame and bitchy and whatever else you want to call it. But there it is.

I'm a bad bridesmaid. Bad, bad, bad bridesmaid.

Caution: Dating May Appear Closer Than Intended

2008-06-25T15:30:00.002-05:00

Yesterday on the bus home from work, the Trixie behind me was on her phone detailing her date with "Ben:"

"So then I invited him upstairs to meet Peako.....oh, she absolutely loved him! And you know she doesn't like ANYBODY, so that's saying a lot.....well, then we went out on the balcony and sat with a glass of wine....yes, I let him kiss me....yes, that was it....I know....I know....it was VERY grown up...sooooo different from Brad."

It was a timely conversation to have overheard. I'm beginning to think about these things. Things I honestly believed I was done with. Things like first date kissing, whether offering to pay and actually intending to do so go hand-in-hand, what really happens at the end of the third date, and exactly how many dates is typical these days anyway.

It's been two and a half years since I went on a first date. It's a bit unnerving to admit. I mean, who am I on a date these days anyway? Am I coy? Am I straightforward? Am I down-to-earth? Am I funny? Am I a big dork? Am I sexy? Really?

The last time I dated, I didn't go into it with the best mindset, let alone intentions, and it turned into a whole bucketful of drama. Rebounding, whether it's just sex or something more, is completely shitty to the other people involved. Always.

Knowing that, I'm wary of the idea of being "out there," of the idea of learning about someone new, tasting their foreign kisses, admitting my weaknesses. All. Over. Again.

And yet, here I am being asked out on a date by someone I sort of already know and actually like. Here I am answering...yes?

Speaking of...

2008-06-23T12:24:00.006-05:00

Poor sad blog....forgotten, disheveled, mistreated...manhandled? Is it really true that you have seen nary a mundane nor a toolbag post from me in over a week? Forsaken. For shame.

Apologetically, I must note that it is summer, so very little time is spent within doors (thank you Stuff White People Like for pointing out how this makes me an especially white person). And while blogging is my preferred method of avoiding doing any real work, it has also become second to my brazen new hobby of mid-afternoon napping. I've reached new lows around here and it ain't pretty....but at least I'm going home at the end of the day more rested, so there's that.

Over the last few weeks there's been a lot going on in truth. There was Graphic Designer Friend's wedding, i.e. the first wedding I've attended where I went as a single person sans date. I would say that while it was a beautiful wedding and she made a beautiful bride, it certainly wasn't a very encouraging experience in the way of dateless wedding revelry. EVERYBODY had a date and EVERYBODY included the "singles table."

Then came the magical birthday pubcrawl, wherein I celebrated with a whopping FIVE gin and tonics and two JELLO shots (really). Deciding my dress from Forever 21 was too "Sunday brunch" (how is this even possible given the retailer?), I chopped off no less than three inches from the hemline. Highlights of the evening included random deviled-eggs that were merchandised on a buffet table in a pizza box (Friar Tuck's is nothing but klass- yes, with a "k"), the double bulls eye I threw straight off in darts, and the kickass pancakes and bacon I had at 3 am at the Golden Nugget (that was before I spilled water all over Emo).

After that came Mara's bachelorette party. I've thought long and hard about what to say about it, but ultimately it boils down to these few phrases: body shots, grinding, neck-sucking, bra slinging, riding, table dancing, Big Pimpin', body shots, giant pizza in bed. Yeah. I've never been a part of, let alone witnessed, anything the likes of her bachelorette. It was like what I would imagine happening in Vegas or on Spring Break. On crack. Regardless, a very entertaining evening and she gave us disposable cameras (seriously) so there's photographic evidence.

And on a final note, I ventured to Taco Bell for dinner one night last week and encountered the new big meal in a box or whatever they're calling this craziness. I was tempted, okay- more like beckoned- to order it and proceed to gorge myself on its ground beef, cheese, tortilla, gordita, fiesta salsa madness. Alas, I knew I'd be no match- I had eaten lunch that day. Oddly enough, I became suddenly aware that a lot of 20 something single dudes tend to pop in there after work too, so get on that ladies.

Oh, and one more thing, on the walk home sucking on my Dr. Pepper and indulging in the last vestiges of calm noise levels and clean air before the Crosstown Classic, I think I spotted a used Kinoki foot pad on the sidewalk.

Also, the fucking Knot keeps sending me lame ass email forwards about "90+ Bouquets We Love" and "Centerpiece Alternatives for the Modern Bride." More summer revelry to come....

Toolbag Wednesday #8: Hodgkins, IL

2008-06-11T08:57:00.002-05:00

I love to shop online. If it exists, someone is invariably already selling it online. And I love to bargain shop online too. Not so much eBay as a quick search on Google's "shopping." And despite gas prices, I can pretty much count on getting free shipping in addition to avoiding sales tax from my favorite sites.

But it's not a completely perfect means to satiating my need for instant gratification, my need for those Me Too black skimmers from zappos to get here this second. Oh no. Not if that coveted treasure is being shipped UPS to Chicago.

See, there's this jacked up place called Hodgkins, IL. Hodgkins is the blackhole of shipping and handling. It is the time suck on UPS efficiency. It is the blue balls of online package tracking (no pun intended...okay maybe).

Packages that would otherwise arrive in the estimated 3-5 day window wind up spending a whole day carousing in your slutty clutches. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. Even if the package originates in, say, Forest Park, IL as was the most recent case. That package- my Amazon order for Sedaris' new book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, and Emily Giffin's Love the One You're With- did its time there and has finally arrived a week later.

Oh Hodgkins, how I detest your unavoidable delay, your hub status as the "largest package sorting center in the world." You most certainly are the Toolbag today. You dirty, dirty tease.

Bring It, 1998

2008-06-10T15:33:00.014-05:00

So my 10 year high school reunion is a mere two weeks from Saturday and I need to get serious about the dress. I'm thinking something hot- not "cute," something that showcases- nay, celebrates- the fact that I have not yet produced any children. I want a dress that takes my former classmates out to the bike racks and slaps them across the face with the realization I'm the same dress size as a decade earlier.

Normally, I'd go straight to BCBG for one of their "cute" strapless A-line confections that I adore. Instead, I've been scouring the web for something sleek, but classy (at this point, I'm even open to a deflated bubble skirt, and that's saying a lot). Here are some of the candidates:

Thoughts?

Shitty Birthday

2008-06-05T15:52:00.005-05:00

Dear God/ Omnipotent/ Third-party/ Carebear Neighbor/ Man-Woman-Person-Thing:

So hi. It's me. You know, the BIRTHDAY GIRL. Yeah, so far it's been a pretty awesome day and all despite the apocolyse cloud-cover this morning and the raging heat that is descending on my fine city. Oh, and the whole bird pooping on my arm thing. Speaking of....

Did I, like, piss you off or something? 'Cause it's my birthday and you, like, let a bird take its morning dump on me. Maybe you were busy and didn't notice, so let me paint you a picture.

There I was in my fancy birthday dress (because I always wear a dress on my birthday, but you already knew that) hauling ass from the train station to work with my cupcake carrier in tow, thinking to myself: "Myself, I think it just might start raining. It sure looks like it's going to.....AHA! The first rain drop! Wait a minute, that's not water. That's.....SHIT!"

Maybe it was the time I used your name in vain or that time I didn't go to church on Easter or how I used to want an Earth-killing SUV before I knew any better...I don't know...there's just so many things you could be pissy with me about. Take your pick, right? Hahaha.

In short, I hope we can be friends again and you could, maybe, I don't know....have birds go back to not shitting on me. That was nice. Can we do that again?

Thanks and "You" Bless,

The Birthday Girl

P.S. Also, thank you for making Tivo.

Minding the Gap

2008-06-03T09:22:00.013-05:00

It's difficult not to feel nostalgic this week. Difficult to keep the "at this time last year"s to a minimum.

The caveat to that is that I'm actually doing quite well given the sadness of letting go. It's been two months since our break up and in that time I've joined a gym, read a ridiculous amount of books, seen my friends and family more, completely redecorated my apartment, and begun planning my next big adventure across the pond. The last of which, ironically, also leads me toward "at this time last year."

Because I want to go back. Desperately. And I can't help but think about the circumstances and the man that brought me to London in the first place. While there were still squabbles and impatience, it was an amazing experience for which I will always be grateful to him.

Knowing this, my birthday will be very different this year from last. There will be no dancing with the Chapel-en-le-Frith Morris Men, no ancient cathedral and its stained glass windows to admire, no fog-filled walk before daybreak into the hills of Derbyshire, no fancy London hotels or dinners, no one like him to share it with. That I have these memories at all is bittersweet, but more milk than dark chocolate.

In their place there will be many friends both new and old, there will be cupcakes and a second viewing of the Sex and the City movie, and then, a visit to the farmer's market for peonies, a hair appointment and mani-pedi, and a celebratory pubcrawl.

In truth, I look back at 27 with more happiness than sadness in my eyes and with excitement at the possibility of "by this time next year." I have a feeling 28 will be a very different kind of year for me. And I think I like it.

Now That I Finally Know

2008-05-30T03:01:00.006-05:00

Originally, I had a very different kind of post written for after the movie. In it, I was light-hearted and silly and my words conveyed my sight-unseen-certainty that it would be everything I wanted it to be. And without any hints or spoilers of any kind here, I will tell you that it is that and more.

A few hours ago, I sat fidgeting in my seat in a crowd of scantily-clad and stiletto-heeled women. I forewent my beloved movie nachos for fear they'd be too much of a distraction. I laughed, I applauded, I wept. After years of the same old moves on TBS, Sex is just as good as it ever was.

But it's the kind of Sex that makes me feel...reflective. The words I'd intended were mentally deleted even before the lights dimmed. In their place, I was remembering how I first came upon the show as a freshman in college and the embarrassment I felt at liking something that spoke so frankly about sex, until my friends admitted to watching it too. Soon we all were watching it together every Sunday night.

And I was reflective of all that has happened since. A lot to say the least. Four apartments. A handful of boyfriends- one or two serious. A master's degree. Two jobs. The friends I watched season one with are now long gone (although one disturbingly pops up on my bus route to work more often than I'd like), the heart I thought had felt love and been broken at the time had another thing coming, and I finally found balance in my life.

Six years of what might seem like a silly TV show, but had this undeniable presence in shaping my beliefs and perceptions about love and friendship and myself. I'm amazed at the memory of who I was at 18, watching it on TV in secret. And I'm amazed at who I've become, going to see the movie in downtown Chicago, coming home to my own apartment undergoing its own redecoration (the new couch arrives tomorrow!).

In this reflective state, I watched this movie and I got it. It felt authentic. Maybe it always would have, maybe I'm grasping at straws, or maybe it's the life experiences I've had of my own since 2004 that vouch for accuracy. At any rate, I'm sure you'll have reflections of your own. Oh, and of course, that you'll love it.

36 Hours, 4 Minutes, 21 Seconds

2008-05-28T09:56:00.011-05:00

I had a bad dream last night. A very bad dream. I dreamt that my pre-purchased ticket to the midnight showing of the Sex and the City movie was actually for Saturday night rather than tomorrow. Horrible, no?

Upon waking, I confirmed that in my haste to procure a ticket the moment they went on sale, I still managed to get one for the first publicly available showing in Chicago. Is it cliche yet to say I can't wait?

With all the gossip on plot lines and costume changes swirling about these days, I've become hyper-vigilant to accidentally acquiring too much information about the movie's outcome. I. Do. Not. Want. To. Know. So help me God.

But while the world screams and wails with glee at their weekend-long cosmo-guzzling SATC parties, I'll be playing Scrabble and eating at Panera with my grandma. That is not a complaint, mind you. But, more than my own fanaticism, this is largely why I will be up and about long past my bedtime tomorrow night. It is my earliest and only chance to see what happens before next week. And I simply cannot stand not knowing what happens for that long. Or risk surreptitiously finding out.

I know that this movie may turn out to be a horrible disappointment, that all our hopes for Carrie and Big may come to naught, that the improbability of four fast friends such as these to amass let alone maintain such posh lifestyles in New York will become even more glaringly unrealistic, that in the end we'll be reminded that life is not a fairy tale after all. And I don't care.

My only real hope for the plot is to find out how they all became friends in the first place- like they did that time on Friends when Monica was in a fatsuit and Rachel was pre-nose job. As boring as that sounds, I've always wondered and wished they'd have told us that rather than Big's name (which I've since, and perhaps purposely, forgotten because he will always be 'Big') in the finale.

Even so, it may be that as it grows light out and I finally crawl into bed, I'll fall asleep easily rather than lay awake tossing and turning from the adrenaline rush of what I've just seen. Maybe.

Despite the real potential for a real letdown, somehow I feel certain that, at the very least, the movie will be a feast for my fashion-hungry eyes. And besides, isn't it always better to have loved and lost than to have never [found out what the movie would be like] at all?

Bad Bridesmaid: Part 4

2008-05-22T11:31:00.012-05:00

I’m swimming in a sea of wedding registries. Soup tureens. Fluted stemware. Salad spinners. A Nintendo Wii (people, you don't have to get married to get one). Satin Balance flatware. Matte pointelle fine bone china. The Magic Bullet (not that magic bullet- the one "as seen on TV"). Spatulas, gravy ladles, napkin rings, chargers, decanters, pepper mills, butter dishes. A chainsaw (seriously).

WeddingPalooza ’08 has hit its stride. Wedding #1 (gift card- got to the registry too late) culminated in mid January, and Wedding #2 (pancake batter dispenser, batter bowl, spatulas, silicone oven mitt, and dish towels- because she loves pancakes and makes really good ones) takes place Sunday. And now it's onto the next: I’m perusing options for Wedding #3 and #4 for August, with shower gifts to be purchased for June and July respectively.

In general, I'm of the mindset that wedding presents should be memorable, personal, and useful. But each of the couples comprising WeddingPalooza ’08 also cohabitate (in one case for five years), which means they already have a lot of this stuff anyway.

So, I was thinking, how funny would it be if “the couple who already has everything” registered at, oh, I don’t know....Skymall for example. They could request such fine items as...

This classy decorative wall hanging; only $98.95:

Or this hot dog cart for a whopping $499.99, which could also serve as an extra source of income during the summer months:

Or this mini big foot sculpture for the garden, available now at the affordable price of $98.95:

Or perhaps even a new-fangled “Litter Robot” ($299.99) for the cat-loving couple:

I mean, who wouldn’t want these prizes of domestic bliss?

In all seriousness though, I really do love picking out the perfect card and present and wrapping it up all fancy like. I’ve just reached the point where I can’t keep everyone’s shower and wedding presents and registries separate. And the floor of my bedroom is beginning to look like I’ve registered at Crate & Barrel!

Note: No, you can’t register at Skymall (yet), but you can set up a "wishlist" (for one of these perhaps?).

Toolbag Wednesday #7: Hyuk Norris

2008-05-21T07:42:00.009-05:00

It was only a matter of time really. In fact, now that I think of it, I'm surprised he hasn't had a showing until now.

My boss, Shucky, AKA Hyuk Norris, Count Hyukula, Hyukleberry Finn, Hyukzilla, Hyuk Bass (gotta give me the Gossip Girl reference); is THE most obvious Toolbag of all. Prime Toolbag material.

So what prompted his finally appearing on this the seventh Wednesday in Toolbag Town? Where do I begin?

Let's see...the fact that he is so dubbed "Hyuk" due to his unfortunate penchant at *incredibly fake* laughter which makes the nomenclature not only my sole opportunity at creativity on the job but also an appropriate onomatopoeia (i.e. his loud and obnoxious laugh sounds exactly like it's spelled: "hyuk"- repeated in rapid succession).

Or perhaps its the micro-managing of which I have previously blogged. Or his sincere love of the phrase "quick and dirty" (EW!) in reference to getting projects done, which is rife with irony as I'm on version 22 of a press release from December.....typically something that, by definition, is intended to be important and timely.

Or perhaps his tendency to run around the office every time a new piece of work, fortuitously in his mind, drops from the sky and he gets to freak out and turn everything into a "fire drill." Or how he stinks up his office, the conference room, the hallway...anywhere within a 10-foot radius with the nicotine that spews from his mouth and oozes from every pore.

To me, these are all great reasons to award him the Toolbag Trophy; however, they're so rampant that the exposure has nearly desensitized me to their annoying toolbaggery. Also, I feel guilty because underneath it all he's actually a nice person who just unfortunately cares a bit too much about his stupid little job as a MIDDLE MANAGER. Seriously dude, chill the fuck out. You're not that important.

Ultimately though, he gets the Toolbag title for his excessively unsanitary habit of taking print outs of work into the men's room that he then hands off with scribbled comments to me and others in the department. It's just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Wrong.

I mean, what does he do with those papers while, you know, uh...yeah. God, even the thought of him in there with something that moments later will reappear on my desk turns my stomach. I don't want to know. I don't even want to think of the mechanics involved. And I certainly don't want his personal business on my professional business. Ever. Ever ever.

That shit's just nasty (no pun intended).

It's a Bittersweet Happiness, Really

2008-05-20T11:25:00.006-05:00

Mostly it's a good thing. But then there's that one day that proves harder than the others.

Waking up, you just know. The dreams about closure and good bye don't help. In them you're working through what you can't seem to otherwise. But in the daylight there's everything that comprises a life to fill the hours until you're home again. Where it's quiet. Where you can think as much or as little about it as you allow.

Maybe in those waning hours you indulge your tendency to wallow. You let yourself acknowledge your sadness again at how it all turned out. It's not an angry sentiment- not anymore- certainly not what you left with.

It's the learning to live without him and the letting go. It's the memories that wrap around you- sometimes a comfort, others still a choking pang. It's the learning to let that be enough, to somehow have that be okay too.

Some days are harder than others still- to have known him, but now...

Harder to know what love is- how complicated and painful it became- and to willingly choose this time to let it fade away.

Pour One for the Homies at Starbucks

2008-05-18T10:41:00.005-05:00

I was at Starbucks yesterday for a blueberry scone and grande coffee, and asked them to leave room for cream. After, as I stood at the counter pouring it and the sugar into the cup, I watched three other people come over and pour out the top quarter of their drinks and begin to also add cream and sugar. Which got me to thinking...

What with all the "green" talk these days and fears of being wasteful of anything (I've even taken to washing out and recycling my plastic sandwich baggies), it seems, well...wasteful to just pour perfectly good and *expensive* coffee into the garbage like that. Just think about how many people do that at one Starbucks, let alone any coffee establishment, in a given morning.

And then it hit me. As I watched another guy pour out his coffee, I was this..........close to asking him if it was "for the homies" (I decided not to lest he think this Crazy was trying to hit on him or something). But it made me smile and maybe it will make you do the same.

I don't know what Starbucks would do with all that coffee, but maybe they could turn it into some kind of "science fair thingie" and have a community bucket where people dump that excess instead of throwing it out.

Or they could turn it into a charity type thing where when the bucket level reaches a certain point, they then would donate like a $1 or something for some water project or free trade thing somewhere in the world.

And even though it's not like they could resell it or anything, I think it might encourage people to think about their own wasteful habits and give them an opportunity to take a portion of their purchased product that they would normally throw out and turn it into a donation.

I don't know. It's not really a fully cultivated thought. But they might want to look into something like that because, you know, they're actually closing Starbucks these days.

P.S. I'm making my own coffee at home this morning.

Toolbag Wednesday #6: Andy Bernard & My Tivo

2008-05-16T09:45:00.011-05:00

Happy Belated Toolbag Wednesday. For this week, it seems that my Tivo and Andy Bernard were in cahoots.

A big thank you to my Tivo for inexplicably not recording the first 17 minutes of last night's The Office finale. WTF?

After an afternoon at the Cubs game, I had sauntered home on my two-beer buzz, only to fall into a three hour nap. Awakening with a sixth sense of there being something seriously wrong, I rolled out of bed into the living room to find that the red light on the Tivo was dark. For whatever freaking reason, the season pass that's set up to record any and all Office episodes didn't pick it up at all and if I hadn't woken up when I did, I'd have missed the whole damn thing! Stupid Tivo. If I didn't normally love you so much, I'd say you just tapped the keg on haterade.

And then, there's the second toolbag for the week: namely, one Andy Bernard. Seriously, what a douche. Just as all of our Jam (Jim + Pam) hopes were coming to fruition, he steals Jim's thunder. Jackass.

Pam's disappointment, her face at the end of the night when she admitted she really thought he would ask, was so sad, such a let-down, that felt so...familiar.

Of course, I didn't think the whole proposal thing would be smooth sailing- because how is that "good TV" after all?- but I guess, deep down, I hoped it would be.

Stupid Andy. I know you're just a character on a TV show, but if I saw you walking down the street, I'd throw a burrito at you. Even if I had to go buy one just to do it. Or maybe just spit my gum at you instead. Toolbag.

Foot Maxi Pads

2008-05-08T15:09:00.011-05:00

This is straight up the nastiest thing EVER.

I was watching TV the other night and this commercial for "ancient Japanese" Kinoki foot pads came on. Apparently, they *miraculously* detox your whole body of such harmful things as mercury, asbestos, lead, and cellulite. Sounds pretty sweet, right?

To help explain the "science" behind these Always with Wings for your feet, they offer up diagrams and charts and "consumer feedback." They even have this handy graphic that draws a parallel between the way a tree brings in energy through its leaves and then expels "byproduct" through its roots. I'm no botanist or anything, but don't trees pull in water and nutrients through their leaves and roots?

As I sat mesmerized by the sheer stupidity I was witnessing, the commercial proceeded to show a Lifetime TV-style reenactment of a gullible crazy-assed lady affixing these pads before crawling into bed. Now, I'm thinking that those things would peel right off in the middle of the night and end up lodged at the bottom of the bed, buried between the covers like that one sock that always ends up missing until you change the sheets.

And then, when she wakes up-- I don't know if Crazy's husband is playing tricks on her in the middle of the night or what-- she *happily* removes her foot pad without the slightest bit of disgust at what she sees:

Are you screaming yet? BECAUSE I AM!

Seriously, WTF?!?!?!?!?!?! I don't know about you, but if my foot spawned something like this I would a) throw up, b) see a doctor, and c) apologize profusely to the poor soul sharing the bed with me as I threw him out and burned all the linens.

Don't these people WASH their feet? Seriously people, WASH YOUR FEET. And don't eat asbestos. That's not cool.

Toolbag Wednesday #5: Bubble Skirts

2008-05-07T10:23:00.012-05:00

Formerly perceived to be an anomaly of the bridal industry (see my bubbletastic bridesmaid dress for August wedding #1), bubble skirts seem to be cropping up everywhere this spring.

Are we really going there? Really? Is this what we're doing now?

For example, in a quick perusal of Nordstrom's online recommendations for wedding guests, these fine specimens of dress-making savvy appeared.....

Demure bubble (I'd be ashamed too):

Overpriced bubble ($630!!!!!):

I hate the bride bubble (how can they seriously be recommending white for a wedding?):

Cracked out bubble (go big or go home):

The only good reason that I can think of for owning a bubble skirt (other than not having a choice, i.e. the servitude of bridesmaidhood) is the potential that the hemming could anchor a skirt in place in a brisk Chicago gale. But even the convenience of not having to worry about flashing my lady bits to innocent bystanders isn't a strong enough provocation (for me at least) to buy one. That and I'm a big believer in underwear...even a terrorist thong.

I stand on principle and assert that bubble skirts are hateful; toolbags even. They discourteously muck up (above examples excluded- those dresses are too far gone to be helped) what would otherwise be innocuous hemlines. Why bubble? Why?

OMFG: Gossip Girl Recap

2008-05-06T09:12:00.005-05:00

Oh my effing God! We're all still squealing in the office this morning. Gossip Girl was freaking AWESOME last night!!!! Tell me you've seen it. Anyone? Anyone?

If you didn't catch the episode, then do not read this. If you did, have at it. You won't be disappointed.

All I can say is a big thank you to my coworkers who brought me begrudgingly over to the dark side last fall. I can't believe I might have missed out on all this teenage angst and Upper East Side drama. Especially now that Socialite Rank is defunct.

In fact, last night's episode was so good that after Serena's bloated tear-stained confession to Blair (and I realize what I'm about to say verges on sacrilege- more than my blog title?), I couldn't have cared less about what happened (or didn't happen) on The Hills.

Love, By Definition

2008-05-04T08:41:00.005-05:00

I had been drinking. It was Easter Sunday and five years had just ended over the phone. My visiting parents sat on my couch, waiting for the ham to finish glazing.

And that's when I blurted it out. I don't know where it came from- the little girl who watched her parents scream at each other her entire childhood? Who couldn't hide in her room enough to hide from her own mind? Or from the adult who questions their resolve to remain married after 28 years, forced to live apart by his job and their inability to find a buyer for their house? Maybe. Absolutely.

Mom took advantage of my outburst to head to the kitchen and rinse a few plates before setting the table. In addition to my failures in dating, I also fail at keeping dishes out of the sink. We all knew she was straining to hear his answer, and in her absence, my question hung there.

"Dad, do you love Mom?"

In reflection, I know I certainly hadn't planned on asking what is just assumed, taken for granted, a given. They've been a part of each other since flirting in the seventh grade.

"Yes," he replied without pause or doubt. It was matter of fact, but he didn't look at me. And the apartment let out a breath.

"How do you know?" I pursued from the primary example of love in my life. Kitchen drawers opened in the furtive search for dish towels.

"Because I do things for her that I don't really want to do and wouldn't do for anyone else. Because it's important to her and because she's important to me."

I sat quiet for a moment. Prepared to debate his answer and declare it inadequate, my prejudiced judgement deflated.

I nodded to him, admitting, "There may just be something to that," and rose to help with setting the table.

We Do the Best We Can

2008-04-30T11:09:00.030-05:00

In lieu of designating a toolbag this Wednesday, I'd really rather write about something that's been on my mind the last couple of days.

We had gathered for Graphic Designer Friend's Bachelorette and amid the tasteful if not sedate revelry, one of my other coworkers (22 and the instigator of the "gooch" lunchroom incident) approached me for some "soccer mom" advice as she put it. Turns out she's dating a man three years older than her who is divorced and has a four year old, a four year old who is, as she explained, "causing problems" for her and her relationship.

As I stood there, a mere cocktail into the evening, listening to her take on the matter, to her struggles with balancing a newly-formed relationship and the culture shock that is the hyperbolic role of daddy's girlfriend and pseudo-stepmom, I both related to and rejected the emotional connection I instantly recognized between us. It was familiar. And painfully close.

It's a place I never imagined I'd be. Neither at 22, nor at 27.

At her age, like her just starting out in an adult world of career, apartment, and endless possibility; I embraced the love of a man 13 years my senior, divorced, and with a son. And I was naive and optimistic and adrift in my new found role. I was dropped into a fishbowl of my own choosing, leaping before looking, convinced I was embarking on an adventure that was certainly worth the potential payoff. Somehow I managed to keep my head above water. Just.

But it was not to be of course. The pressures and near misses of the next five years proved to be too much for our little engine that could.

I waited a long time before responding to her question. I hedged and apologized for my perspective and even offered that I might not be the best person to offer advice given my own outcome. Still, I was flattered that she would think of me, reach out to me for the answers and semblance of support that I myself longed for all those years ago and each one along the way.

And what could I say really? That it takes a lot of patience and compassion for each person involved, especially when a child is involved- especially a daughter who views daddy's girlfriend as a threat and in competition for his attentions, while at the same time rejecting any notion that his girlfriend might "mother" her?

What people sometimes forget or overlook is the challenge we outsiders feel. It's such a precarious place to be- not a part of the "family," not a parent, not a spouse, not anything to anyone really. But there everyday nonetheless.

It can wear upon a person kept outside, kept in that place for far too long, kept at a distance without support or appreciation or understanding. I understood what she was saying too well. And I wanted to keep my own frustrations and disappointments from my "advice." I don't know that I was ultimately successful.

All I could offer her in the end was what I wish someone could have told me at the very beginning, before the emotional involvement, before all that came after. I told her how it takes a special kind of person- a person most people are not, and really cannot be expected to be, at 22 or 23 or 24- to date a divorced father or mother.

I told her how it takes a person capable of not only accepting, but loving and caring for another couple's child. A child you'll likely come to love, but for whom you still have no rights to. A person who is mature enough and patient enough and secure enough to understand and not be threatened by the lingering ties between divorced parents who share a common history and a series of firsts for which you will never have with the one you are with- the first home, the first marriage, the first child.

And how it takes a special person who can do so without much understanding or support from friends or family who most likely cannot relate and may dole out judgment instead for the choices you make. It takes a person willing to gamble that the sacrifices inevitably required in such a relationship today are worth the chance at many happy tomorrows.

As for me, I wouldn't trade the journey my 20s have taken me on and I wouldn't trade the people and experiences that have passed through my life in the past five years, making me into the person I am today. I regret nothing. It was the gamble that I took, even though the odds were against me. But if someone had stood there, as I did the other night, alerting me to the likely pain that would come, I'd have clung to their advice. And done no differently.

The next day she thanked me for the understanding I shared, for my retrospective advice tempered with due restraint. Her view remains optimistic; believing in herself and the one she loves to face and conquer the challenges ahead. And really, no matter the relationship, that's the best that each of us can do.

Poor, Poor Tulips

2008-04-28T14:43:00.003-05:00

As if Monday isn't a sucky enough day, it's SNOWING. Seriously. Whole big grandpa flakes. Wretched, angry, spitting, smack you in your eye ball, take you out back and steal your lunch money snow.

In April. Late April. With May a mere two days away.

I hate winter.

Should've Gotten People

2008-04-25T09:05:00.010-05:00

The "Money Train" has run out for Wesley Snipes.

And I can't help but think if he had people, he might not be going to jail for three years. But I guess they're saying it was less accidental and more that he willfully refused to pay $2.7 million in taxes over three years. Ooops.

As for me, I got people and am now happily parting with my hand-me-down furniture and redecorating with an I'm-a-big-girl-now couch, coffee table, bookshelves, and flat screen TV. Makes me almost feel like an adult!

Toolbag Wednesday #4: National "Take Your Kids to Work Day"

2008-04-23T10:13:00.012-05:00

This is a really good one.

I realize that tomorrow's National Take Your Daughters and Sons to Work Day is supposed to be a good thing, but HOLY HELL IS IT TAKING OVER MY LIFE! Which of course, makes it this week's Toolbag. I know you're thinking "Nic, how can a nationally designated day be a toolbag?" but this here blog is my party and I can cry if I want to, okay?

This isn't the first time an office Activity Team event has accosted every ounce of my brain power and sucked up work hours with abandon. But where I willingly took on the Secret Elf festivity, I was drafted into orchestrating an art activity that will *hopefully* educate and entertain no fewer than 30 (!!!!) first through third graders tomorrow morning. Pray for me.

And on the eve of the blessed day, as I gather my glue sticks and construction paper and poster board, it sickens me to realize that in the hour they have to complete the activity, I will have spent nearly four days in preparation.

Regardless, I'm hoping for the best here and am optimistic that I can handle it (I can, can't I?). At least I know where their parents are if they get ornery or become mutinous.

Gym Misadventures

2008-04-22T21:07:00.007-05:00

I am now the "proud" owner of a $110/ month membership fee. I finally joined the gym. The same gym, if you'll remember, that I was tinkering with joining last month. I guess you could say it's a bad sign that I'll actually go when I could barely get there to join in the first place. But join I did.

Afterward, I found myself in my too-white white and silver and periwinkle New Balance shoes on a treadmill (because I couldn't figure out how to turn the elliptical on...you'd think it was the "green" button, but it's not...it also isn't any of the other random buttons I pushed before sheepishly slinking away either). Sixty minutes later, I was acquainted with just how seriously hokey and dumb and STRANGE Dancing with the Stars is. Oh, and I managed to walk/ run 3.5 miles. Booya.

I realize for most people that might sound like their "warm up," but for me it's a really big deal. I don't run. Ever. Well, unless it's to catch a bus or train, and that doesn't really count. Still, that's pretty much how I approached the whole running on the treadmill thing...short bursts of jogging, followed by much speed walking and panting, and then more running. Only this time, I wasn't in heels.

I also wasn't running as fast or for as long as the girl next to me, which leads me to think they should make blinders like they do for horses but for people on treadmills so they're not discouraged. Just a thought.

Stepping off the treadmill, my face looked as though it would explode and I was sweating despite previously thinking myself above needing a towel. Oh, and I felt like I was the FASTEST WALKER IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD. As I glided toward the locker room, I prayed I wouldn't fall over and make a scene. I guess treadmills will do that you.

Nevertheless, the whole experience had me laughing at myself (still) and looking forward to going back. Maybe next time I'll even figure out how to use that elusive elliptical!

Bad Bridesmaid: Part 3

2008-04-21T12:21:00.007-05:00

It was another "fun-filled" weekend of bridesmaidly duties, i.e. creating a plethora of boutonnieres for everyone of the male gender within 10 miles of this wedding, pomanders (which I think is just a superfluous way of describing what are essentially "rose balls"), bouquets for the bride and bridesmaids, and table centerpieces.

At times, it felt a bit like indentured servitude, albeit with Rum Runner cocktails and seven-layer salad. And as it turns out, I'm quite good at wielding a wire cutter.

The other highlight of the weekend included the doling out of our bridesmaid gowns, which in a word are "bubble-tastic." Observe:

Our dresses are actually black taffeta, but you get the gist. Fancy, no? Exactly...decidedly, no. I've been forewarned that it will be my duty to tie and retie the bow for everyone since no one seemed able to do so to the bride's satisfaction. Lucky me.

Later that day, I got to artfully explain to my friend the bride's inquiry why she's receiving such negative feedback on her choice of ham for the reception.

I know, I know...I'm snarky. I blame the bubble skirt.

An Illinois Earthquake???

2008-04-18T05:55:00.005-05:00

Absurd. Absolutely absurd. An earthquake in Illinois. Illinois! I'm shocked, but delighted to learn I'm not crazy.

This morning, about an hour before my alarm was to go off, I woke up to the sound of the long beaded necklaces hanging from a corner of my dresser mirror clanging ever so slightly. That, and my bed was shaking. My whole bed, shaking.

I layed there unmoving, not sure what was happening or what to do. For a moment, I actually considered it might be an earthquake. But how could that be? This is the Midwest. Growing up, I remembered the earthquake drills where we'd hide under our desks in elementary school, how "they" always warned of the "big one" that would hit the Midwest. But never has...

After the shaking ended, I continued to lay there, unsure what to do. I listened for sirens, anything, but nothing could be heard. Was it thunder? Was it a bomb? Did something collapse? I do live in a ridiculously old building... Was it my ghost playing tricks on me again in the middle of the night? If it was, I decided that I'd get someone in here to make it leave.

Finally, I leaped out of bed and went to the hallway, but nothing there. I spent the rest of the night on the couch, awaking again to learn from NPR that I wasn't crazy. Well, maybe I'm still crazy, but not about this at least.

Toolbag Wednesday #3: Chatty Cathies

2008-04-16T09:24:00.002-05:00

Chatty Cathies are annoying as fuck, and because it's Wednesday, in my world that means they're also toolbags. Especially when, say, you're trying to write a newsletter article on deadline (that maybe your boss is gunning to get his hands on so he can rewrite) and you can't keep your train of thought for more than two lines at a time. Not cool.

Chicks are especially terrible about this, myself included.* I don't pretend to know why. We just seem to have a lot of stuff to talk about, whether others want to hear it or not.

Of course not all Chatty Cathies are created equal. Some are more annoying than others (think movie theatres, public transportation, and during sporting events or Project Runway). Decible level has a lot to do with it too.

That's one of the many things to loathe about cube life: the whole I-can-hear-every-GD-conversation-you're-having with your husband/mother-in-law/divorce attorney/bra saleswoman/wedding planner/dog-walker/sex therapist/Clinique Bonus Days Consultant at Macy's.

Over the years, it's amounted to my knowing way too much about my fellow cube-dwellers. And today, it means I can't get a bit of work done.

*I realize this sounds sexist, but maybe it's like being able to make fun of your own race or family or something? No? Maybe just a little?

What Can I Say?

2008-04-15T13:40:00.009-05:00

I want to write about a lot of things these days, but I don't seem able. Instead, each time I begin to write, my sentences flounder, erupt into ellipses, drop off altogether. My mind wanders mid-paragraph from what I want to write to what I can't get out of my head. To the very thing I'm trying so hard to put behind me, to write as little about as possible.

I don't want to write about how much it all.....SUCKS. Seriously sucks. The he said she said. The way things ended. What words were said. What words were not.

I don't want to write about how much it sucks to only be wanted by someone when they can't have you. How much it used to hurt my feelings. How much I used to feel like it was my fault. How much I used to think I wasn't enough.

I don't want to write about how much it sucks to know better now...the hard way. How instead I merely feel angry for how predictable it all became.

I don't want to write about how much it sucks to be called, emailed, texted...too little too late. How much it insults and disrespects and angers me to be paid an unwanted visit at my home. How break ups are hard enough.

I don't want to write about all the bad names and unkind things that fly into my mind these days. I'd rather write nothing at all. A golden rule for the digital age.

So I'm stuck. And all the stories I want to write, the mundane but unsucky ones--about getting a new alarm clock with a 39-page (!) user guide, about my parents watching Dancing with the Stars together from two different states, and about being given a children's foam sword by a coworker--all end up unfinished, unshared, unwritten.

Ice Cream Dinner

2008-04-10T09:49:00.012-05:00

When asked what it is I do for a living, I sometimes crack the joke that I'm a sell-out writer, meaning that I enjoy writing things that are of interest to me, but write that which is not for money. While I'm able to do quite a bit more beyond writing, I find myself increasingly pigeonholed by my current boss, Shucky. I haven't talked about him in some time, but yes, he is as "shucktastic" as ever. If you're unfamiliar, read here, here, here, or here.

To cope with his micro-management, I've disengaged from what I'm working on. I know that 's pretty defeatist, but even my best work is undone for no other reason than Count Shuckula's prerogative.

Case in point, I was stung when I received his comments on a project I made the mistake of actually caring about- a project I think is reflective of some of my best work. It turns out the problem wasn't that I had written anything inaccurate, or audience inappropriate, or with the wrong angle. No, as Shuckzilla explained, I hadn't written it how he would have done it. His way. Always his way.

Just as caring too much about my work doesn't help me, neither does defending it. Explaining what I did and why is an uphill battle that ultimately only serves as fodder in my performance review for not taking constructive criticism better.

I know I could leave; find work elsewhere. But right now, I'm focused on other things (getting through this break up, redecorating my living room, planning a trip for myself this fall, figuring out how the whole "gym" thing works, and helping my friends with their weddings). Most days, I just suck it up and remember that I get along with everyone else here, am technically up for a promotion, have job security, and a ton of vacation.

And then I treat myself to an ice cream dinner: cake batter ice cream, chocolate fudge, rainbow sprinkles, and brownie chunks. It was definitely decadent and much too sweet. But it also made another bad work day melt away.

Toolbag Wednesday #2: Guppies

2008-04-09T09:56:00.005-05:00

Maybe I've spent too much time with older men. Or maybe I have really unrealistic expectations. Or maybe I'm just a jaded bitch and am about to write an incredibly mean and unfair post.

The thing is, I'm simply used to more straight-up patterns of flirtation. That's why today's Toolbag award goes to the 25-going-on-20-year-old-Guppy I met at a friend's birthday party last Saturday night.

It began with, "that guy across the table wants to talk to you. He asked me your name and how old you are."

Now, I don't traffic much in the bars but I've got to say, I'm kinda used to the whole "hi, my name is I-want-to-get-in-your-pants" or at the very least your run of the mill "can I buy you a drink?" Harmless stuff in its familiarity. But this, this...this note passing? What is this, sixth grade?!

That said, before you cry "for shame" and go pitying the Guppy, this was the same dude who was previously introduced to me when I got to the party. The same one who was either 1) too unimpressed, 2) too drunk, and/or 3) too clueless about chicks to remember.

And then there's this whole "how old are you?" junk. Seriously? Is that what people are doing now? What the hell is that? I may be in my 20's, but even I find this incredibly insulting.

Now that I think of it though, his was either the saddest *proxy* pick-up line I've encountered or the smartest passive-aggressive approach to hitting on chicks I've ever seen. Suddenly, it was up to me to approach him because he was interested.

Eventually, however, the Guppy did make his way over to reintroduce himself, neglecting in the process to ask anything about me. Maybe I was supposed to feel flattered, but for the same reasons I wasn't about to approach him or anyone for that matter, I wasn't enamoured by his feeble attempts at conversation.

I may be single again, but I'm really excited about staying that way.