The Inevitable Fight for My Right to Party

What with all the snow and the fact that I took the third section of the CPA exam on Tuesday, I’ve been busy neglecting the Internet all week. I’ve also been ditching work. Monday and Tuesday, I’d scheduled to have off so that I could study and then take the exam. For Wednesday, other circumstances came into play that forced me to take the day off.

On Tuesday, we were hit with a lot of snow, which led to the celebration of my favorite made-up holiday -- the first snow party. My friends that are native Chicagoans have apparently been doing it since long before I moved here and began enriching their lives whether they liked it or not. As the name implies, the first snow party occurs just once a year on the evening of the day that we receive the first (minimum of three inches of) snow. On this occasion everyone gathers together at the same cozy ski-lodgesque bar at approximately nine in the evening. The bar at which the snow celebration occurs is a place that I rarely frequent. I’m glad it’s the designated spot, however, because it’s conveniently located right across the street from where I live.

So. On Tuesday evening after arriving home from the exam, I put on my snow boots, my fluffiest sweater, ear muffs and a mismatched pair of mittens to prepare for my short trek. Outside the mounds of fresh snow sparkled gaudily under the influence of the street lamps, and my exit down the front steps was impeded by the fact that the snow had rendered them indefinable. I skipped the bottom three by jumping down to what I was pretty sure was the sidewalk. I was pleased at the large indentation my crash landing created in the otherwise uninterrupted drifts.

When I reached the middle of the deserted street, I glanced south and saw two of the other revelers tromping down the road towards me. One of them raised a yellow-glove in salute. I waved back and started walking in their direction. As we approached each other, I could hear the icy scraping of the plows already busy a few blocks over.

Inside the bar, another snow party attendee was waiting alone at the front table sipping a Guinness. Last year he’d brought a gingerbread house to celebrate. This year he’d brought his laptop bag. I plopped down next to him and took a sip of his drink without asking.

“What’re you having?” the guy in the yellow gloves asked while pointing at me.

I glanced over at the chalkboard detailing the specials scrawled out in messy, unpretentious handwriting. It was an easy choice.

“Stella,” I said.

Half an hour later, I was forlornly moaning Stella in my best impersonation of Elaine from Seinfeld impersonating Stanley from A Streetcar Named Desire. As the minutes wound on, more snow party people filed in, and we mostly greeted each other with hugs.

“You look like a lumberjack,” I said craning my chin upward to look at the flannel clad guy I used to and still often have a crush on. The guy that I’d made out with during last year’s first snow party. Then again during last year's New Year’s Eve party. And later again at his Christmas party.

I noticed his hair.

“Your hair’s getting freakishly long.”

He rolled his hands around his head until it stood up at crazy, disheveled angles, and he looked like a Greek Einstein. I laughed and messed it up some more.

My ex-neighbors showed up, and we hugged as if it had been years since we’d last met instead of days. After introducing them to everyone, I wandered away to talk to my friend that’d just gotten out of the hospital.

“It all started with food poisoning,” he explained.

“From where?”

“That Thai place down on Diversey. I had the Tom Yum soup, and I asked them to add chicken to it. They brought the chicken out in a bowl, and I noticed that it looked like it’d been sitting out for awhile. I ate it, and started getting sick before we’d even left the restaurant.”

“I love that place,” I said sadly, “and I always get the Tom Yum soup.”

Something had happened to his intestine afterwards right before New Year’s, and he’d had to go into surgery so that they could remove part of it. Now he’s worried about the scar.

“It’s huge,” he said, “and dark.”

“It’ll fade,” I promised.

The bar was empty so we had uncontested reign over the juke box. Elvis. The Cure. Red Hot Chili Peppers. The Beastie Boys.

Before I knew it there were only four of us left. Me, my ex-neighbors and the guy with the yellow gloves. The bar had run out of clean Stella glasses, so we’d started drinking it out of pints.

“No. You don’t understand,” I responded in an overly-animated manner, “It curdles in your mouth. It’s lime juice and baileys. That’s why it’s called a cement mixer.”

“Let’s do one right now,” he said slapping his hand decisively onto the bar.

“They don’t taste very good. Besides it’s funnier as a joke when the other person doesn’t know what’s going to happen.”

“We’ll do one right now. All four of us. Let’s go.”

The bartender placed two shot glasses in front of each of us. One filled with a cloudy, summer colored liquid and the other with something resembling chocolate milk.

“Okay,” I said instructively, “first shoot the baileys, but don’t swallow it. Hold it in your mouth. Then shoot the lime juice.”

I took a deep breath and glared down at the two glasses while I mentally prepared myself for what was about to go down.

I picked up the first shot. The baileys tasted good, and I didn’t mind holding it in my mouth. I inhaled noisily through my nose and lifted the shot of lime juice. The simple concoction solidified in my mouth to the consistency of pudding just like I remembered.

This time it tasted a little like key lime pie.

To my right I heard sputtering coughs from the others. One of them groaned.

“Disgusting,” they all agreed.

The bartender started laughing.

Wednesday morning I woke up to a strange alarm emitting from my cell phone, and an uncomfortable denseness in my head. Like maybe my brain had outgrown my skull. I blearily glanced at the time and considered starting to cry. Six-thirty. I had to get up or else I was going to miss the train. I lay back against the pillows and closed my eyes for a minute.

After awhile, I sat back up, reset the alarm and fell back asleep. Later, before getting out of bed, I mentally compiled a list of things that I had to do in precise order to ensure my survival:

1. Brush my teeth,
2. Wash the smoky smell of the bar out of my hair,
3. Drink about five gallons of water, and
4. Call in sick to work.

“It’s food poisoning,” I told my admin assistant.

“Oh no, sweetie! How? From where?”

“This Thai restaurant that I love. I had the Tom Yum soup with chicken. It was the chicken.”

“Get some rest and feel better. Drink lots of water.”

I settled onto the couch with a full glass of water next to me. I’d brought a pillow and the oversized comforter out of my bedroom like I always do when I’m sick. My wet hair smelled like oranges now and felt good pressed between my cheek and the clean pillow case.

‘Never again,’ I thought to myself, ‘never again will I go out during the week. I’m too old. I can’t handle it anymore.’

I turned on daytime television and began feeling drowsy. Before drifting off, I admitted to myself that ‘never again’ could be too strict of a declaration. Maybe it should be refined to ‘only once per year.’ After all. The first snow party is my favorite made-up holiday.

-EEK

Distinguished Though Later Extinguished

First. Thanks for all of the great responses to the last post. I feel much closer to all of you now. Also, it's good to know that I'm not hanging out with a bunch of virgins.

Killer borrowed a fertile topic from Mel that involved the theoretical question:

Given the choice, what super power would you want to have?

Killer's response naturally entailed the capability to pull off his own feet, which he would then utilize as an object to hurl at super villains in an effort to thwart their evil plans. Frankly, I was impressed.

I've run into this question once before while on a first date a few years ago with some guy whose name I can’t remember at the moment. Our date was going okay despite the fact that the food wasn’t very good. We’d gone to this restaurant called the Flat Top Grill. It’s a fine place if you don’t mind those ‘create your own stir fry’ themes where you have to pick your raw ingredients from a salad bar set-up. I hate creating my own stir fry. (note that it was me who'd chosen the restaurant) In my opinion, restaurants should be solely responsible for figuring out what goes with what. Whenever I try, I just start to feel confused and disoriented. The results are never good.

So, on the date, I was busy feeling sorry for myself for being so bad at making good choices in terms of selecting my stir fry ingredients, when my date suddenly leaned forward and popped the question.

“If you had to choose, what super power would you want?”

“Um,” I said thoughtfully, “I don’t know. Maybe punctuality.”

“What?!” he yelped indignantly, “Be serious. I’ll bet you’d pick something like flying.”

I poured some more wine into our glasses.

“I’m afraid of heights. Besides, think how efficient you’d be if you were always exactly on time. Think of how much time you’d free up. You’d never have to wait for a bus. You’d never be late for a movie. You’d never get fired from a job…”

I glanced down at my plate and punctured another piece of broccoli with my fork.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“So,” I mumbled through the food in my mouth.

After that, the debate veered off into another direction.

It’s been a few years, and, although I still stand by my stance that flawless punctuality would be awesome, I feel that I’ve changed a little since then. Perhaps undergone some character growth, or, alternatively, maybe I've just made my brain all foggy through rampant idleness and drinking. Regardless of the cause, my answer has changed.

Given the option, I’d like to have the super power of natural fire retardation.

Stay with me on this one.

In essence, I would like the mere presence of me to prompt all forms of fire to spontaneously extinguish. I wouldn’t have to wave my arms or blow at the flames or anything like that. All I’d do is stand there next to the fire. Sometimes maybe I could whistle if there are children around that need soothing.

There’d be lots of drawbacks. I wouldn’t be popular at birthday parties. Also, I would ruin candle lit dinners for everybody and, likely, every other romantic endeavor occurring fireside.

On the other hand if those California wild fires spring up again or some rogue cow starts another inferno here in Chicago, guess who’ll suddenly be “Ms. Popular”. That’s right, me, Mighty Girl Flameless or maybe The Fire Retard. I haven’t settled on a name yet. I do like names that start with the word ‘the’, though. I feel like it adds resonance. Unlike the real me, my superhero persona wouldn’t hold grudges so I’d always be willing to lend a hand.

My costume would consist of a blue-green leotard with gold wrist cuffs and gold boots and maybe some sort of gold headband. Mostly, I’d just have a whole gold theme going.

Every hero needs a nemesis, so I’m guessing mine would be some guy that has a tendency to start catastrophic fires. I call him Charson.* He would wear an orange Speedo and whiz around lighting fires with his eyes. He’d be the only child of a set of binary suns in a distant solar system, and, would hate me because while on vacation one year, I accidentally flew too close in my golden flying castle** to his parents and extinguished/killed them. Charson would promise the black holes that had taken over the space once occupied by his parents that he would avenge their untimely demise. Then he’d come to Earth and start setting everything on fire.

My kryptonite would be liquor, which would annihilate my retardant capabilities making me highly flammable. Upon discovering my weakness, Charson would trick my secret identity, a librarian named Claire, into going out on a date with him (in disguise). During the date, he would ply me with alcohol (without my knowledge), thus negating my power. I would suddenly burst into flames when a man at a neighboring table strikes a match to light his cigar. As I lay dying within the burning restaurant, Charson would suddenly realize that he has fallen in love with me, but it is too late. In a horrible moment of realization, Charson would finally understand that revenge never pays.

*A combination of the words ‘char’, ‘arson’ and ‘son’.

** My mobile dwelling. Note that while on Earth, I’d keep my golden flying castle parked on a cloud drifting over Chicago.

The end.

-EEK

Matters of the Heart

Page Six published this entry the other day where comedians were asked what song was playing while they lost their virginity. The responses were relatively bland, with the exception being Stephen Colbert’s, which was “is screaming my name considered music?”. I laughed noisily about this at erratic intervals for the rest of that week, and then, afterwards, started thinking about (for probably the first time since) the night that I lost my virginity. At first I just tried to remember what music was playing. Once I recalled that, the other details crystallized, and I became obsessed with the topic, which led to me asking my friends and others for their sweet tales of love. In honor of Valentine’s Day, and, all that is romantic, I’ll share mine.

***

It was a dark and stormy Friday night in May of 1997. I was in my freshman year dorm room waiting for my boyfriend, Roy, to come over for a date. We were planning to order in some Papa John’s Pizza and watch a movie (The Lion King, which makes me embarrassed for myself and, even more so, for Roy.). I’d dimmed the lighting to set a romantic mood, and my roommate was out of town for the weekend. When Roy arrived, he called up from the lobby so that I could come downstairs to act as his escort.*

*Note that I went to an all girls' Catholic school with strict rules regarding guys roaming freely in dorms.

On the way up, he seemed quiet so I asked what was wrong.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“Nothing. It’s fine.”

We were both silent until we reached my room, and then I asked again.

“What’s the matter?”

“I lost my wallet today,” he mumbled rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“That sucks,” I said frowning sympathetically, “How’d it happen?”

“I had it zipped into my fleece pocket at the library, and then accidentally forgot the fleece when I left. I checked lost and found, and they don’t have it,” he sighed loudly, “I’m totally fucked.”

I patted his arm.

We settled in to watch the movie, but the chipper Elton John ballads sung by the cartoon animals were ruined by the overall mood, which was one of oppressive gloom.

About a month into dating, Roy had made it clear that he was ready to have sex whenever I was ready. After that he didn’t mention it again, and five months had passed since so I assumed he’d forgotten about it. His gloomy demeanor was ruining my Friday night, and I was quickly running out of ideas of how to cheer him up. About midway through the movie I suddenly transferred my attention from the TV screen to him.

“I think I’m ready,” I announced in a clear voice.

“For what?” he asked irritably.

“Sex.”

All the sudden a condom seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“Do you always carry those around?” I asked in a disgusted tone.

“No,” he responded defensively, “I was just trying to be prepared.”

I felt immediately guilty.

“That’s great. No. You’re just being responsible, which is really good,” I rambled nervously.

Then, he put on a Dave Matthews CD to set the mood, and turned off all the lights so that it was pitch dark. And. That was it.

We continued dating for a few years, and then broke up at the end of my junior year not long after I got back from studying abroad in Rome.

To summarize…

I lost my virginity during the last week of my freshman year of college on the floor of my dorm room to Dave Matthew’s, Satellite. On a positive note, I was completely sober. On a negative note, I opted to lose it in order to cheer my boyfriend up because he was sad about losing his wallet, which I’m guessing probably didn’t make the top of the Good Reasons to Lose Your Virginity checklist.

So, in the interest of sharing. As a favor to me. For Valentine’s Day. And because my tenth virginity anniversary is coming up this May. I want to know the what’s and when’s of your own romantic tale of adventure.

-EEK

A Thwarted Cookie Monster

I have four completely disparate thoughts going today, so I thought I'd organize them in a cheap easy way via the numbering system detailed below. I'd apologize for being so lazy, but you're probably lazy too, so if you're judging me just know that you're a hypocrite. That's right, now I'm judging you. The tables have turned spectacularly.

Number One. You wanna know what’s frustrating? Girl Scouts never solicit me for cookie sales anymore. I’ve been mulling this issue over the past few days since I started craving thin mints a couple of nights ago, and now I’m starting to get annoyed. Shouldn’t some overbearing parent be badgering me at work, or, better yet, some nice, doe-eyed little kid wearing a sash come knocking on my door? I’d probably purchase like ten boxes, and I wouldn’t even be a jerk about it by pretending to be doing the little kid a big favor. I also have my order all worked out. Two boxes of thin mints, three boxes of somoas and five boxes of tagalongs. Plus, I’d consider sharing them with friends assuming that I was confident that said friend would properly appreciate the sweet goodness that is Girl Scout cookies.

Why am I being subjected to this cookieless purgatory? I’m mostly a nice person. Children generally don’t fear me. Where the hell are my cookies?

Number Two. In a million years, I never could have even thought of a story that sounds this fake. An attempted murdering, adult-diaper wearing, love-triangling astronaut? It almost makes me believe in soap operas.

Number Three. I’m taking new vitamins that turn my pee a funny color. It’s an exciting, electric shade of yellow now. Like if a highlighter went pee. At first I thought I might be suffering from some new extreme form of dehydration, but that wasn’t really feasible under the circumstances. (I’d been chugging water all morning.) I’ve since confirmed that it was the vitamins by stopping taking them to see if my pee reverted back to its traditional color. It did.

Also, for some reason you take four pills per day (all different colors, textures and sizes), which makes me feel like they must be more effective. Really, it’s more like a vitamin system than just a plain vitamin. I’ve been bragging about it to all my friends.

Number Four. On Sunday at the super bowl party, Mick asked me if I have any hobbies. We’ve known each other for about eight years, so you would think that if I had a hobby he would be aware of it, but I considered his question momentarily before responding.

“Knitting.”

“When do you knit?” he asked skeptically.

“Remember that blue scarf with the pink fringe? The one Tom always used to wear as a joke. Also, three years ago I started to knit scarves for everybody in my family for Christmas, but then I got bored with it and quit.”

“I don’t think you can call knitting a hobby if you can only knit straight lines.”

“I could see that,” I conceded with a shrug, “I like to read.”

“I think it’s weird that you can count reading as a hobby when people generally frown upon calling ‘TV watching’ a hobby.”

“Or going to bars and drinking.”

“That too,” he said, “but it’s okay to say that wine appreciation is your hobby.”

“Yeah. Weird. Do you have hobbies?”

He gulped down a blue Jell-O shot before responding.

“Nah. Not really.”

Number Five. So, anyhow. On a slightly heavier note. This guy in my department almost died this morning. In retrospect, ‘almost died’ is a strong assertion, but at the time it seemed like a terrifying possibility. He was choking on a cookie, but nobody knew what it was. Somebody called an ambulance, and somebody else ran downstairs to health services. And everybody else (including me) just kind of hovered in the general area not really knowing what to do. What’s the etiquette in a situation like that? It seems cruel to stand around staring at the person. I wouldn’t want to be stared at if I were choking. But, you certainly can’t calmly continue editing a spreadsheet at your desk like nothing’s going on. Not acknowledging the situation would seem insensitive.

After several seconds of silent indecision, I finally ended up walking down to the first floor to watch for the medical personnel so that I could have the elevator waiting for them. It was the only semi-useful thing I could think of to do and probably only saved like thirty seconds (at the most). But at least it was something. After the general feeling of panic subsided, it dawned on me that the fact that my choking co-worker was hacking and wheezing was a good sign (since that meant he could technically breathe). The poor guy ended up having to sit in the infirmary for half an hour waiting for the food to work its way down his esophagus. He’s back at his desk now, and everything’s back to normal. In fact, he keeps bothering me with questions about actual work, which has mitigated most of the goodwill I was feeling towards him in response to his possible near-demise.

Everybody else has reverted back to eliciting vague complaints about the weather and eating stale cookies left over from somebody’s super bowl party and clicking around on their respective computers.

Life continues, and, yet, I keep recalling my reaction to the panic. The self-centered thoughts that reeled and repeated in my head at a rapid pace.

People die in car accidents and sky diving disasters and at hospitals and in shark infested water and occasionally even tragic ‘boat-hits-iceberg’ type scenarios, but people don’t die in cubicles. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen.

Dying at your desk surrounded by faux walls in front of a half-finished spreadsheet while devouring a stale cookie that you’re not really tasting and thinking about how much you like TV is implausible, if not impossible. Correct?

I need to get some hobbies.

-EEK

I Can't Believe The Bears Lost

This was truly shocking. I can't believe it didn't work out. I was so convinced it would. And. It didn't. We lost. So now, I'm just a little bit drunk from all the drinking. And a little bit sad from all the losing. And a little bit disheveled from the cold weather and the thrashing around (from the sadness). Poor Lovie. And Urlacher. I hate losing.

Sad.

Fuck you, Tank.

-EEK

Winter Doldrums

At the wine store…

HOWARD THE WINE GUY: What’re you looking for?
ME: Um…a red. I’m not really sure what kind.
HWG: Do you like heavier varietals…lighter varietals…pinot noirs… burgundies?
ME: I’m not really in the mood for a pinot noir. Maybe I’ll try a burgundy.
HWG: A burgundy is a pinot noir from France.
ME: (in a mildly hostile tone, because I suspect that he intentionally structured his previous question to reveal my ignorance.) Oh...then I don’t want that. Maybe a malbec.
HWG: Have you had one before?
ME: No, but I like the name. It’s a pretty name for a wine.
HWG: Alright. What’re you planning to pair it with?
ME: (shrugs)
HWG: Nothing?
ME: Probably. Maybe some fruit. (this is a lie. i don't have any fruit.)
HWG: Okay. Is it for any particular occasion?
ME: It’s for drinking by myself. At home.
HWG: (nods his head in an understanding manner.) I think we should go with this one then.

Sprawled out on the couch with a freshly poured glass of wine clutched in one hand…

(phone rings)

ME: Hello.

(silence)

ME: Hello?
MICK: What’re you doing?
ME: Watching Deadwood on DVD. What’re you doing?
MICK: Nothing. I just got home from work.
ME: Oh.

(more silence)

ME: What’s up?
MICK: Nothing.
ME: Why’d you call then?
MICK: To say hello.
ME: Oh…do you ever watch Deadwood? I really like it.
MICK: What’d you think of The Wire?
ME: I haven’t seen it yet.
MICK: (annoyed) I told you to rent it.
ME: That’s not true. You said it was good.
MICK: It’s the best show on television.
ME: Huh.
MICK: You never listen to me.
ME: You never listen to me.
MICK: It’s good. You should rent it.
ME: (stretching on the couch) Maybe I will.
MICK: It’s amazing.
ME: I’ll think about it. I’ve gotta run. Lost starts in a couple of weeks.
MICK: I know.

Five minutes later:

(phone rings)

ME: Hello?
SHANNON: Hey, girl! How was your day?
ME: Fine. Yours?
SHANNON: It was great. What’re you doing? Wanna come over and watch a movie?
ME: (pretending to think.) Um…I think I might make it an early tonight.
SHANNON: Okay.
ME: Maybe tomorrow, though. Or Saturday. Saturday I could come over and watch a movie.
SHANNON: I’m going to New York this weekend…remember?
ME: Oh. Right.
SHANNON: Okay. Well…have fun this weekend.
ME: Thanks. You too. Go Bears.
SHANNON: Go Bears.

I’ve officially hit the point during winter where I spend a majority of my waking free time alone indoors watching TV. It sounds depressing, but I feel more content and sleepy, than gloomy. I think it might be my method of hibernating. Is that weird?

Happy Groundhog's Day.










-EEK

Shimmy-changa

Sorry for the short hiatus. As you know (from my complaining), I was suffering from a debilitating cold last week, and when I got back to work this week was shocked to discover that I’m up for a promotion. A big one too. The biggest one so far in my short career. That means that I had to rush to get my resume together, purchase a respectable interviewing outfit, network a little with the individual currently holding the open position and frantically try to come up with a good strategy for the interview. I’m incredibly excited and also a little nervous. Anywho, I started this post a week ago, but didn’t finish it until last night. It’s about my new belly dancing classes. So. Here you go.

The people from the running workshop that I took a few months ago suggested belly dancing as a fun way to build up your core strength, and, being an avid class-taker, I thought I’d give it a try once cold weather set in. Prior to signing up, I convinced a good friend of mine (Kelly) to take it with me. Last night was the first class, and I was a little disappointed when Kelly emailed early that day to tell me she couldn’t make it because she didn’t feel well. She’d taken belly dancing before, and I’d been relying on her to act as my figurative sherpa.

Five minutes before I was due to be at the class, I called her for some last minute advice.

“Do I need to wear a belly shirt for this?” I said without saying hello.

She took several seconds to respond, and I could hear the soothing sounds of TV chatter in the background.

“No. Just regular workout clothes.”

“Okay,” I stared down at my fleece pants, “good.”

“Do you own a belly shirt?” she suddenly asked.

“No.”

“Well, what were you going to do if I said you had to wear one?”

“I don’t know. I guess cut off a shirt or else maybe just skip class until I buy one… I don’t know. Hey. I’ve gotta run.”

“See ya.”

The belly dancing instructor was around my mother’s age. She stressed right away at the beginning of class that belly dancing isn’t an erotic dance. It’s a seductive dance. When I got home last night I looked up ‘erotic’ in my thesaurus and saw ‘seductive’ listed as one of its synonyms. I suppose the point she was trying to make was something along the lines of erotic=slutty, seductive=sexy. Still, though. The difference is subtle at best. After driving her point home, she insisted that we go stand close to the mirror, gaze deeply into our reflection’s eyes and tell ourselves that we’re beautiful.

Now. I’m not going to pretend that I’m all modest and not vain and am the sort of person that only casts passing glances at herself in mirrors if she can’t avoid it. That would be lying. I have healthy/normal self-esteem, and am generally unself-conscious in public, but the second somebody tells me that I have to vocally admire my reflection in front of a room full of twenty people, I become shy as a kitten. She insisted, though, and the expression on her face told me she was serious so I stood there along with everybody else.

Feeling very awkward.

I couldn’t bring myself to say anything at first, but, when I saw her glance towards my side of the room, I caved.

“I love your pants!” I blurted out to my legs.

The woman next to me started giggling and said to herself, “Hey sexy. Can I buy you a drink?”

I started laughing too, contorted my fingers into a gun and shot my reflection.

“Hello there, Poodle. What’s the hurry?” I said flirtatiously to myself while blowing off the pretend smoke coming from my index finger.

She was walking down the line towards us.

Then stopped behind me.

“Tell yourself you’re beautiful.”

“You’re gorgeous,” I said quickly, hoping this would make her move on.

“No. Beautiful,” she said pinching my cheek and waggling her hand.

“Uhh… you’re beautiful.”

The cheek-waggling distorted my voice.

Afterwards, I pettily noted to myself that ‘beautiful’ and ‘gorgeous’ mean the same thing.

When we were finished hitting on ourselves, the instructor made us all tell her why we’d signed up for the class. She started with me.

“I’ve heard it’s a fun way to exercise,” I said decisively.

She mulled this over momentarily before moving on to the next person. I could tell by her puckered expression that my response had displeased her. I felt vindicated, though, when several other people in the class offered the same reason. There were a few people that offered responses she clearly preferred. Like…

“I want to get to know myself better.”

and

“I think it’s such a beautiful, spiritual dance.”

and

“I’ve heard it helps to detoxify your mind and your body.”

I think I must have blacked out when she started talking about our vaginas, because I can’t recall the exact context under which it was discussed. All I know is that at multiple points she referred to our ‘vagina canals’. Prompting my inner voice to scream, ‘it’s my ‘vaginal canal,’ not ‘vagina canal’’. Then my inner voice started laughing in a hysterical manner.

Once we were finished discussing our vaginas, we got down to the actual belly dancing portion of the class. There was ten minutes left. (Note that the class is scheduled to go for an hour.) The dancing part was pretty fun. We practiced swiveling figure eights with our hips and walking in the proper ‘belly dancing’ posture. I could see how it could be good exercise if done for an hour.

After class, I walked a block down the street to this hamburger stand called Muskies* to grab dinner. The owner was there, and while I waited for my food, we talked about how cold it’d gotten. And how awesome the Bears are. And El Nino. It was idle chatter, but that was exactly what I needed.

*Terrible name, good burgers.

When I got home and settled onto the sofa, I suddenly started to worry that I’m becoming petty and cynical as I age. Realizing that I’d mentally picked apart the instructor so that I could comfortably disregard everything she had to say. Because I’d decided almost immediately after she opened her mouth that she was pompous and silly and self-important and a little crazy. I called my Mom to voice my concern.

“I just took a belly dancing class,” I said before she had a chance to say hello.

“Oh good. Ballet is such good exercise.”

“No. Belly Dancing.”

“Oh. That sounds neat. Was it fun?”

“Yeah, but the instructor was pretty weird. She kind of got on my nerves, and I had a hard time not bursting out with laughter because it felt so awkward.”

“Oh,” she said distractedly. I could hear the muffled sound of my Father’s voice in the background.

“I think the problem might have been me,” I continued, “I think I might be turning into a jerk.”

“Yes,” she said.

“I’m a jerk?”

“No. I was talking to your dad.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve always been like that. You get it from me. You should have seen me taking tae-bo class last week with the other teachers. We put an exercise tape on the big movie screen at school. It was taught by that Billy…,” she thought for a few seconds, “you know that Billy…”

“Billy Blanks,” I supplied.

“Yeah. You should have seen me trying not to laugh during that thing. That guy is so hyper-active.”

“So I’m not growing more cynical with age?”

“No. You’re just a smart ass. Plus your teacher sounds like a nut job.”

“Yeah…she’s kooky. Anways...," I paused to pick a piece of lint off the throw blanket covering my lap, " I guess I’m gonna eat.”

“Talk to you later.”

“Okay.”

I hung up the phone, took another bite of my burger and turned on the TV. The pleasing, simple chatter of the sitcom characters spread through me like syrup making it easy to curl up and relax. And forget about my smart-assedness. And the oversized glass of wine I'd just poured. Sleep came easy.

Update:

I attended the second belly dancing class last night, and was delighted when we got to do actual dancing for the entire hour, instead of the fifty-minutes-of-self-love to ten-minutes-of-belly-dancing-ratio. Also, there was no vagina-talk this time. I did get yelled at twice for talking to Kelly, though. (I was making fun of her shimmies.) The instructor says there’s no talking allowed.

Also, Othurme -- that Abraham Lincoln book I'm reading is excellent. I'd definitely suggest it if you're a Lincoln fan.

-go bEars. thE colts sucK.

Ugh...I think I may have contracted the plague. Or else maybe it's just the flu.

Six Reasons You Should Want to Date Me

Dating Dummy tagged me to reveal five things about myself. I did six before realizing that it was actually five, and, as such, have inadvertently revealed that I'm not very good at following directions. I ranked them from least embarrassing to most embarrassing, and upon rereading them have realized that there are elements of my personality I should consider eradicating. Let's be honest, though, these quirks are pretty much here to stay. Especially the elevator one.

1. I outsource everything. I have my groceries delivered from Peapod. My cleaning done by a cleaning lady. My ironing done by the dry cleaner. My movies delivered by Netflix. My ice made by 7-eleven. And 95% of my shopping facilitated through the Internet. The point is that I am debilitatingly lazy and two years away from becoming a shut-in.

2. I am a lip gloss fanatic. Properly moisturized lips are a top priority for me. I’m not sure why this is (I’m currently single, so it’s not like there’s a lot of making-out going on that would necessitate fastidious lip maintenance). I keep a tube of lip gloss on my desk, in my commuter bag, in my bathroom, on my nightstand and under the couch. The one under the couch is carefully positioned so that I can reach it with ease while lying around watching TV.

3. I don’t have cable. I haven’t had cable for the past five years. This hasn’t necessarily cut into the time I spend watching TV. Mostly it’s just lowered my standards in terms of what I consider to be quality programming. Also, I’ve increased my Netflix subscription so that I’ll have DVDs to choose from if there really is nothing on TV (read: the Presidential address has taken over every major network channel and there isn’t a NOVA special currently showing on PBS). When I’m watching TV, I have to have a book to read during the commercials. This is a habit I’ve had since childhood that helps to ensure I remain entertained during extended commercial breaks. Also, it enables me to guiltlessly respond that ‘I’m reading’ if somebody calls and asks what I’m doing.

4. I’ll frequently lie about minor things for no reason, but then come clean if I think I might get caught. On Friday night, my friend Mick called to invite me to get drinks with him and his friend, Jay. Jay and I had already emailed back and forth earlier that day about getting drinks that night, but, for some reason, I pretended like I didn’t know about it when Mick called. I don’t know why. As Mick and I started chatting about something else, I became paranoid that Jay might mention that we’d been emailing earlier that day once we were all out actually having drinks, so I came clean. Mick pointed out that this was incredibly weird, and then went back to talking about himself.

5. I actively try to ensure that I never have to share an elevator with anyone. On the surface, I appear to be a nice person. (At least I think so. I base this assumption on the fact that people frequently smile at me and say 'hello'.) I discovered almost immediately after starting at my current job, that the ‘close door’ button on the elevators in my office building is unusually reactive. The second you hit that thing, the doors start to close. When I get on an elevator (if I’m the only one in there), I’ll immediately hit that button regardless of whether or not there are people a little ways behind me obviously planning to use the elevator. I know that this is rude, but (a) I can't believe the button actually works, and (b) I prefer to ride the elevator alone.

6. I cut my own hair. This is really embarrassing. I can't believe I'm telling you this. My past few hair dressers have declared that the only cut appropriate for my hair is your basic vanilla cut. No layers, no bangs, no mullet-shaped awesomeness. Just straight and even. I've come to terms with this, but realized about six months ago that I’m perfectly capable of giving myself the exact same haircut. So far there have been no disasters, and I have carefully confirmed with a few select friends (the ones that wouldn't ridicule me) that my hair doesn’t look any different. My only problem is that the phrase “she looks like the sort of person that cuts her own hair” is one of my favorite insults, and, now that I’ve become that person, I can’t use it anymore. I miss that freedom.

Don't judge me.

So I think the way this whole thing works is that I'm supposed to tag somebody else, so I'm tagging the following individuals:

Cover Your Mouth
Killer
Liz

Please reveal something that makes me look like less of a jerk. (Killer, I'm looking to you for that.)

-EEK

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Since my parents opted to move to Alabama when we were all young, my siblings and I grew up away from extended family. Grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins were spread mostly throughout Michigan and Northern Illinois. We’d make it up north every three or four years for a few days, and it was always interesting to spend time with these people who, though essentially strangers, looked so much like us.

My Dad’s side of the family was whom we went to visit most often. He had six younger siblings and many of them still lived just north of Chicago where he'd grown up. Visiting them was fun, but in a chaotic, occasionally overwhelming way that made you happy you were going home at the end of the visit. They were an unpretentious crew. My grandmother was indifferent to housekeeping and cooking, but loved cats. We embraced her proclivity and began referring to her as Grandma Kitty. Her favorites were a pair of noisy Siamese cats that she named Co-Co and She-She. When they died, she adopted another pair and gave them both the name Pretty Boy. She always referred to those cats in a collective manner.

My Grandma Kitty was friendly and boisterous, and always willing to slip you a twenty. She thought cheating at cards was fine, but was unsympathetic if you were dumb enough to get caught. My favorite thing about visiting was the fact that they always had canned soda and kept it outside during the winter months to keep it cold. I thought this was ingenious. My Grandfather was quiet and preferred to isolate himself from the clamor going on around him. As kids, we used to have contests to see who could make him say the most during a trip.

One visit I took home the prize when he told me to leave the room. He and I were sitting on the couch watching a movie in the den when all of the sudden some nudity flashed on screen.

“Leave the room,” he said.

I scooted off the couch and ran away as fast as I could. Afterwards, I searched out my siblings and relayed the story in a tone that was breathless from all the excitement.

My mother’s side of the family was different. She only had one sibling. Her family had a lake house and a boat and took vacations in the Florida Keys and lived in an oversized house in a scenic part of Grand Rapids. My mother’s parents were alcoholics who spent their free time refining new ways to hurt each other’s feelings. My mom’s childhood anecdotes are appalling and tend to run along the lines of:

One time when I was nine, I went to the dentist to have a procedure done and they put me under. Your grandmother didn’t want to be late for her bridge game so she gave me money to take the bus home after the procedure, only I was so out of it from the anesthesia that I got on the wrong bus. I got lost in some terrible neighborhood and ended up having to call Bompa (my grandfather) out of work because Mimi (my grandmother) didn’t like to answer the phone while she was playing cards.

These anecdotes are usually relayed by my mother with a feigned casualness after everyone’s started into their third glass of wine. When I was eight, Mimi and Bompa moved to Alabama because Bompa had a degenerative illness, and they needed some help. They moved into a little house a couple blocks away, and became a common fixture at family dinners. I can’t recall a single time that my parents had a fight in front of me. On the other hand, my grandparents passed their time sitting around the kitchen table saying terrible things to each other until one of them would begin to weep. Afterward, the non-weeping grandparent would stare contentedly out the bay window until the weeping grandparent had calmed down enough to resume fighting.

You can only assume that they fought when we weren't around as well, and one instance definitely seemed to verify this probability. Bompa was in a motorized cart, and one day called my father at work to tell him that he had to come over right away. When my father got there, he saw that Bompa had ‘accidentally’ attempted to run Mimi over with his cart, but couldn’t make it all the way over. Mimi was lying on the floor stuck half way under Bompa’s cart. When my dad got there, Bompa was in his cart on top of Mimi reading a novel.

Another time at Sunday dinner, Bompa started choking on his steak. Really choking. First he turned grey, then he turned purple, then he turned an unsettling shade of maroon. I remember staring wide-eyed as my father did the Heimlich, and my mother frantically dialed 911. My older brother was crying, and my little sister was clinging to my mom. I glanced over at Mimi and watched mesmerized as she lifted another forkful of peas into her mouth, coolly surveying the horrific scene set before her.

When my father finally managed to dislodge the piece of beef stuck in my grandpa’s throat, Bompa angrily speared the partially masticated food. Cut it in two and popped half of it back into his mouth.

For Christmas one year, they gave me a beautiful, stuffed Pig wearing a pink tutu. I could tell as soon as I touched it that it was expensive. I took it out of the box and hugged it tight against my chest. Then I walked over to give Mimi a hug in order to express my thanks. As I was pulling away, she suddenly grabbed my wrist.

My pulse was thundering in my ears as I leaned forward to hear what she was going to say.

“If I ever see a speck of dirt on this toy, I’ll take it away.”

“Okay,” I responded in a quavery voice as I turned back to look anxiously at my mother.

That same day I spilt hot chocolate on the pig, and the family dog chewed off part of its snout. A few months later, I’d taken off its tutu to see if it would fit one of the cats. I loved that pig, and made sure to hide it under my bed whenever my grandparents came over.

There are lots of other memorable events. Like the time I was ten and forgot my charm bracelet at my grandparent’s house. Mimi kept it for a year to teach me a lesson.

There are some nice memories too, like when sometimes Bompa would let you crouch on the base of his motorized cart next to his legs while he whizzed around the house. Or the fun-size snickers and root beer they kept on hand. ‘Only one!’ My grandmother would scream as you walked towards the refrigerator.

Mimi passed away when I was eleven, and at the funeral my grandfather sobbed relentlessly. We hadn’t expected that. Five weeks later, Bompa passed away too, and, though it may sound cruel, an intense feeling of relief seemed to pervade the atmosphere at home afterwards.

Every once in awhile you can see the effect that being raised by angry, self-centered alcoholics has had on my mother. When she’s doing something quiet by herself and you catch her unawares, her face will often settle into a wounded expression that isn’t warranted by the task at hand. It makes you want to give her a hug.

As kids, she always made sure that we behaved respectfully towards our grandparents, but now that we’re older, she’s letting her guard down little by little. A few weeks ago at Christmas, we were all sitting around playing cards and drinking when she casually began another anecdote, as if the conversation had naturally taken that turn.

When Mimi and Bompa used to fight with each other, if Mimi really wanted to get Bompa mad, she’d say that she’d done their genealogies and discovered that Bompa’s side of the family was Jewish.

Everybody stopped playing cards to look at my mother.

“Bompa was Anti-Semitic?”

“Yeah. And Mimi.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” my sister said as she started dealing the next hand.

I imagine everyone at that moment was recalling a personal run-in they’d had with Mimi and Bompa. I thought of that stuffed pig. With the snowy fur. Its tutu missing, but the crumpled tiara still sewn jauntily to its head. I’d run into the pig earlier that day on the floor of the toy room that my parents maintain for the grandkids. At the time I'd noticed that some play-doh had gotten smooshed into a section of its fur, which I have to admit made me smile a little.

-EEK

Mr. President's Part Time Job

Maybe it's just me, but I think my CPA review class instructor looks exactly like George Bush wearing a tie with a penis on it. I was distracted by this eerie similarity (and the innapropriate subject matter on the tie) throughout the entire course, and accordingly am now planning to write an angry letter to the White House if I fail the test. George Bush, indeed.

Studying for the exam (in the cafe down the street) took up all of my weekend. I'd be lying if I said that I enjoyed it. Although, I did get a little taste of what people do instead of going out to restaurants/bars on Friday and Saturday nights. They apparantly sit in cafes and listen to terrible amateur bands while SOBER.* I felt like a sociologist visiting a foreign country possessing a rudimentary art culture and a government ruled by a preppy, Starbucks-backed regime. I couldn't help it, I judged them all.

*Note to the guy with the acoustic guitar playing nothing but John Mayer songs. I don't even like it when John Mayer sings John Mayer songs.

-EEK

My 2007 New Year's Odyssey

I rang in my 2007 by goofing off for several hours at The Drake hotel in Chicago. My friend on the far right insisted that we begin the evening by getting a nice (read: non-drunken) photo of ourselves. I'm on the left and my sister is in the middle. This was the only picture taken for several hours.














This photo was taken right as we were preparing to count down to the New Year. My sister kept trying to leave to go to the bathroom, but I argued with her to make her stay. In the end, she agreed that she wouldn't go if I agreed that it would be my fault if she peed herself on the dance floor. I agreed that it would be my fault.

Here's what the ballroom looked like just before the balloon drop.










Here I am in action, ringing in the New Year. I continued operating the noise maker for a long time after until it broke. Then I fixed it and started operating it some more until some guy that was hitting on my sister told me to stop. I diffused the tense situation by telling him that he was terrible, and then continued on with my noise-making. I noted in my drunken state that I may have hurt his feelings, but opted not to dwell on it.










Here we are growing progressively drunker...























...and drunker...


















...and drunkest. I don't know why I always make this angry/constipated face in pictures while drunk. Maybe I'm just trying to appear contemplative.


















Here's my sister standing outside of the women's restroom. She's happy because she finally got to pee. Also, she's excited that I showed her the way to the secret restroom located where few people dared to venture. She has a balloon tied around her waist so that we can spot her in crowds.












New friend #1: I screamed gibberish at this guy for a really long-time not long after midnight. It was nice to have made a new friend.









New Friend #2: This is an old guy that introduced himself to me after I pointed out that a pen had burst in his front shirt pocket. He told me that he preferred to date girls my age, but that they always seemed to have 'daddy issues.' I pointed out that this was probably because he was older than their fathers. He was a psychiatrist, and I begged him not to use his psycho voo-doo on me. Afterwards, he flattered every aspect of my personality by saying things like I had a 'hearty laugh' and a 'firm handshake' and 'nice boobs.' Then he asked me what my ancestry was, and I told him that I was Swiss. He replied that the Swiss make good breeding stock. I emitted another hearty laugh. Good breeding stock indeed.









My sister ran around coddling this baby deer statue to her breast for a long time until one of the hotel security guards got mad. For some reason, he calmed down once he realized that it wasn't a planter. Then he told us that it was funny, but that he had to take it away. Afterwards, he stood around holding the baby deer while everyone milled about getting ready to leave.

















Here we are in the lobby of the hotel waiting for our cab. I can't recall exactly what I was feeling at the moment, but I think I must have been sad that the party went by so fast.











Happy 2007! I can already tell it's going to be a good year.







-EEK

Nancy Drew and the Mysterious Murder Car

My rental car had a dirty knife resting in its trunk. The knife wasn't the sort that would be classified in a non-threatening category such as ones used for butter or the miniature folding ones attached to key chains. It fit better into the type utilized most commonly by butchers or murderers.

The rental car guy didn't see it at first because he was sitting up front checking the mileage and gas. He'd popped the trunk so that I could place my luggage in it, and there it was. Gleaming evilly under the parking lot lights.

"Um," I said slowly, "there's a knife back here. And it's filthy."

Then I picked up my bag and placed it in the trunk next to the knife. The rental car guy got out of the front seat and came back to take a look. Without saying anything, he suddenly snatched the knife up and tucked it out of sight against his side. I realized that he was trying to conceal its presence from the fifteen people standing in line behind me.

This made me laugh a little bit, and I heard somebody behind me ask, "Did you just say there's a knife in the trunk of that car?"

"Yeah," I responded turning briefly to look back at the person before returning my attention to the rental car guy.

He hovered, staring down over the trunk for several seconds before suddenly flipping up the itchy black trunk-carpet to expose the spare tire. He was definitely looking for a body. I walked over to stand next to him.

"Hang on a sec. I'm just going to go through the rest of the vehicle to make sure the previous renter didn't forget anything else."

He said this casually as if the knife weren't really a knife at all, but was a packet of lifesavers or a scarf. I watched with interest as he searched the car's various cavities, and leaned forward when I saw him snatch, then conceal something black out of the glove box.

"What's that?" I asked.

He quickly tossed the knife and the black object into a garbage can, and I walked over to take a look.

"Oh my God!," I said in a loud, astounded tone, "That's a single black glove."

A harassed expression settled over the rental car guy's features. The people standing behind me in line were gesticulating amongst themselves. I myself was starting to feel a bit like Nancy Drew or a member of the Scooby Doo gang. Like someone actively sought by mysteries.

"I'm just going to get you another car," the stressed out rental car guy sighed as he began walking away towards the rental car office.

"That's okay," I said soothingly, " I don't mind taking the murder car."

He seemed relieved, but apologized continuously. I hate it when people apologize. It makes me uncomfortable.

"Are you sure?" he asked several times.

"Yeah, it's no problem."

He held the driver's side door open as I slid in behind the wheel.

"I think maybe O.J. might've rented this one," he said laughing weakly.

"It looks like it," I answered smiling back at him because he was kind of cute.

I heard somebody in line mutter to the person standing next to them, "Did he just say something about O.J.?"

I think it was probably okay. The dirty, crusty stuff on the knife looked more like pie crust or clay than blood.

True Story.

-EEK

Full Conversion

In the town where I grew up, as a Catholic I was frequently approached by others much like I might approach Tom Cruise. Not as a celebrity, but as a Scientologist. Adults, upon discovering that I was a Catholic, would quickly let me know that they were okay with that and that they weren’t judging me, while kids would ask me questions like, “Is it true that you worship Mary as an idol?”

People tried to convert members of my family on what felt like a near daily basis. When my older sister was nine years-old, she pleaded with my parents to allow her to attend a Baptist church revival with her best friend. Upon my sister's arrival home, my mother was shocked to discover that she’d been saved (i.e. converted). The following Sunday, a family from my sister’s ‘new’ church called my mother to offer to drive her to the service. My mother was always gracious under these sorts of circumstances, but she would frequently tell us afterwards.

“That’s the thing about Catholics. We don’t proselytize other Christians. It’s against our religion.”

“What about the Jews?” somebody would invariably ask.

“Them too. We respect other people’s beliefs.”

By ‘we’, I was never entirely certain whether she meant Catholics in general or just our family. It helped though. I felt morally superior, which made it easier to be polite as I muddled my way through the various conversion attempts that peppered my childhood. Still, I resented it a little bit, and as a result began to view myself as the underdog.

When my childhood best friend (a Presbyterian) got engaged, she converted to the Baptist church at her fiancé’s behest. Afterwards, she called me in South Bend to tell me about it, and I was a little shocked.

“So you’re a Baptist now?”

“Yeah. Since last Sunday.”

“But. You’re a Presbyterian. That’s who you are.”

“If you look into it, the two aren’t that different.”

“Man. Baptists are the worst. They try to convert everybody.”

“Racist.”

“I’m not a racist. I’m a religionist.”

“Well, regardless. You know the old joke. Presbyterians are essentially just rich Baptists.”

“So you’re poor now too?”

Going to a Catholic University, changed my ‘underdog’ views associated with being a Catholic and studying abroad in Rome completely dispelled them. An underdog religion doesn’t usually possess its own tiny country (Vatican City) with opulent cathedrals and room after room of priceless artifacts. With art by Michelangelo.

In one of my classes there, I had a priest as a professor, and he was the first Catholic religious zealot I’d ever met. He made being a Catholic sound like war. That we were all soldiers in it together. Battling our way against all of the non-Catholics evil of the world. That if we weren’t careful and pushy about our beliefs all sorts of terrible things were going to happen.

Like cloning.

And sex.

I spent a lot of those classes shifting around in my chair and checking the clock hanging just over his head to the left. He was Maltese. He spoke six languages fluently and had close ties to the Vatican. In addition to all of that, he was crazy.

Since college, I’ve lapsed into a comfortable compromise with my mind where I become a practicing Catholic on major holidays. For my Mom. I justify this by reminding myself that I disagree with a lot of the Church’s stances. Like no women priests, and no marriage for priests, and no gays. Never ever at all, unless you’re willing to become a priest who is willing to pretend not to be gay.

So now I’m an occasional Catholic.

A few weeks ago, I was home visiting my parents, and we went to church together. The sermon was about how society is trying to get people to say ‘Happy Holidays’ instead of ‘Merry Christmas’ and how the church thinks that’s wrong. I read an article along the same vein a few days later about how Christians were boycotting Wal-Mart last year for changing their greeting from ‘Merry Christmas’ to ‘Happy Holidays’, and this year Wal-Mart’s buckled and is saying ‘Merry Christmas’ again.

Am I missing something? What does Wal-Mart have to do with the meaning of traditional Christian Christmas? I get what they have to do with commercialized Christmas (I’ve gotten many a great gift from there), but to me there’s a difference between commercialized Christmas and traditional, Christian Christmas. My Hindu cubicle neighbor was just telling me at lunch today that growing up her parents always got a Christmas tree and presents for their family. They did so because Christmas trees are pretty and presents are awesome. And it’s fun. And also maybe they liked to celebrate the nice themes linked to Christmas, like the importance of family. They certainly weren’t celebrating the birth of Christianity’s God’s son, and, frankly, this doesn’t bother me even a little.

My family tradition incorporates religion and commercialism into one big, friendly, American-style melting pot. We go to church together. Make a big dinner. Open presents. Watch Christmas movies. Play poker. And drink a little wine. I like the holiday season. It gives me the warm fuzzies. I wouldn’t change a thing about the way my family celebrates, but I’m willing to bet there are a lot of other equally nice traditions out there too.

Christmas is a beautiful holiday, but I don’t think it should be forced on anybody. What about Hanukah? What about Thanksgiving and New Year’s and the Chinese New Year? And maybe even some awesome holiday that I don’t even know about?

Like my Mom says, “We don’t proselytize.”

And that makes me feel proud (and a little morally superior).

Happy Holidays.

-mErry christmanEKah

Oui Oui

I harbor a strong distaste for the interior of porta-potties. I'm confident that my revulsion is a common one seeing as these evil shanties provide shelter to a sinister blue chemical stew tempered with a generous helping of human excrement. The terrors that go hand-in-hand with porta-potty use are ridiculous. Specifically for women and children. The experience for this sub-set of the population is horrifyingly intimate. It involves awkward, no-seat-touching squatting directly over the stinky blue sludge and the clutching upwards of pants legs in a weak attempt to protect them from the urine-saturated floor and the constant fear of back splash. Oh God, the back splash. If thrust into a particularly filthy porta-potty, I walk out feeling violated and wondering if I'll ever find a way to be clean again. After such an experience, I'll often feel compelled to hit the sauce. That's the nice thing about porta-potties. They have a tendency to flock around areas where people are taking part in mass outdoor, booze-laden revelry. Football games. Summer concerts.

The alcohal makes the hurt go away.

I've been noticing a lot of porta-potties in my neighborhood. I think (actually, I know) it's because of all of the housing construction going on. The porta-potties have been around for awhile, but lately they've shifted to the forefront of my attention.

The other night I popped over to my friend Kelly's house for a drink and stepped outside with her for a moment to watch her smoke a cigarette. As we sat on her back deck, shivering and chatting. I glanced down at the alley and noticed that a homeless guy was walking into a porta-potty set-up at a construction site across the way.

"Hey," I exclaimed, "that's great. He's got a warm place to pee."

Kelly glanced distractedly in the direction of the porta-potty and said, "Yeah. He's in there all the time."

"Hmm," I responded after taking another sip of my beer.

Since then I've noticed that there are porta-potties EVERYWHERE. They're always associated with construction sites, but, nevertheless, they're all over the place. And the companies that manage them have fantastic names.

LepreCan

Oui Oui

I've decided that porta-potties are one of the rare cases where beauty truly is only skin deep. On the outside they're typically a refreshing shade of grass green or royal blue, and capped off with a festive name that invokes thoughts of peeing. While on the inside, they shelter terrors so awful that I've been forced to repress and exile them to the worst of my nightmares.

Still, it's nice that the homeless guy has a warm place to pee. Or whatever.

-EEK

Baby Tricks

This is what happens when my brother and his wife decide to take photos of their children for a Christmas card. First the children cry and refuse to smile. Then the baby spits-up. Then the mother takes off the baby's Christmas outfit to be washed. Then the diaper-clad baby gets balanced on her father's hand like a broom. Apparantly my brother's been practicing this for months.

It's kind of freaky.

I went home to visit my parents last weekend, and when I saw my brother he handed me an envelope.

"What's this? Money?" I asked.

"No," he responded, "It's your Christmas card."

"You're not going to mail it to me?"

"What? You're standing right here."

"Fine," I said (but secretly I was annoyed. I love getting mail.)

So anywho, somehow my blogger site template got all screwed up, and I couldn't figure out how to fix it so I switched to a new one. This one's a bit more elaborate.

-EEK

News From a Quiet Cafe (not Starbucks)

Have you ever put something off to such a ridiculous degree that you feel like now you don't want to do it on principle? I'm sitting in a cafe tonight (as opposed to watching TV or drinking at a bar) preparing to study. I have to take the audit section of the CPA exam on January 8th. I formally started taking the exam over a year ago. For all of you non-accountants out there, the CPA exam is broken up into four sections. These days in order to pass it, you pretty much cram for each section over a month and then take the exam. I took the FAR section last November, which is supposed to be the hardest of the four sections. And I passed. And I haven't taken another section since.

If I don't pass the other three sections in the next couple of months, I'm going to lose the credit for passing the FAR section. This is the only thing that's motivating me to study. Not the promise of more money. Or a better job. It's the fear of having to re-memorize all the crap I had to learn for FAR.

So tonight is the night that I start studying for the next section. I'm determined to just knock the rest of the exam out so that I can move on with my life, and start drinking on a consistent basis again. Who knows though, I think I may have said the same thing last time when I took the FAR section.

So anyway, I'm telling you this in order to let you know that you can anticipate lots of updates because I'll be marooning myself in coffee shops and libraries for many nights to come.

It's weird to see people sitting around here just chatting and having coffee. It seems so sit-commie.* When I go to a cafe, it's either to get a warm drink to-go or to get some work done. When I want to chat, I head out to a bar. It would never even occur to me to go to a cafe. I'm not sure what that says about me.

*I was going to put sit-comish, but liked the way commie sounded. Sit-commie bastards.

I'm giddy right now. Remember Dan? He just sent me an invitation to his Christmas party on December 16th. I love holiday parties. Actually, I love parties in general, but people have a tendency to invest a little more effort in their holiday parties. Now I just need to find an outfit that shows an appropriate amount of skin, but not too much. It's tough to find the right balance between classy and slutty.

MY ORIGINAL IDEA FOR A POST

Man. I've been trying to upload this hilarious picture for over a week now, and I can't get stupid blogger to do it. I'm not even going to tell you what it's of. You'll just have to wait. All that I'll say is that it could become an internet sensation.

-EEK

Nobody Likes Complainers

Gwyneth Paltrow can be such a life-sucking vacuum of negativity sometimes. I think she should take a break from all of the meaningless vitriol (is the US and the UK in a contest for who's culture is the most awesome as per Gwyn's preferences?) and enjoy her money. Also, she needs to learn how to appear less smug.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/showbiz/showbiznews.html?in_article_id=420285&in_page_id=1766&ito=1490

Sorry for being complain-ish myself. Why do I even read this crap?

-EEK

[insert my company name here] Lady

I'm working from home today. I spent this morning reading through emails in my pajamas. By noon, I felt disgusting because I hadn't brushed my teeth or hair. I was also starving because my refrigerator is currently being under-utilized. At the moment it's holding just a few lonely bottles of Heineken Light and some possibly expired red pepper dip. I decided that a walk through the neighborhood to my local coffee shop would revitalize me (once I'd brushed my teeth and washed my hair). So now I'm going to spend the afternoon here, responding to emails and perusing spreadsheets (and I know what you're thinking -- you're blogging. not working. -- Well, what are you? The work police? I'm on my lunch break.). I honestly think I'm more productive on the days that I work from home. I'm more inaccessible and can spend long uninterrupted periods of time...well...working. The one caveat that I have is I usually don't stay at home the entire day. I have to leave -- to a coffee shop or library or something. Otherwise I begin to get distracted by all of the awesome things there are to do around my house. I also get a little lonely. Sitting there all alone.

I'd originally planned to work at home today because I'm flying out of Midway Airport this evening, and it's much easier to access Midway from my place than from work. From my place I can take the el. From work my only option is a $75 cab ride. When I woke up this morning and rolled over in bed to peak out the window, I couldn't help but smile at all the poor saps that have to commute in hellacious blizzard conditions. Then I rolled back over and slept for another thirty minutes. When I got up, I emailed a friend of mine at work to ask how many people had made it into the office (note that this was my passive-aggressive method of gloating).

Right now I'm thinking of all of my public-transportation commuting friends. Not real friends per se. More like people that I've been seeing everyday for three years that I have either never or rarely spoken with, but with whom I feel a sort of bond. They are familiar. They ride the same el/metra as me everyday. Same car and usually same seat. Familiar.

I've given secret nicknames to my favorites. I didn't realize that I'd done this until recently when I was discussing my commute with my sister and mentioned some of the people. She pointed out to me that this was an odd habit, but she said this in a kind way that implied it was odd-funny, not odd-creepy. My favorite commuter friend is Old Sully.

He looks just like a friend of mine from college whose name is Sully. Only older. He looks like my friend Sully in fifteen years. When I first started seeing Old Sully, I used to imagine (fantasize?) that he really was my friend Sully. That somehow time had crossed itself and the Sully of fifteen years was coexisting in the same dimension as me. He didn't notice it was me, because the Emily he knew would be fifteen years-older. He probably would have just assumed that I was someone that looked like his friend Emily, but fifteen years younger. Because of this, I'll frequently scrutinize Old Sully to determine whether he looks successful/happy (to utilize as a predictor of Real Sully's future). I love Old Sully. His company has blue-jean Fridays.

I have a few others...Short Elvis, Alligator Shoes (this girl wears the same pair of flamboyantly colored alligator shoes everyday. Spring, summer, fall. They're a nice looking pair of shoes, so I'm not complaining. Just noticing.), Frank, Hot Bald Guy.

Frank is a conductor, but Frank's not his real name. Everyday this (possibly mentally-disabled) guy calls him Frank.

"Bye Frank," he'll say prior to shaking Frank's hand as he exits the train. Frank, the conductor, will always politely correct him.

"That's not my name," he'll say, "my name is Paul."

They do this everyday.

A few months ago, I was riding the train home when I heard Hot Bald Guy say, "Hey. [insert my company name here] Lady. Was the shuttle late today?"

I didn't answer him at first, because I didn't realize that he was talking to me. Instead I continued reading my book. He repeated himself, and it suddenly dawned on me that he was talking to me. I answered him, and we spoke for a few minutes. Then I went back to reading. Secretly I was pleased to have warranted a nickname of my own.

THE MOST USELESS THING I'VE DONE TODAY

Flipped off a rude driver while wearing mittens. He drove off before I could realize the fruitlessness of my crass gesture.

Have a nice weekend.

-EEK

My Thanksgiving Resolutions

Sorry.

I won’t bore you with the details (because, they are indeed boring and also very non-dramatic), but I’ve hit my busiest time of year at work. All I’ve been doing for the last few weeks is working at a frantic pace until late in the evening, at which point I head home to curl up in the fetal position until the next morning rolls around. Today things are slower, because everyone has been wonderfully distracted by the Thanksgiving Holiday.

I’m back, and I promise to start making timely updates. I swear on Thanksgiving.

So…what to say? I have so much unexpressed mind-chatter saved up that I don’t even know where to start.

Here’s something…

So I was at a birthday lunch the other day. Birthday lunches are a monthly occurrence in the department I work in. Once a month we go out to lunch at some place like TGI Fridays or Chilis, and treat the birthday gal or guy to lunch. It’s a nice concept in theory, but I’ve noticed that the prevailing atmosphere at these lunches is one of all-encompassing awkwardness. I think part of the problem is that we already spend ten hours a day interacting with each other, and the added hour required once a month feels extraneous and forced. People (me included) resent it a little bit.

At this particular lunch, a co-worker had recently become engaged. This seemed like an easy subject, so I and a few others seized upon it and grilled her about wedding arrangements. Things were going fine until somebody asked her how her and her fiancé met.

She responded in an endearingly timid tone, “At a bar.”

Immediately after this, the sweet-sixty something admin assistant in my department turned to me and stated energetically across the table.

“Emily. You should be taking notes! If you want to meet guys you should start visiting bars.”

She was being sincere and actively searching through her purse for a pen.

At that point things lapsed into their usual birthday-lunch awkwardness. Everyone was waiting for me to respond, so I said.

“I spend a lot of my free-time in bars, so…um,” I shrugged my shoulders, “maybe I’ll get lucky someday.”

I did a bad job of hiding my irritation. I’m not the only single person in my department, but I am the only single female. Also, I can’t help it that my sixty-something admin assistant has a cool boyfriend that plays an instrument in the Cubs band and is on TV during Cubs games all the time and sweeps her off to San Francisco once a month for music festivals and sends her flowers on a bi-weekly basis.

It seems cruel to be singled out and rebuked for your relationship status (or lack thereof) just because you’re a girl.

Okay. Enough annoying-bridget-jones-oh-my-life-is-so-hard-type whining. It’s making me start to hate myself.

THEATRE ANTICS

The Sunday before last, I went out to see a play called ‘Clay’ at the Looking Glass Theatre. We were sitting in the front row, and, at one point, the performer hopped down off of the stage and began serenading me inches from my face.

I’d never been in a situation like this before, and I wasn’t entirely certain about what an appropriate response would be. Do you nod your head to the beat? Do you grin and stare aggressively back at the performer? I tried to maintain eye contact, but theatre makeup looks gruesome when viewed at such a close range. Instead, I just sort of glanced off to the side and nodded my head while sporting a nervous grin.

Luckily the song was about a girl that he was in love with (his stepmother – the play was very Oedipal), and not about something unpleasant. When he was done singing to my face he straddled the guy sitting next to me. I was delighted.

MORE THEATRE ANTICS

I went to another play last Friday, because I’ve purchased season tickets to this theatre company (not because I’m a culture-vulture, but to support my friend who sits on their board of directors). The play was a gay romantic-comedy, and it was funny (though not as good as ‘Clay’). Afterwards, we decided to grab a late dinner at Mia Francesca’s. Dinner was outrageously fun. Mostly because one of the people there was this guy that I’ve had an enormous crush on for years.

He’s this big tall, funny Greek guy that manages to be both simultaneously hairy and good-looking. I can’t help it. I adore him.

I’ve known him through my friend Mick for years, but began hanging out with him on a consistent basis a little over a year ago. When I first met him, my crush was vague and idealized because it was based on his looks and his perceived personality. It never occurred to me that it would be reciprocated, which made it seem like something safe and easy to indulge in. Around the holidays last year, he and I shared a cab home from a bar and after walking me to my door…he suddenly just grabbed me and laid one on me.

A few weeks later, we made out in a bar (classy, I know. I’m really embarrassed about it.). Here’s an excerpt of a phone conversation Mick and I had the day after that incident:

MICK: (with a note of amazement in his voice.) Dan was making out with some skank at Hye Bar last night.

ME: I was that skank.

MICK: Man. He was drunk.

ME: (Defensively.) Hey! I was drunk too!

There were a few other embarrassingly public make-out sessions, but I was so nervous around him that conversation was inevitably awkward. Also, according to Mick, Dan was annoyed with me for flirting with his friends. In my defense, I was just trying to make friends with them, because I thought it might make Dan like me more if all of his friends thought I was cool.

So, obviously, things just kind of faded out. And I was fine with it. I decided that it wasn't meant to be and dated around, and my crush dissipated. We’ve hung out since then, but not with the same frequency as before.

Friday was weird, because it was like a flip had suddenly switched. For some reason, I felt relaxed. We sat next to each other at dinner and conversation came easily. It was nice. And, of course, my crush is right back on. And now I’m mooning around all over the place like a moron.

I’m making a Thanksgiving resolution, though. No more making-out in bars (or other inappropriate venues) with Dan. I’m also going to become a yoga master and win the lottery.

-tErriblE slacKer