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.