Shy Gal, or, Baseball Players Make Me Cry

I’m a terribly shy gal. This has been the story of my life since I was a wee tyke. The only reason I was able to get in good with the popular crew was because I would sneak in so quietly they wouldn’t notice me or pay me any mind. When I did find myself making friends, I was usually the cut-up in the crew, the one making the Seinfeld-esque jokes, keeping the kids in stitches so I wouldn’t end up needing them (i.e., getting beat up on the playground).

Getting older, not much has changed. I can go to a party, grab a beer and spend upwards of an hour scanning the room before making my move towards a conversation, hoping I don’t scare the poor sap away. My success rate at keeping them interested is about a 95%. The other 5% are guys usually looking for hot girls for the night.

Perhaps another reason I have such trouble approaching folks is the fact that Chicago, despite its fabulousness, isn’t exactly the most “approachable” city. Get too much into someone’s personal space, or dare to start a conversation on the ‘L’, and you’ll be met with an icy stare, an eye roll of some sort and, to a more aggressive degree, many, many swear words directed at you. We’re not as friendly as our Midwestern cousins in Iowa or Kansas, or our Southern distant cousins in Alabama or Georgia. But once we find the people we enjoy to be around, we’re alright with each other. And this puts me in a bind: I wish people were more approachable, but at the same time I tend to stay on guard because, after 26 years in a city, you start to embody all of the quirks and traits and personalities of that city.

Since I’m shy around normal Joes and Janes, it’s no surprise that I am extremely shy around celebrities. Or people I perceive to be celebrities because of their general awesomeness. My first brush with a minor celebrity was when I met a former White Sox pitcher outside of the ballpark. I got his autograph…and proceeded to cry. Why? Because I didn’t know what to say to him. This may have freaked him out. I seriously hope that he doesn’t remember me, because I don’t want to be known as “that weird girl who cried when I signed her baseball.” The same thing happened when I met another White Sox player at the team’s convention. Except this time, I had the decency to turn away instead of crying in his face.

The best part is that I had a do-over with this last athlete. During high school, I had an enormous crush on him. So I decided that, during my senior year, I would make a sign asking for his hand in marriage and wait for him outside of the players’ parking lot. My friend and I go to the game, leave and wait up to an hour following the final pitch…and then we saw him, walking to his SUV with his lady. And suddenly, I lost my nerve. Where it went, who knows? But I begged my friend to show him the sign for me. So she called out his name and held up the sign. The prettiest, biggest, most gorgeous smile crossed his face. And I realized that he was smiling at the girl holding the sign; not me. And I felt like a colossal idiot, especially when he walked over to autograph the sign…and then handed it back to her. She may have given it back to me after he walked away, but the experience will never ever really be mine.

(Once I find out where I stored that sign, which I had laminated the very next day, I will post a photo)

Fourth time being a charm, I had the chance to work on my conversational skills with yet another celebrity: Perry Ferrell of Jane’s Addiction and Lollapalooza fame. The husband and I spotted him in a random Southern Illinois gas station/rest stop right outside of St. Louis. After a failed attempt at a conversation with Dave Navarro, I approached Mr. Ferrell and introduced myself and spent five minutes discussing how much of a fan my father was of his music. It was the only conversation I could have, since I knew nothing of Jane’s Addiction myself. Maybe it was because it was after midnight; perhaps it was because I was outside of Chicago, but talking to him came easy. He was a wonderful man. And I thought, yes, even I can overcome a crippling shyness.

But no, no I cannot overcome a crippling shyness. Just this past week, walking down Michigan Ave, I spot my journalistic hero having a smoke outside of the Tribune Building. He’s just standing there, chatting, and I’m within breathing distance of this man. I about fainted from the thought of being so close. And what do I do with a man I hold in such high regard standing this close to me? I keep walking. And walking. I don’t turn back. Instead, I continue on with my day and on the train ride home, I ponder the many things I could have said to him. Once again, I have disappointed myself.

Perhaps I need myself a friend-making wingman. Or a time machine so I can go back and slap myself and say, “just say ‘hello’, you weirdo. And don’t cry. It makes guys who don’t know you feel weird.”

Making up for lost time

With the end of the school year approaching, I feel like I'm getting a little bit of me time back one day at a time. As a driver, my everyday is consumed with concerns for the people I transport and the upkeep of the ancient vehicle they have given me to drive. By the time I return home, I'm exhausted from the overwhelming sense of responsibility and just want to stretch out on the couch with my hot n' spicy chips and watch rerun episodes of 'Royal Pains.' Writing is still very much a part of who I am, but these fingers have spent more time around the steering wheel than taping away on this keyboard. And I really regret having taken so much time off. So now I'm using this time on my day off to play a little catch-up, stretch my digits a little, see if I still have it in me.

And I promise I'll try not to use the word "time" again for the rest of this piece.

Aside from the pressures at work, Halbastram and I have been hitting a bit of a sour note these days. Nothing too bad, but it can get tiresome arguing over the little things over and over. Laundry, dinner, cleaning, what tone was used to answer a specific question. I guess, what's the worn-out phrase, "the honeymoon is over." Not that I'm going to let that ruin us. I know all of our problems are stress-related due to the impending move and work and whatnot. It might also be the fact that, since we work together, we see each other just about 24-hours a day. And as much as you may love a person, it's just too much after a while. So I've been trying to remedy that by planning outings with college friends, a weekend get-away to our favorite hotel, and putting together my own trip to California for the summer. Naturally that's the one I'm looking forward to the most.

I've been saving my pennies and dimes for my plane ticket to see my bestest out in Cali. Despite the already obvious tint to my skin, I feel the need for an authentic L.A. tan. And if I play my cards right, a weekend in Vegas may be queued up too. Of course, I'd like to take Halbastram but (a) he hates to fly and (b) he's not fond of California. He doesn't kind of dislike it. There's a deep-seeded hatred for it. So I didn't even bother asking since I knew what the answer would be. But his response to me going was, "well, if you can afford it..." Here's hoping I can, since new fees appear with these airlines almost whenever the sun rises.

A bright spot in my gloomy May: Halbastram and I went dress shopping @ H&M one random Sunday. Since this is graduation & prom month, I knew I'd need an outfit to wear to each occasion. Depsite being a gal, I generally hate shopping for dresses & jeans. Dresses are a pain because having a large badonkadonk and a small upper half makes for a rather odd fitting contraption. However, this venture was different. I tried on three dresses in the same size (which I will keep to myself) and, surprise surprise! they all fit. Nicely. To a "t." To celebrate this feat, Halbastram and I went out for baby back ribs at the local Chili's. This is how suburban celebrations are done.

Did I buy any of the dresses? No. But I have my reasons. Since they all fit, and I wasn't expecting them too, I knew I could only take one. Being unable to decide, I took none. Which made sense at the time.

Yet, I am still dressless. *le sigh*

It's a sad sad day when your most exciting event happened because a few dresses fit. But as I said, with summer approaching, I know things will turn around. This will be my last summer before I go back to hit the books, so I plan to make it memorable. Be on the lookout for more updates. I promise I'll stick around more this time.

Yeah yeah, I know...

My last post was a couple (few) weeks ago. And honestly, I have no idea why. I've been perfectly alive, healthy and kicking. But you'd be surpirsed at how draining driving a bus can be. And since I can't remember the last couple of (few) weeks, I'll gladly recount my Spring Break trip to....*drum roll, please*


KANSAS!!!!!!

Yeah, Kansas. In all CAPS. With seven exclaimation points. That's how you spice up a story about a trip to Kansas. And yes, it is very much more than The Wizard of Oz and lame jokes about Toto and Dorothy.

It's also prairie grass. And angus bulls. And scenic overlooks of prairie grass and angus bulls. I think I saw a prairie fire way off yonder. But that's neither here nor there. Well, I guess it is there...in grand ol' Kansas.


I know there are questions, such as, "um, why on earth were you in Kansas?" And if that wasn't your question, I asked it for you. Now I'll answer it for you.

In a nutshell, this economy sucks. As my previous posts have stated, Halbastram was let go from his wonderful architecture job over a year ago due to the fact that the construction industry is deader than disco. And I never had a "career", so I really didn't contribute much to the household other than what I made from my lovely retail jobs. I loved those jobs and don't consider my time in retail as time wasted. Some people work in an office; I loved to peddle clothes and toys and discounted food/household goods. With things looking grim on our end, after much discussion, we decided that the best thing for us would be more schooling and re-tooling. He's decided to go back to school to study Education and possibly become a math teacher as a back-up plan. Me, I decided to combine my love of writing with my love of politics and go for my Master's in Political Science with an emphasis on Journalism.

After much debate and research on which school would be right for us, we settled on Halbastram's alma mater. And thus began our journey to Kansas, to check out the school and to discuss a game plan with professors in our chosen courses of study. Also, for me, it was a chance to sit down with the head of the Poly Sci department to express my remorse for having such lackluster grades during my undergrad years and to show him that my aim in the Master's program is sincere and that I can handle the work.

Being back on a real college campus really brought back a lot of old memories. Nights in the boys' dorm, crashing parties at the Theater House, getting mad at a box of Skyy Blue because it was empty, Spring Break in Daytona Beach...now that I think about it, I kind of know why my grades were awful. All of these memories involve liquor...

At any rate, being an adult now, I've finally figured out what it is I'm meant to do. Political journalism. I get excited just thinking about all of the trouble I could cause. If you know anything about Illinois politics, you know that the landscape is just lush with wonderful characters with tales as far as the eye can see. Or as long as my pen can write.

If things work themselves out, we can expect to make our permanent journey to the center of America by August. I'm sure I'll miss big city living, but I know we'll be back someday: there's still a ton of my crap my mother wants out of her basement.

this one's for the grandkids

The other day Halbastram and I were discussing what makes a day one of our favorites, a day that we remember fondly and have decided that we're going to share with our grandchildren. I remarked that many people pick their weddings or giving birth or graduations as their favorite days, and while these are usually very good days and worthy of remembering, one of my favorite days was ironically pretty bad. But it was comically bad. And every time I look back on it, I laugh at how the events unfolded and regret that I didn't have anyone with me at the time to experience it with. Here it is, in as short a form as I can make it:

One random summer weekday when I was still in housewife mode, I decided, "today is nice and sunny and Halbastram left me a little cash. I think I'll take in a movie." So I shut off the air conditioner and opened the sliding glass window in the living room, leaving just the screen closed, and ventured out to the local movie theatre, which is only 3 minutes away by automobile. Rush Hour 3 had just come out, and as a fan of the previous two installments of the franchise, I figured I'd give it a chance, despite the fact that the critics hated it and even I had my doubts. But again, it was a gorgeous day outside and I was feeling extremely optimistic.

I go see the movie, which turns out to be quite awful and as I'm walking towards the front of the theatre to exit, I notice that it is raining quite hard outside. My first thought is, "well I'll just wait it out." My second thought is, "oh, shit! The window is still open at home!" So I run through the flooded parking lot to my low-sitting car and notice that the windows are all fogged up, from front to back. I sit with the defroster on full blast but with very minimal results. But I'm in a hurry and decide to just wipe down the windows and slowly peel out in the water-logged parking lot towards home.

When I arrive home, the rain has slowed down for the most part. But once I enter the building, I notice that the lights are out and the elevator isn't working. Power's out. So I have to climb the stairs to the unit and I have no idea how long the power had been out, since the power in and around the movie theater, street lights included, were still working. I reach my unit, which is sooooo freaking hot, and immediately walk over to the sliding glass window. And as I expected, the wind was blowing the rain sideways, which in turn blew the rain right into our living room. The immediate area around the window was soaked. And because it's carpet, all I can do is wait for it to dry.

So I sit in the dark, waiting until it's time to pick Halbastram up from the train station, so I can share my awful day with him.

And I attribute all of this to that awful, terrible movie I went to see. If I had just trusted my instincts, and Ebert, none of this would have happened. Now, I refuse to watch that movie ever again. It's a bad omen. It came on TBS yesterday and I quickly switched the tv to the first thing I could, which unfortunately was QVC. I've learned my lesson.

If 'The Godfather' couldn't even get it right on the third round, why did I think a crappy buddy-cop comedy could?

a week of breakdowns

A new season, a new set of problems.

This week, I started my lovely new job. The job itself is fine, but the time of day that it takes place isn't. Because of how early we have to be there to prep the vehicles, I don't have enough time to sit and enjoy a big 'ol cup of coffee. I'm already waking up super early and with barely enough time to even microwave a decent breakfast. And not all the vehicles have cup holders, so I can't count on being able to Thermos it. So I go without during the morning time.

Herein lies the problem: my blood is most likely two-thirds caffiene. If I skip a day, I get massive headaches/migraines. And for two days this week, my body just couldn't hold out until after the morning shift. It would start to turn on me by 8am. By the time the midday break would arrive, I would be so far gone all I could see were spots and dancing coffee cups floating around my head. Luckily for the first few days I was just an observer/rider so I didn't have to put any additional stress on this noggin. I'm wondering if perhaps I'll just have to hook up a coffee-filled IV to take along with me. I'm still working out the logistics...

My next dilemma has been a sick, stuffy, raspy Halbastram. The changing of the season has not been kind to him and he's a sore throat, whispering mess. He first started showing signs of illness Monday, so I offered to make him soup while I'll just dine at the golden arches. He whined a whole bunch, so I agreed to bring him back some chicken nuggets and a soda. Again, here's my cupholder dilemma: my car doesn't have any. And I can't drive while holding a drink. It's a talent I don't possess. Halbastram's solution: take a boot and set the drink in the boot. It'll act as a cup holder since it's tall. Alrighty. Of course, this can't go as planned. Coming to a hard stop at a red light, his soda decided that my car was thirsty and unloaded itself all over my passenger floor. I was FURIOUS. I came home, threw the bag of food on the counter, mumbled something about the soda, went back down to get the wet car mat, came back up, threw the car mat on the kitchen floor, mumbled some more about how Mondays suck, took my cheeseburger, headed to the bedroom and watched Pawn Stars while I ate my burger.

Luckily, Halbastram cleaned up the mess for me.

After deciding not to be angry anymore, I mellowed out and started to enjoy the rest of my week...until the car stopped working. Halbastram tried to fix it, but after about an hour or so he gave up and we had to walk home, which wasn't so bad because we were only 10 mins. away. We called the local policia and let them know the situation so they wouldn't ticket/tow our car. It would be another day before we could get a tow truck. And, as luck would have it, as the tow man is putting the car on his truck, it starts to rain...heavily. Which isn't good for Halbastram. So I told him to just stay in bed this weekend.

Mi madre is coming to visit so that I can use her car to run errands for the day, which is very helpful.

Thanks Mom!

Here's hoping that the luck of the Irish will be on my side this coming week. I don't think I can handle anymore breakdowns, car or otherwise. If only I could fix not being able to sleep in late on the weekends. Why am I up at 5:30am on a Saturday?!? *shakes a fist at Mother Nature and Father Time*

More work, less daytime tv

It's a weird feeling, walking into the CDL DMV (that's the DMV for gnarly truckers...and bus drivers) and being surrounded by worn blue jeans, weathered t-shirts, worker jackets and trucker hats, while I wear my North Face boots with the faux fur top lining, favorite Joe's trouser jeans, H&M bomber jacket with my collection of Jimmy Eat World buttons, Kylie sunglasses, lip gloss a-popping, and my favorite blue crocheted beanie cap. I felt a little overdressed and slightly underaged. The last part because the other women who worked in the place were all tshirts/flannel shirts/tattered jeans and I-don't-have-time-to-fuss-with-my hair. I felt like perhaps I didn't take it as seriously as they did, that I didn't quite understand yet that in this male-dominated environment you gotta come off tough or they'll eat you alive.

Or maybe I was just thinking too much about it since it was 9am and the DMV always leads to boredom, which in turn leads to random thoughts.

At any rate, I have my beautiful license in hand, the big bold CDL planted firmly across the top and I feel badass. It took me two months of training and two tries at the final test to get it right, and I made it happen. My driving might still be a little questionable (ask the many curbs I slam while making a right-hand turn) but it's tolerable.

To celebrate my passing of the final test, Halbastram took me out to Hooters for dinner. This is our usual celebratory destination. We sort of have a unique relationship with the manager, which hasn't quite reached the "free food" level yet. But, one step at a time. Our relationship with this man is simply based on the fact that he remembers us, even if we don't stop by for over a month. We're a very odd pair, so we're easily recognized at most places that we frequent, and even places that we don't. Once we were in the grocery store and this guy goes, "hey! you guys haven't been by the restaurant in a while." I was so confused and I had absolutely no idea who this guy was. But Halbastram remembered him. He worked at the Taco Bell up the road which, yes, we had stopped going to for a while since I was trying out the "domestic" side of our relationship. I would soon find out later that 80% of the staff at said Taco Bell knew who we were. Now, I don't want to get into a whole thing about "perhaps you two were going there way too much" so I'm just going to move on, since I was off-topic anyway...

So now I will be officially employed next week. No more Maury paternity tests. No more Tyra advice for teens. I'll have to actually be somewhere of importance at 2 in the afternoon. That'll be an adjustment. I had just started to cement my afternoons to my liking. But now that I'm making money, I can finally take that trip to Cali I've been dreaming of...or, I can get a bad-ass iPad. Or I can pay the electricity bill. Ugh, responsibility is a drag sometimes...

This Married Life

Yes, I've been watching Tyra again. So of course this blog will be about the episode I watched yesterday.

Tyra featured a panel of women on two opposing sides of the marriage debate. On one side were the pro-single women, the women who choose career and freedom and feel that a man and kids would only hinder their grand plans. On the other side were the pro-marriage ladies, the women who have decided that being married and having a family was their career of choice.

Here's my short-and-sweet opinion on both arguments:

Not everyone is marriage material. To those women who feel that they absolutely need a husband and family to feel complete and that works out for them, kudos. If it makes you happy, do it. To the women who feel that they simply can't commit to the idea of marriage and a family and don't want to make a mistake by jumping into it because of social pressure, kudos to you too. I think it's fabulous that you recognize this ahead of time instead of jumping into it and being miserable.

Why did I marry Halbastram? Because I was very much interested in having a longer, much more complicated last name. Also because he asked. I never measured commitment by wedding rings, considering the man moved out of his apartment to be closer to me while I was in school after only one year of dating. That there speaks volumes. If he'd asked me to just be his common-law wife I would've been happy. A lot of people ask me how married life is and I never really give the answer they're looking for. Since we lived together and dated for four years before getting married, I just tell people, "it's like when we were dating, but with a combined checking account." The ring/ceremony/changing of the name wasn't this huge life-altering event some people were expecting. We still love each other very much. We still argue about the small stuff. But in a way, it forces us to work out the kinks because Divorce Court, while entertaining, can be costly.

And this stuff about not being able to pursue a career with a family? It's all about balance. Well, I really wouldn't know as I have neither, but I've heard things, and these things tell me it's possible.

In a nutshell, I'm happy I married the guy. He takes care of me when he remembers to, and vice versa. He kills the spiders; I wash the linens (and his socks and undies). The cable man breaks the tv; Halbie buys a new one in two days. Someone smashes our car; I deal with the shop week after week until it's fixed. I fail a class in college; he takes me out for ice cream. He loses his job; I mix him a Jameson Ginger Ale and listen to him vent. We just mesh. This works for us.

The only thing that could make the marriage better is if he let's me have Jake Gyllenhall as my "freebie". We're still working on that...

Scene-It Party at the Halbastrams!

Usually when my mother comes to visit, we sit around, watch a little America's Most Wanted, maybe even take in a blaxploitation film (loooove Cleopatra Jones) and joke around, telling old jokes and stories that never go out of style. Recently though we've been on a party game kick, following the success of our Simpsons Scene-It tourney (that, of course, I won). The first time we tried to incorporate gaming into her visits, we played Clue, The Simpsons version. Of the four players, Halbastram was the only one familiar with the game, so it took a little bit for my mother, my sister and I to figure it out. Unfortunately, when we were finally figuring it out, Halbastram, in his lovely dyslexic glory, got confused while shouting out an anwser and ruined the game as I was poised to win (I can't remember specifically how this occurred, but I know that it's something we continue to tease him about, so it must've been funny at the time).

This weekend, my mother brought over Scene-It: Tv Edition to play. She figured that it would be a better, more neutral game for us all to enjoy, since not everyone is necessarily a Simpsons fan (which also ruled out my Seinfeld Scene-It...she knows I would have smoked everyone...smoked them, I say!). We set up the board and I mix everyone some Jameson Ginger Ales, and a plain ginger ale for the teenager, and start the game. I already know it's going to be a good eve when the first question turns out to be a Seinfeld one. From that point on I owned the night. But it was a bittersweet feeling. Most of the tv shows I know I've never watched as an adult, but I recognized them. Perhaps I was remembering them from watching so much tv as a kid? Either way, I'm apparently full of way too much pop culture knowledge and it kind of frightens me. My poor sister, she didn't fare well at all. Many of the classic shows from the 60's and 70's were absolutely foreign to her. Growing up, her tv consisted of Disney, Nick and now MTV. So Barney Miller, Maude and Dragnet were huge question marks to her.

My mother, being the oldest, should've been the obvious front-runner for getting the most answers correct. But she stalled on most of the 90's tv shows. That's where I come in. Friends, Dawson's Creek, Wings, Charmed, etc. That's my area of expertise.

And Halbastram? He couldn't read the questions fast enough and by the time he finally finished a sentence, we had already loudly shouted out our answers. But at least he didn't come in last. So kudos to my Halbie.

It's funny, Scene-It: Tv Edition I excel at; Jeopardy, not so much. Maybe I should put down the remote and pick up an encyclopedia...

I, I, I, I, IKEA!

Ikea. Oh, Ikea.

What is it about your store that makes the suburbanites squeal with girlish delight?

I like going to Ikea for the workout. It's a huge store, so after I finish my 10,000 calorie triple bypass burger, I can go walk it off to prepare for my beerfest later in the eve. However, I try to avoid picking up a bag or cart when I arrive. It seems to me that Ikea is one of those places where people just saunter around aimlessly picking up things they really don't need and hadn't even thought of purchasing before they saw that huge 100 pack of tealight candles (I'm looking at you, Tiny Elvis...hey, wait a minute...). And we marvel at how incredibly inexpensive most of it is. But I think we forget to take into account that many items there aren't meant to last for the long-term. Case is point, my lovely $10 tea kettle. Purchased for me by my mother one year ago, and it's already showing rusting signs. The only thing that keeps me from complaining is the fact that it was free and that there alternative ways to boil water.

And then there are the people who bring their entire families, plus a few extended members, and make an event of it. I've yet to take a trip there that didn't involve having to manuever around small kids lying haphazardly on the floor or on a piece of furniture I am interested in purchasing. It's interesting: parents let their kids run around freely, like it's the Discovery Zone (ten points to the person who can remember that awesome 90's relic), but then get all antsy when you ask a kid to please move so I can look at the ottoman.

Leashes, people. You don't want strangers demanding that your kids take a hike, keep them tightly teethered to your person. How about taking them to a real playground?

I narrowly escaped the clutches of the Ikea with only one item, a soup ladle that will come in handy at some point. This was only after I put back the tealights and lantern and tealight holders. And the sheet set. And the dish drying rack. And the pillow case. And the duvet...

The cableman cometh...

My history with our current cable company has been a very long, frustrating, easily-brought-up-at-dinner-parties one. It all started about four years ago, when we decided that we were tired of only watching Fox on our ancient living room television. Halbastram arranged for the cableman to come and plug us in (cue porn music here). The man shows up somewhere between 1-4pm (as promised...) and proceeds to saunter over to our tv viewing area. Now, other than just plugging in the tv when we first moved in, we never fussed with or looked at the outlet/cable area on the wall.

And, thanks to my cable man, it was for good reason.

Less than ten minutes of him being in my home, I hear a "pop!" Followed by a "woah!" Follwed by smoke rising from behind my television. Apparently, the outlet in the wall was a tad faulty and when Mr. Clumsy touched it, the tv fried, producing a smell similar to melting Chucky dolls. Frightened, he jumps from behind the tv area, looks at me and asks, "Are you going to buy another tv?" I just stare at him, steaming from the fact that he fried my tv and asked if I was going to replace it. Even if the outlet was faulty, it was in perfect working order before he arrived. After explaining to me that he can't install the cable to a broken tv (I could've slapped him), he gathers his equipment, takes off his science lab shoe covers and bolts. So I'm left standing in my living room with no tv, a sickening pungent smell, and the fear that my place could go up in flames at any second.

Since that disasterous beginning, our relationship only grew more ridiculous. After signing up for a phone line from them, we discovered that 99% of the calls we received to our new number were debt collection calls for a person we've never heard of, so we just kept it unplugged unless we needed to use it.

Because of where we live, we only get certain channels to come in clear. The rest is a pixelated mess. However, we discovered that if we watch those same channels in HD, no more static. It's just their ploy to get you to upgrade to the fancy digital package. Psh.

We would receive bills in amounts that we'd never agreed to. We'd take the bills into the payment center in town, ask them "what the dilly-o?" And discover that they don't even sync up with whoever is cutting us these bills.

For example, a while ago, we received a bill for about $300. Pretty high, considering our monthly plan is about $60. We go in to ask them to explain themselves and the clerk goes, "well, according to my screen here, you actually have a $100 credit." Where this $300 comes from, no one knows. All I want to know is, "should I disregard this $300 bill?" The clerk says yes. And I'm satisfied.

Any rational person would've kicked them to the curb ages ago, but after discovering "The Real Housewives of Orange County", I realized that I need my cable, despite the headaches and the fact that Clumsy Joe never replaced my fried television or even hung around to make sure I didn't catch fire as well.

The things I go through for Bravo...

Snow Days are Torture

I just remembered that I'm supposed to recount my near-catastrophe in my car Monday.

So, it snowed overnight Sunday, which spilled over into Monday morning. Having errands to run for the day, I had to drive Halbastram to work so that I could use the car. This snow fall was a little heavier and wetter, the stuff that kids both love and dread, as it makes fantastic snowballs that freakin' hurt. We cleaned off the windows before heading out but not the top of the car, because the wind usually blows it off anyway. But remember, this stuff was heavy, meaning it wasn't going anywhere, unless...unless the car heats up (as cars do) and it begins to loosen up.

As it did. And as I came to a stop at a light before making a right-hand turn, the contents from the top of my car came sliding down onto my windshield. My first reaction: "great." My second reaction, "I need to drive somewhere and get this off because I'm slightly embarrassed." Yes, any rational person would have put the car in park, gotten out and cleaned off the windshield, since the snow was too heavy for the wipers to clear. But me, in all of my self-consciousness, decided the best route for me would be to squint through the little sliver of windshield that was left uncovered and find a side street to pull onto.

This has happened to me before. The last time, the snow came sliding down as I was trying to make a left-hand turn. However, in that other car, the driver's side window worked, which helped me nagivate onto the street I was turning on and prevent a catastrophe.

My current car...not so much. The driver's side window doesn't work so my only option was to squint and drive slow and feel my way to a safe side street, Helen Keller-style.

I finally made my way to a subdivision side street that was empty, where I was able to pull over and park and clean off the windshield, as well as what was left on the top of the car. Once I finished, the next challenge was actually getting back onto the main road. Because of the heavy snowfall, everything was covered in white, street signs and houses included, and since it was still early in the morn, nothing was plowed. So I couldn't tell the difference between roads, cul de sacs and drive ways. But after circling around a dozen or so McMansions, I finally made my way back onto the main road and proceeded with my day.

I can only imagine what the other drivers were thinking when they saw me driving with the snow on the windshield: "why is that dingbat not pulling over and cleaning off her windshield?"

Because I'm shallow and my ego was bruised.

Moral of the story: take the extra three minutes to clean off the roof of your car. Even if you have to keep a broom in your trunk. And if someone asks, "why do you keep a broom in your trunk?" just say, "so I don't look as silly as that Tiny Elvis chick who has lived in Chicago all her life and still doesn't know how to properly take care of her car in snowy conditions."

Of course, we could always blame Halbastram too....

Rambles.

One of the perks of working in a toy store was being able to observe the inadequate techniques of various parents. When I first took the job, I was worried that kids would be all over the place, making a mess and a scene and my life miserable. Imagine my surprise when, after a few months of working, I discovered that the source of all the problems I encountered came in the form of the mom or dad and their belief that they own the toy universe.

I can't begin to explain how many times I was yelled at because they didn't like a price, the availability of a product, the return policy, etc. Basically, everything I had no control over. After I gently explain to them that I am not Mr. Toy Store CEO, therefore I cannot meet their demands, I'm usually met with a "I'll just go to [insert another popular chain store here] then." To which I reply, "ok." I could care less. Because I knew better. The minute Nick Jr or Cartoon Network started airing commercials for the next big toy trend, they'd be right back at our store, as we usually had the biggest selection of trendy crap.

I didn't mind getting yelled at by the parents. I welcomed it most of the time because oh, the stories I can take home to blog about. Only one parent successfully broke me, way back during my first Christmas rush. Having never dealt with anxious parents during a holiday rush, I got overwhelmed and charged a man for the wrong item. This was pointed out to me by one of the backroom workers. The problem was that the item I charged him for was cheaper than the item he wanted to take home, and his son had already gotten attached to it. And it was a difference of $150. After trying to explain to him that I needed to adjust the price or give him the other item that he was charged for, he was basically done dealing with me, telling me that "my son is already attached to it. so I'm not changing anything." I was losing control of the situation and desperately needed a manager. My manager arrived, relieved me of my duties and I fled to the backroom and cried. My manager came to the backroom and asked if the man made me cry. I felt embarrassed but her words changed my entire career at the store: "don't let it get personal. they're just stressed and unhappy and are taking it out on you. If they start to yell at you, just keep telling yourself 'it's not about me. I'm just here to enforce the rules; I didn't make them.'"

Following that ordeal, I was the poster child for "I couldn't care less." That's not to say I wasn't nice; I was extremely nice. I was probably one of the nicest service desk employees there. But when the insults and the yelling started, the only thing in my mind was, "I can't wait to write this down."

And the lengths that some people would go to just to prove a point...it was astounding. One guy made my manager call the district manager because he couldn't return a board game his son received as a birthday gift. He didn't have a receipt, which is a no-no. The item was only worth $8, so any rational person would've just regifted it or given it to charity. But this man, with his son and wife hovering somewhere in the corner, obviously embarrassed that he was such a jackass, was going to have his way. He wanted his store credit for $8 and he wasn't going home until he did. There was profanity and thinly veiled threats involved as well.

Great example to set for your son.

But my manager stood her ground and would not give in until the district manager instructed her to. And of course, the douche felt some sort of accomplishment, having bullied a 53-yr-old woman into giving him an $8 gift card.

When that's taken into consideration, how could I let someone like that get me down?

What's the point of all of this? Well, I just want to thank all of the irrational parents who've ever yelled at me for teaching me the importance of zen and keeping cool under pressure. I had a near-catastrophe in my automobile this morning and handled it with grace because of my time at the toy store.

More details on the near-catastrophe to come later...

Mars and Venus shop for a tv

Allow me to complain about my man for a moment.

I love the dude. I really do. However, when faced with our many differences, our arguments can get explosive over the silliest things.

Like yesterday, for example. The source of our argument: a 32in television for the bedroom.

Halbastram loves electronics. Being a video gamer, he loves big, fancy televisions especially. My knowledge of and appreciation for electronics peaked in 2006, when I switched from my lovely Walkman cd player to my aging brick of an mp3 player Zune (named The Haus). Anything else, as long as it works, is ok for me. And it's this complacency that often leads to the most annoying, repetitious arguments.

Here's how it usually goes:

Halbastram- see, I picked out this tv. do you like it?
Me- Yeah, it's ok.
Halbastram- you don't like it?
Me- It's nice.
Halbastram- You don't like it.
Me- I said it's nice.
Halbastram- But that's not convincing.
Me- I don't know. All of these tvs look the same to me. What do you want me to say?
Halbastram- That you like it.
Me- I said it's nice.
Halbastram- That's not the same.
Me- Fine, then I like it.
Halbastram- Now you're just appeasing me.
Me- (walking away to a less frustrating section)
Halbastram- No, don't leave...

And I was being completely honest with him. I have nothing of value to contribute to a discussion on tvs, much like he really has nothing to contribute to a discussion on mascara (one of the best inventions in the universe, I might add). It really puts me in a bind. Should I just lie, fake excitement and gush, "this is the tv for us! You should totally go for it!"? I would hope that in the seven years we've known each other, he would pick up on how strange that would sound coming from me.

Believe me, I'm not trying to hurt his feelings. I just really don't know how to get excited for a television. When he purchased our living room tv (a monstrous 52incher) two years ago, I didn't jump up and down in giddy excitement for a gigantic television. At the time, it felt unnecessary. Would my Seinfeld dvds look better on the big screen? He believed they would, so I told him to just go for it. And wouldn't you know it? The damn thing has broken twice since we've had it. The one before it had been around since the 90's before the cable man fried it.

I think it's nice that he wants to include me in the big purchases, but it would be nice if he understood that "it's nice" means "I know nothing about this product, so I'm trusting your judgement here."

Someone out there likes me; they really like me! And I don't care how played out that line is...I'm using it anyways. I've had the glorious honor of being given an award for my wee wittle blog.

And I must say that this is much better than the award I received from my college newspaper for the piece I wrote about Jamba Juice's catering services. True Story. Speaking of which, that award is now possibly in the possession of whoever bought my old car, since I left it in the sun visor when we took it to the dealrship to sale it.

But I'm waaaay off topic.

I want to thank Ms. Sara Louise at Sara In Le Petit Village for this generous honor. With lots of other fabulous blogs out there, it's nice to know that people do appreciate my ramblings.

Now, according to the laws of Karma, it is my responsibilty to pass the honor to other blogs/bloggers who make my day just a little brighter with their tales.

Mrs. Linklater's Guide to the Universe

The Diary of an Indy Grrrl

My Little Corner of the World

I know this list is extremely short, but with my hectic schedule I have a hard enough time fitting my favorites in.

Excuses, excuses, you say?

Oh, I didn't tell you? That's my maiden name. :)

I am still discovering new and fabulous blogs often, so I hope that if put in this position again, I'll be more than ready.

Now, as I understand it, here is where I'm supposed to post ten little known facts about myself, hopefully without incriminating myself. Here they are, in no particular order:

*I sucked the two middle fingers on my right hand until the 8th grade. I hated pacifiers as a baby and my mother never encouraged me to stop as I got older. But, when I reached high school, I knew that if I wanted to make friends I'd have to stop. Plus, getting older, my fingers got longer and it just didn't feel right anymore. I am now 12 yrs finger-sucking free.

*Balloons terrify me. Not the cute Mylar ones at the party store. But the latex easy-to-pop balloons. I even have a hard time watching them on tv.

*Halbastram and I met on Yahoo personals.

*I grew up on gangsta rap. Like, hardcore MF'ing, foul-mouthed rap. And Led Zeppelin. And Pink Floyd. But somehow ended up becoming a hardcore Beach Boys fanatic.

*My dream job once was to be the locker room sports reporter for ESPN. I was 15 when I thought of this...

*My drink of choice is whiskey and I enjoy cigars. Just like the gangsters of lore.

*My favorite episode of Seinfeld is "The Bizzaro Jerry."

*My wedding theme was "Safety Dance." Yes, after the song.

*During the summer before my freshman year of college, for two weeks I would wake up every morning at 7am just to hear "Flake" by Jack Johnson on the radio. Because I knew that's when this one station played it. Like clockwork.

*Last week I watched an episode of JONAS and kind of enjoyed it.

And that's me in a nut shell. Or a nut house. Whichever seems right.

Thursday morning musings

See, what I don't get is:

*why these women on the Maury show are so convinced that this man is the father of their kids because he's been known to sleep around in the neighborhood...but don't seem to be in a hurry to get an STD test. Paternity tests, yes, because that means child support. STD test, not so much. Maybe later, though, when they're done cleaning out his pockets.

*soccer moms who will take a half-hour to strap their little precious toddlers into their car seats, put a "Baby On Board" placard on the back on their vehicles, but then speed around like a bat out of hell to make sure they don't miss their hair appointments. Or book club. Or triple foam lattes. Or whatever it is that requires speeding.

*bicyclists on their cell phones. Most motorists already have a hard time with them on the road. And most motorists are already terrible at multi-tasking the driving and the cell phoning. If both parties are chatting away, who is preventing the accident? who is actually being attentive?

*Waiters and bartenders who ignore you or are super-rude for no reason other than because they want to. Hey, you work for tips. I have money that spends just like everyone else's. Seems like I truly have the upper-hand here. My hard-earned coin helps to pay your rent. So we might want to work on adjusting that attitude.

*why my burger or sangwich never costs less if I take stuff off of it. If I go to the burger joint and tell them "no tomato, no onion, no mayo", I'm still paying the same price as the next person after me who decides he wants it all. But if I get it on the burger and then just scrape it off, it's like I'm wasting money. Either way, my opposition to tomatoes and onions puts me in a bind.

*the few elitist baristas I've met in some of the suburban chain coffee shops while I was in college. Dude, you brew coffee for a living...

*why a store claims they've "lowered prices" when really, they just jacked up the price and then implemented their "price cuts".

/rant.

Ooo, fancy.

As I stated before, Halbastram's Valentine's Day plans involved letting me pick out a gift. Not being one for extravagance, I told him that I wanted to venture to my new favorite store, Pier 1 Imports, to check out their sale. Having just recently been bitten by the interior designer bug, I could spend hours, possibly days, in this store and still feel like I haven't had my fill. After passing over pillows and candles and close to settling on a back-scratcher, I stumbled upon this gem, tucked between plain white ceramic coffee mugs and discounted cocktail glasses:

As a sucker for anything frilly, pink and old timey, I absolutely fell in love with it and knew it would be mine. And the fact that each piece (the cup and the saucer) was only $1.68 made me even more excited. I could have my adorable Great Expectations teacup and save Halbastram a fortune. Everyone wins!

And I must say, it looks rather nice sitting on my coffee table. I can feel somewhat fancy while I drink my generic instant coffee (coffeemaker is still on the fritz) and read my latest Gossip Girl novel. And it makes me feel a little bit more grown up. I no longer have to drink out of this:

My Diego mug that I purchased as part of a two-piece hot cocoa gift set two years ago from the toy store where I worked. At the time it seemed cute. But now, seeing as how I have no kids and have never watched an episode of "Go, Diego, Go!" in my life, it's just a tad bit odd.

Ah, who am I kidding? I'm still going to reach for that Diego mug until the day it disintegrates in the dishwasher. He's seen me through some tough times & plenty of three+ cups of coffee days. Diego just has some major competition now.

Saturday morning conversation at the bus depot.

Me- when we get back home, you can take the car and go get me a gift. I'll stay home and watch tv. I'll even close my eyes when you come through the door.

Halbastram- *blank stare*

Me- ...or, we could go out together and you can let me pick something out.

Halbastram- that sounds about right.

Happy Valentine's Day to all the strangely matched lovers out there! And even the perfectly sane ones!

Never too old...

My mother has been one of my most loyal pen pals since college. She'd send anything she thought I'd enjoy, such as newspaper clippings, notes telling me that she was proud of me, care packages, gift cards and (rarely) checks.

After college, we became better phone buddies, since I no longer had loopy schedules to work around. She'd still send little letters and greeting cards, but with less frequency. After the recession hit us hard last year, she really started sending the love ten-fold. I would go to my mailbox and find Starbucks gift cards, those free download cards from the Starbucks, greeting cards telling me to "hang in there" and a coupon book to Dunkin Donuts with a $20 bill stuck inside (funny thing about the coupon book is that I almost threw it away because I had already received the same set of coupons in my junkmail earlier in the week. I still appreciated the gesture but I knew I wouldn't need both sets. So as I was showing Halbastram what she'd sent, the $20 came flying out and I was very very happy I didn't just toss it in the garbage).

Every once in a while, when she needs a break from the city, she'll come out to stay the weekend, not complaining about having to share the couch with my sister (it's a one-bedroom cramp fest here). She'll buy groceries and little household products here and there if I need them. I'll thank her and promise her that, when I publish my first book and become a millionaire (wishful thinking), she'll be the first to be treated to a new house. We'll have a good laugh and then continue shopping.

And just yesterday, after bus training, I arrived home to find a Hallmark card in my mailbox. I opened the envelope to find Snoopy telling me that even when life gets tough, I should just hang in there. And inside the card was a $50 gift card to Target and $25 to Starbucks (I'm not that big of a Starbucks fan...she just knows that I like coffee and Starbucks is the only coffee place she's familiar with). Normally, when I'd get something in the mail I would text-message her to say thank you. But this was just one of those moments that required a voice, to show my true, genuine gratitude for her generosity to me and Halbastram. At 26, I know I should be taking care of myself, but I know I'm lucky to have a mother who'd rather help than leave me to my own devices.

Later in the evening, after retrieving Halbastram from work, I headed straight to Target, purchased a cup of coffee at the Starbucks and picked up a giant bottle of shampoo (finally!) for me and a giant box of Life cereal for Halbastram, his Valentine's Day gift.

Thanks, mom!

A boy, a girl and three bookcases...

Halbastram and I are nerds. Proud nerds. I am a book nerd. He's a comic book nerd/collector. It's more than a hobby for us; it's a lifestyle. Novels and comic books play such a huge part in our lives that we require two separate bookcases in our tiny condo to accomodate our respective collections.

This is my bookcase (as evidenced by the many spots of pink throughout). The disorganization is mostly due to the fact that at one point most of those items were packed up in storage last year. When we stopped using our storage facility, everything that wasn't dropped off at my mother's house made its way onto our bookcases.

These are my few Nintendo DS games. Halbastram bought the system for me about four years ago for Valentines Day. In four years, I've only amassed about 10 titles. It has become the one constant in my purse. I may forget my debit card every now and then, but I always have my DS.

In addition to being a comic collector, Halbastram also collects Hot Wheels, something he's been doing since he was about 8. So he has a pretty large collection. And many of his latest acquisitions end up on my bookcase. Luckily, since I don't read too many books twice, I don't mind them sitting there. Those Spree candy canes in the top photo are from two Christmases ago. Why we hold on to them is a mystery.
And this is Halbastram's bookcase. The first two shelves are his many years of comic collecting; the last two shelves are his many years of baseball card collecting. When I tell people that Halbastram is a dude, I truly mean it: comics, cars and sports. And my yellow Dyson in the corner that he never seems to use.

The astounishing thing about Halbastram's comic collection is that this bookcase just scratches the surface of it. There are still boxes of comics we haven't unpacked from storage, mostly because there's no more room. Funny, we actually bought the second bookcase for his collection, but due to my increasing book collection, I ended up taking over the space right away. As small as our condo is, having two bookcases certainly does take up a lot of space. But, oh, it doesn't end there...

Our third, and oldest, bookcase which houses our dvd collection. We have a relatively small collection of movies; most of the space is taken up by tv show sets, such as Seinfeld, The West Wing and Family Guy. The bottom of the bookcase, not visible here, is filled with records given to me by my mother-in-law. And finally, resting atop the bookcase is one of my most treasured possessions:

My Tarina Tarantino Barbie doll. Originally $65, I found this at a closeout store for only $15. I am a huge Barbie fan, but I just hate the idea of paying so much money for molded plastic. This is my second Barbie collectible. My first was a present given to me for my 16th birthday by a high school friend: Scary Spice of the Spice Girls. I mentioned in passing once that I liked her, and suddenly I was the proud owner of a doll bearing her likeness. That doll, having survived the rest of high school and four years of college, is buried somewhere in my mother's basement.

I can't even begin to imagine the number of bookcases we'll be compelled to purchase if and when we move into bigger digs.

Nostalgia

An oldie, but a goodie. This was taken at my wedding reception, June 2007. That lovely lady in the classy Molly Ringwald dress is my maid-of-honor, best friend and the only person in my bridal party. Halbastram's best man was his brother, who isn't pictured here. The rest of the folks here are some of the greatest people in the world. As you could probably tell, it's a bit of a boy's club, but my bestie and I fit right in. There are two I've known since college, one who is an ex of my bestie and one who I got to know through the bestie's ex. And Halbastram, of course.

I only bring this photo up because I'm seriously missing these people. Like most college friendships, we've all moved to different parts of the world and only convene on holidays, since our families still live in the area we used to haunt. Of course we promise that we'll keep in touch and call each other or write each other or visit each other whenever we have any money or time off of work. But circumstances always prove otherwise. My best friend lives and works for a very popular radio host in California, which is a dream to me. I have the perfect excuse to visit this sunshine and surf capital, but I've only been once. She comes to visit often, twice now just for my birthday, and I keep in touch with her family, who adore Halbastram and I something fierce. Many times I think perhaps I'm the bad friend because I don't get to California as often as she comes to Chicago. But I know she doesn't mind.

I know that we can't get those great nights back: drinking until 5am during an impromptu gathering and not realizing it until someone asks, "hey, is it about midnight yet?" (midnight had looooooong since passed); celebrating a birthday during an ice storm and watching our cars slide down the parking lot; laughing at the awful dancers at an awful night club; sleeping on the couch at the college radio station; buying a dirty book for the birthday boy and passing it around the table at the restaurant; losing money to the drunkest guy during a game of poker and trying to console the sore loser (oh, I have sweet sweet memories from that night). The most I can do is try to savor and preserve those few moments we have as we get older.

And maybe, just maybe, we can create new memories that don't involve beer, whiskey or vodka. Not that I'd want that, of course...

An update

Not only does Chicago have finnicky weather, we also have earthquakes. Which I don't mind. I've seen the Charlton Heston disaster flick enough times to know what not to do. But at 4:30 in the morning, when I'm still wobbly and groggy...it's a little unsettling.

The wonders never cease in good old Illinois.

Weatherfolks.

Chicago weatherfolks don't have a clue.

There are only two seasons in Chicago: winter and not-winter. We have possibly the most finnicky weather in the United States and for our weatherfolks, it really is just a guessing game. I know that most people picture Chicago as being this cold, snowy winter wonderland from about November-March. Which, yes, it can be. Even when I was born, we were experiencing epic negative degree temperatures. On my birth day, the high temp was a whopping 19 degrees with the wind chill making it about -15. There have been many a snowstorms that, as a school child, I welcomed with open arms because in Catholic school, our school closings were more frequent than the public school kids, who were forced to make it to school come hell or 2-ft of snow. And some years, we start off January with highs in the 50's, forcing people to become slightly dumb and leave their houses in shorts and flip flops.

After living here for a few years (or 26), you just know. You know that maybe we'll get massive snowstorms, and maybe we won't. It doesn't happen every year, but when it does we're just not all that surprised. And when it doesn't, we still wouldn't be so surprised...if it wasn't for the bumbling weather crew.

Every year, before the first real snowfall, the news stations have this insatiable urge to feature shovel-selling stores and snow plow companies preparing for the momentus event, as if every year was our first time. And so we watch, with wide eyes, wondering "well gee, exactly how much snow are we getting?" Then the weatherfolks continue with their forecast, using their powerful magical fortune-telling weather machine to predict record-breaking snow, possibly 10 inches overnight. This is on the 10pm news. I look out the window; the sky looks perfectly clear. So I figure, maybe when I wake up, I'll find myself in a winter wonderland.

And so the next day comes. I hop out of bed, hoping for an excuse to stay indoors and look out the window. I see snow. But I don't see these massive amounts that were predicted. Angry for answers, I flip on the television and my weatherfolks are telling me: "oh, the heavy snow passed over us and headed straight to Pennsylvania." Apparently the big bad weather machine couldn't see that.

It's the lake. The lake likes to play cruel jokes on us Chicagoans, using its mighty winds to either blow the snow far away or dumps avalanches on us. Forget a Weather Machine; what we need here is a Lake Whisperer, someone to kind of soften Mr. Lake Michigan up, get him to open up about why he just can't make up his mind about the weather.

The weather here definitely keeps folks on their toes (and keeps those same toes frozen). But we get through the winter and endure the Lake's games for the sweet sweet non-winter payoff: hot, humid, sticky-sweat mid-year temps during the most crowded tourist-packed street festivals. But you won't catch me there. I'll be next to my frienemy, Mr. Lake Michigan, playing kiss-and-make-up as I splash around in his crystal blue belly.

Super Sunday Equals Chores...

I'm not a football fan. Point blank. I tried, once upon a time, because the entire world seemed to heart the sport something fierce. But I just didn't get it. And so I gave up. Before I met Halbastram, I didn't really give a rat's patootie about the Super Bowl. Well, I did care about one game. Back when I was a young'n, I remember getting the football issue of the TV Guide in the mail and falling head-over-heels in love with the New England Patriots's quaterback, a Mr. Drew Bledsoe. I was so in love with this man that all I wanted for Christmas that year was a Bledsoe jersey. And my wish came true. I still own the jersey, but it mostly serves as a sleepshirt and a sweet reminder of a simpler time. I watched the Patriots play in the Super Bowl early the next year, but again, it was solely for the hottie.

However, like most teenaged girls, I found new guys to admire and when my fascination with Drew Bledsoe wore off, so did any interest I might have shown for football.

Over time, my interest in any sort of sporting event rested solely with America's pasttime: good old baseball. A couple of free tickets courtesy of Pizza Hut was all it took to pull me into the sport. Plus, it seemed simple enough: a bat, a ball, three bases and a homeplate. Also, it takes so long to play that you can let your mind wander for about 20 minutes and come back having missed nothing at all. Perfect.

In fact, baseball was what brought Halbastram and I together. (My personals ad mentioned that I liked baseball; he responded with the following title: "a woman who likes baseball? I think I'm in love)

Everyone claims to watch the Super Bowl just for the ads. Sure, there are some funny ads. But I know that I will continue to see these ads for months following the Super Bowl. So that isn't an incentive for me.

But, being the delightfully supportive ladyfriend that I am, if he's got the tv turned to The Big Game, I know I'll watch it.

In addition to blogging, I am also in charge of the chili-cheese nachos and barbecue wings during the game, which I must get a start on.

Go Saints!!

How laundry room conversations should go

Lady: Thank you.
Me: You're welcome?
Lady: Aren't you the one who folded my clothes and underwear for me?
Me: ...no.
Lady: *look of absolute horror* Oh.
Me: Yeah, if there are clothes in the dryer, I just wait, I don't touch them.
Lady: Oh. Well then...so, how are you?

This took place about two years ago in the basement of our condo, but I just thought I'd share since I was on the topic of laundry room conversations.

It's one thing to take someone's clothes out of the dryer if they left them there and you need to use it. It's quite another to go folding underwear. If I found out someone in the building was touching my underwear, I'd probably have a cow. That's just the neurotic side of me.

I'm not quite sure why she was ok with the thought of me folding the underwear, but freaked out about others possibly doing it. We lived on the same floor, although in separate wings. We'd sometimes convene at the elevator, where'd she be taking her dogs out for a walk and I'd most likely be on my way to do something extremely suburban, like going to Starbucks. We'd chit chat, with her doing most of the talking, about random crazy people in our building. But if we ever actually exchanged names, I don't remember. Because I just referred to her as "Dog Lady" because of the two HUGE horse-dogs she owned and loved to death. We were cordial because we were neighbors, but we were by no means on an "underwear folding" level. But it is apparent that she felt more comfortable with me than I was with her.

And there was obviously someone in the building who was WAAAAAY more comfortable than the both of us.

I asked her a few weeks later if she ever figured out who folded her underwear and she said that after asking around, she discovered that one of the sweet ladies on the 2nd floor did it. So that mystery was solved.

Now that Dog Lady has moved out, I kind of miss those elevator conversations. But at least I haven't had my own folded underwear predicament. Yet....

Laundry Day Conversations.

Scene: me sitting at the laundromat, reading the latest issue of InStyle, listening to Sufjan Stevens on the Zune while my clothes soak in the washing machine. He approaches and stands in front of me, lingers for a second before taking a seat to the left. He waves his hand in front of my face to get my attention. I remove my headphones.



Me: Hi?

Guy: Hey. What'cha reading?

Me: Fashion magazine.

Guy: You're into fashion?

Me: Looks like it.

Guy: I'm Tim.

Me: Hi Tim.

Tim: You look lonely sitting here all by yourself.

Me: I'm actually doing just fine, thanks.

Tim: What are you up to afterwards?


Me: I don't know...


Tim: Oh yeah?

Me: Not to be rude, but I am actually married. So, I'm not looking for a date.

Tim: That's cool. He treating you alright?

Me: Yeah.

Tim: That's cool. Well, we could be friends, you know.

Me: Does that really work?

Tim: I have a lot of lady friends.

Me: Ok...

Tim: You look too young to be married. How old are you?

Me: 26.

Tim: Oh, wow. How long have you two been together?

Me: almost 7 years.

Tim: Oh. So it is serious.

Me: Yeah.

Tim: Alright then. Have fun with the laundry.

Me: Yeah.



Tim gets up and walks away, I put my headphones back on and continue with my article.

Guys, contrary to (non)popular belief, we don't like being hit on all the time. And if I was looking for a replacement for my husband, I think I would have tried harder than sweatpants and a beanie cap at the laundromat. Not to be mean or anything but it just bugs me.

And that "we can be friends" stuff? Really? In an ideal world, we could approach people and actually attempt friendships the way we attempt dates. But I'm certain he doesn't approach dudes and engage them in the latest issue of Esquire and then ask what they're up to afterwards. Another guy tried to use the "friends" line on me in high school. Even then I knew it was a crock. The guy who approached me then offered to take me to Six Flags "as friends." At the time I had a guy best-best-best friend and of the four years we'd known each other, I didn't remember him ever taking me to the local theme park. So I told that guy, thanks but no thanks. Anyway, at that time, I was holding out for a certain Major League Baseball player, so I needed to keep my options open (another delicious story for another time).

This isn't to say that I am completely opposed to chats with the opposite sex. I've held conversations with dudes about the tabloids in the checkout line; I've complained with them about the wait at the bank. I guess I've just reached a point when I know...I can just sense what's to come and so I automatically throw my defenses up. Which seemed to work with Tim.

Or maybe his aim was genuine and I scared him away. In that case, wherever you are Tim, I apologize.

On the flip side, if you ever need help with your approach, I'm more than happy to help you out.

Sometimes, I dream about whores...

This is where I'm going to share my weird, awkward, weird dream.





I'm at a family gathering. I'm standing in the kitchen, talking to a sister of mine, who happens to be Rosario Dawson. We're discussing our cousin, Kimber from the hit tv-show "Nip/Tuck". And in my dream, she's just as easy as she is on the show. Rosario and I are sharing stories about Kimber and her adventures with our men. You see, we have a history with our lovely cousin. Ever since we were little tykes, Kimber had a tendency to steal our boyfriends and do unspeakable things with them: flash them under the monkey bars, kiss them on the tire swing, those sorts of things. As we got older, we came to accept that being a flirt/prostitute of some sort was just part of her nature. So as a precaution, whenever we acquired new boyfriends/husbands, we'd sit them down and explain how to have relations with our cousin: "look, it's inevitable that Kimber will try to sleep with you. It's just what she does. Whenever we bring a new guy around, she pulls up her skirt and relationships are ended with extremely hurt feelings. With that said, I'm letting you know that if Kimber throws herself at you, since I know it 's virtually impossible to resist her, just go ahead and sleep with her. This way, it's already out in the open and we can move on from there. Just please, for the love of all that is holy and clean in the world, use protection."



Luckily, Rosario and I had boyfriends who took our advice, got the Kimber Effect out of their system and were able to move on and devote themselves to us and our non-fire-crotch. As we're sitting there talking, our younger sister, Katie (Holmes) walks in and asks if we've seen her boyfriend (not Tom Cruise). Rosario replies, "I think he's upstairs with Kimber. I haven't seen them for about 20 minutes." Katie replies, "wow, already? She could've at least waited until I made the introductions." The three of us then have some beers and go out to the gazeebo to join the rest of the family.

...Feel free to disregard this story. I don't keep a dream journal, so this is one way to help me remember the crazy ones I have. This one bothered me because, aside from the fact that I had amazing celebrity sisters, it just seems like all of my Maury watching has started to spill over into my subconconsciousness.

Christmas in January...kind of.

Since Halbastram and I were unfortunately a part of the crapfest that is the recession, Christmas for us was a little light. And by a little light, I mean that I had him pick out his gift at a store that my father had given me a gift card to for my birthday, which was a month earlier. And I...well, I got nothing. It's not Halbastram's fault. Up until recently, I was the only bread-winner so funds were light. Even though I encouraged him to dip a little into our meager funds and buy me a magazine if that's all we could afford, he declined, saying that perhaps we could celebrate Christmas at a later time, when things were more on the up and up, even if that ended up being in April or May.

At the present-opening festivities at my mother's place, after everyone had opened their gifts, I noticed a card with my name on it, written in the indecipherable handwriting that could only be Halbastram's. Curious, I opened it and read it (slowly, as he writes everything in that "doctor's signature" scribble). In the card, he expressed sadness over not being able to get me anything for Christmas, but felt happy that he had the greatest gift in the world: being able to wake up next to me everyday. Swoon-fest, indeed. He usually shies away from the sweet sappies (being such a dude and all), so it was nice to read that.

Fast-forward three days ago. Feeling excited that my bus training was almost over, I decided to treat myself to some clearance rack gift card shopping. In my family (as in others, I'm sure), as you get older and move further away, the relatives who don't forget about you entirely will more than likely have no clue as to what to get you for Christmas. As a result, I received a ton of gift cards. And I hate carrying around gift cards with ridiculous balances on them, like $1.62. So I decided to hit up the clearance racks to find crap that will help clear up my wallet and clutter my home.

While at a department store I'm not fully fond of, after purchasing some warm and cuddly socks that looked like they were a returned Christmas gift, I ventured to the men's department to find Halbastram some fancy underwear. It's a tradition between us: I buy him random boxers that I see in stores that I frequent, he wears them for a few months, and then they get lost in the back of the drawer behind his more comfortable discount store brands. I find a very ridiculous pair with a little man on a horse playing polo and decide that yes, this will be his official Christmas present. And then I see it, a couple of displays over: The Simpsons Scene-It Game. Seeing as how we're both HUGE Simpsons fans, I decide that it's a gift we can both enjoy and possibly get better use out of (sorry, Mr. Jockey).

So I get it home, wrap it in my Disney Princess Christmas paper (a gift from a former co-worker...) and present it to him. He opens it, I say "Merry Christmas" and he says "thank you." Then, after a pause, he goes, "you're still waiting for a gift, aren't you?" I tell him not to worry about it: that case of beer he bought me the day before works just fine. We have a good laugh and I prepare dinner. The recession may have made gift-giving light, but it hasn't trampled on our psyche. I'm just glad it's almost over.

My dirty little secret

As far as I can remember (which goes back to around the 4th grade) I've loved reading. From Wayside School is Falling Down to the Sweet Valley High series, I was always at my "local" library. I say "local" because the library was actually 28 city blocks away and required a 20 minute bus ride. Many of my other friends didn't share this sentiment, as they preferred to run the streets and labled me a nerd whenever they saw me with a bulging bookbag following a library excursion. Back then, I really had no desire to be a writer. I watched a lot of MTV and was convinced that I would marry a rock star and become rock royalty. I had my sights set on one of the Gallagher brothers from Oasis...and that bassist from R.E.M...and the lead singer from Marcy Playground...yum...

But I digress.

Somewhere around the 6th grade, I made a very dramatic leap from quirky Louis Sachar books to more provocative writing, completely by accident. During the summer before I was to start the 6th grade, I spent the season in Milwaukee with my aunt, my cousin, my aunt's fiance and his two kids. Jason was the same age as me and Paris was two years older, but since she was a girl, we hung out constantly. They lived in a huge two-story brick house with FABULOUS hardwood floors, a wrap-around leather couch, large rustic dining room that no one ever ate in and the kids had the entire attic to themselves. Since they were spoiled rotten, the common area in the attic was cluttered with every toy imaginable.

One day, out of boredom, we decided to sift through some of the debris and maybe clean a little. I came across a book and thought it was a classic that had just been made into a movie recently. I opened it up and discovered that is was not the book I was hoping for. What I thought was The Secret Garden turned out to be My Secret Garden, the groundbreaking book of female fantasies written by Nancy Friday in the 1970's. I may have been young, but I knew dirty words when I saw them. And the force was strong with this book. Of course, I shared my finding with Paris, who told me the book belonged to her older, adult sister, and for the rest of the summer we'd read random passages from it and giggle like school girls. At the end of the summer, she let me keep the book, so long as I promised to return it when she came to visit at Christmas. I agreed...but unfortunately, this never materialized. Stupid me, I took the book to school and had it confiscated by a teacher who also thought it was The Secret Garden. My mother was called in, there was an embarrassing conference, it was locked away and I was forced to have "the talk" when we got home. It still makes my head hurt.

I could tell my mother wasn't really upset with me for having the book; she was more disappointed that I took it to school, since the teacher was very curious as to where I got the book. I 'fessed up to where I acquired it, but my teacher was still confused about how my mother could not know I had it in my possession. (perhaps because I had a mother who didn't snoop in my room because she trusted her straight-A student daughter...perhaps)

Following the conference, I had all but forgotten about the book until I started rummaging through my mother's room for something or another and found the tattered, worn book along with a copy of Delta of Venus by Anais Nin, a book which I still have in my personal possession. This was during my sophomore year of high school, so I figured "enough time has passed...she either won't notice or won't care." So I took both of the books, amazed at the frankness of the women in the Nancy Friday book, considering the time it was published. I wanted to share my fascination with this book with my close friend, Carla. So I took the book with me as I left for school one early Autumn morning. Being a goofball, and having learned nothing since the last time I was caught with the book outside of the house, I boarded the city bus with the book in my hand and not in my bookbag, where it should have been. I laid the book between my seat and the wall of the bus, so that the adults wouldn't see what I had. Unfortunately, since it was a long ride to her house (and very early in the morning), when I went to ring the bell and exit the bus...I completely forgot the book. And I didn't realize this until I reached her door.

And the thing that upset me the most about this was that the book was an original copy and despite how worn and tattered it was, that still meant a lot to me. I hope that wherever it ended up, someone appreciated it for more than just the "dirtiness" of it.

I bought another copy of the book a couple of years ago, but it's not the same as digging it up from the rubble all those years ago. I keep it in my bedside dresser drawer along with my mother's original copy of Delta of Venus. I never leave the house with it.

Maury, Tyra and Me.

This job opportunity couldn't have come at a better time. Lately, I've been getting sucked into the Tyra Banks show. It's by accident, really. My daily routine involves watching the Maury Show at 2 (just like college...more on that later) and Tyra comes on right afterwards. And many factors led to my watching the Tyra Show the first few times: the remote was too far away; there was absolutely nothing on the million cable channels we have; the set is bright and colorful and holds my attention; it wasn't Oprah, so it was watchable.

While she is over the top and has a tendency to yell for no reason other than because she could, she picks up where Ricki Lake had potential, before she went trash-factory and started down the Springer Show path.

*My Maury sidenote: During my junior and senior years of college, after two unsuccessful attempts at having roommates, I was fortunate enough to be chosen to obtain a single in a suite. I shared a "unit" with four other girls, but I had my own room and door to close whenever I was so inclined. During these years, my class loads started becoming more flexible, as I was starting my internships and portfolio classes. Some of my classes started at 8am, which allowed me to be done by 9-10. Instead of doing homework, I'd sit in my room with my waffles from the cafeteria, searching for something to watch on basic college cable. One day, I happened upon the Maury Show, something I hadn't seen since I was in high school. The episode that day was paternity tests and after the first "You Are NOT The Father!!!" I was hooked. Soon, it became a near-daily ritual; many days, if I had a 10am class and I happened to catch a commercial for the episode that day, it was over: I wasn't going to class that day. Not the smartest choice, and definitely not something to brag about to my future adopted Canadien babies. I didn't realize how bad it had become until I was sitting in my 400-level poetry class and my professor asked us to say something about ourselves...and here's what I said: "I sometimes miss class to watch the Maury Show." My professor seemed amused: "well, if you're not in class, I know where to find you." Saying it out loud just sounded so silly. From that point on, I went on a Maury Show diet and reserved it for when I had absolutely nothing else to do: no homework, no suite cleaning, no article due for the paper, etc. Unfortunately, unemployment has knocked me off the wagon.*

Anywho, back to Tyra. Many women still worship the all-mighty Oprah, and I have nothing but respect for the woman; I mean, she has bascially built an empire around talking. But I think her time has come and gone. And her retirement has come at a great time. Tyra seems to speak to a young, hip crowd and she's such a breath of fresh air from the homemaking queens (Martha, Rachel Ray) and the trash-factory (Springer, The Steve Wilkos Show, and, sadly, Maury).

Now all we need is a show for the quirky crowd: the people who carry a journal around with them everywhere they go; the people who wear Chuck Taylor gym shoes for every occassion, even weddings (perhaps their own); the people who like dressing up as Neil Diamond and doing karaoke. We'd share our favorite quotes from terrible 80's movies and discuss our secret love for The Monkees.

I guess I just gave myself a task for tomorrow.

Dear CW,
I have a fabulous new idea for a show that you'll likely cancel after three episodes...

Training Day.

Today was the first day of training for my soon-to-be new job. Yeah, the same job I blogged about not taking...turns out, I'm a sucker for my Halbastram. He works for the same company and suggested that I work for them also, until we get back on our feet or until we go to grad school, whichever comes first. It's a bus driving job, which I'm not too keen on. Aside from the fact that I don't really want to drive a bus-full of loud, obnoxious kids around, I don't take to kindly to the road. I grew up in the city, where I took the bus or train everywhere I wanted to go, and I didn't bother getting my license until 18, because I honestly didn't think I would need it.

When I moved out to the burbs, I depended on friends to take me wherever I needed to go. And when it was my turn to drive to Daytona for Spring Break, I spent maybe one hour on the road before one of my friends, being scared out of her mind, decided to take over, despite the fact that we were only 2hrs away from Daytona.

Over time, after Halbastram bought me my first car, I began to feel more comfortable behind the wheel. Unfortunately, I was a bit of a hazard on the road. I tend to speed, at least 10-15 over the limit; I get very impatient and yell at drivers (with the window up, of course); I'm very well-versed in the rolling "California stop" at stop signs. But at last, I finally feel comfortable driving. It's only been...8 yrs.

And now I have to learn how to drive all over again. As a bus driver, I have to eliminate all of those bad habits and become a saint on the road.

*sidenote: why do school buses have "school bus" written across the front? is there anything else we could mistake the big yellow bus for?*

At the training session, I felt completely out of my element. I was the only female (aside from the instructor) and the only one in my 20's. There was an older man, coming out of retirement; a recently laid-off man; a non-traditional college grad looking for work; a new resident; and a guy who was a hat-diva (meaning he's into collecting baseball caps and refuses to tell people where he buys his hats because he doesn't want anyone else to have the same ones he does...diva, much?)

During the training, we watched an instructional video on the do's and don'ts of bus driving laws. This included learning the components of the bus. To me, it was like learning physics in Russian. Throughout the entire training session, the only thing on my mind was, "life would've been so much simpler if I had published that book last year."

I get to go back tomorrow and take the CDL exam. Halbastram tells me not to worry about it, since he passed. I'm not so sure, but it'd be fun to try. Plus, how bad-ass would it be to have a commercial driver's license? I could buy a truck, get a CB radio and travel the country looking for Burt Reynolds.

My Man, the Dude's Dude.

Attention ladies (and gents):



Do you have a boyfriend who loves to talk about cars, buildings, construction, more cars, sports and occasionally liberal politics? Does this make you zone out and turn the sounds coming out of his mouth into the indecipherable adult-jabber from the Peanuts cartoons? Then, I have just the solution for you:



My Halbastram.



When I first met Halbastram in 2003, a lot of people were convinced that our relationship wouldn't last due to our age difference (he's a whopping 8 years older...oh no!!). Gradually, over time, my friends slowly came around to enjoying his presence, mostly because he wasn't a raging idiot like my previous beaus.

Since I was in school in the burbs when we met, and he had a real-life career as an architect in the city, we could only see each other on the weekends. And weekends usually meant random parties off campus at my friend's apartment. Most of my friend's friends had boyfriends and since this wasn't a typical hookup environment, we usually just sat around with our drinks, talking shit and being loud for no other reason than because we could (but not really, because the neighbors frowned on the noise). Having been dragged there by their girls, the guys would usually just stand nearby, drinks in hand, listening patiently but looking very uncomfortable. Once in a while, one of them would speak up, offering up knowledge on a subject the girls either didn't know much or care about. This would usually be cars, football or video games. We weren't stereotypical girls, only interested in shopping, makeup and Hello Kitty. We were the artsy girls, preferring to divulge in movies, music, American Psycho quotes and people on campus who annoyed us so we had to give them petty-yet-funny nicknames.

Anyway, just let any boy utter one of the keywords and in swoops Halbastram, offering his knowledge on the topic and a much-needed out from just listening to the girls jabber on about their favorite Seinfeld episodes. Most of the time, I don't even notice when Halbastram moves in on the boyfriends. We'll show up to a party, he'll hand me a beer, I'll go out for a smoke and come back two minutes later...and Boom! he's got a new man-friend for the night. Since I drag him to most of my girly functions, he savors the opportunity to discuss some of his favorite topics with other dudes. He just has a strong personality and forwardness about him that makes it easy for him to jump in and help a fellow dude in need of some time away from the estrogen.

The first time I noticed this was in my dorm one night, when my roommate was preparing to go out on a blind date. Halbastram was over and hanging out in the room when she was telling us about the guy: he was in construction and for the date, they were going out to play billiards. Halbastram didn't say much, since my friend just complained a whole lot about the going to play billiards on a first date. When the guy arrived, following introductions, he starts talking about the place where he's taking my friend for their billiards date. She grudgingly acknowledges this, whereas Halbastram jumps in, asking him if he's any good, how long he's been playing, and which construction company he works for. It was almost as if they would've had a much better date.

It didn't take long to pick up on the fact that Halbastram, being a man's man, was the go-to guy for uncomfortable situations. We labeled him the "Boyfriend's Boyfriend" and if a friend is afraid of bringing a date to a gathering because he'd be bored, we assure them: "Halbastram will be there. If he likes cars, he won't be bored."