It's been almost a month since I stepped into the pages here at Ruby's View - and for that, I'm so sorry. I have no good excuse - I don't have ricketts, or carpal tunnel syndrome. I was not concussed by a random street thug, and my internet connection was fine.
I was, mostly, looking for jobs, working a bit, and doing some writing on the other site I've got going. And frankly, I couldn't bring the funny for y'all, so I had to take a breather...
But have no fear - I'm back!
I know, you're just waiting with baited breath for the update of all that has happened since we last met.
First, the important stuff: it's official "bike to the bar" time in Chicago. The temperatures hover frequently above 60 during the day, and that means that on a random Saturday night, you'll find me primping and preening, rolling up my right pants leg, unlocking the lucky hybrid bike I own, and pedaling one mile to my favorite bar: The Hopleaf.
The Hopleaf is a bar in Andersonville, the neighborhood just South of mine. It's got the best steamed mussels on the planet (in a lovely white wine sauce which even I can't believe I like), and over 100 beers on tap. They also carry my favorite American craft brews, from Dogfish Head in Rehobeth, Delaware.
I fell in love with Dogfish Head beers in New Hampshire, and then a little bit more in Maryland, and, well, I fell hard. Heavy beers with great flavor and over 8% alcohol made me funnier, smarter, and definitely more intoxicated than your average glass of bad hotel cabernet, and I am now known as "Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA Lover" in these parts. (Okay, that's a mouthful, but it really is the best beer ever.)
Anyway, when I'm at the Hopleaf, I can generally be found nursing one of these life-transforming beverages. Three weeks ago, my friend and I sat down at the bar after a night out. It was midnight, and there were two seats free (which is unheard of). We met the CUTEST bass player from Lexington, who also happened to be a whisky salesman, who was telling us just how much he wanted to dump his little 24 year old girlfriend who came with "a bullet train worth of baggage".
He, notably, claimed only to carry a knapsack of luggage. We took in the whiskey salesman part of his cover and figured he was carrying a footlocker, but who were we to judge? It was 1:30 by this time, and we were a bit intoxicated.
By 2:00 we had instructed him on how to get his favorite leather coat back (blackmail disguised as an open trade of belongings); and the best place to have the "it's not working" discussion (not at their shared place of work, maybe?). And we had a new, funny friend.
And by 3:30, we had unlocked our bikes, made an emergency stop at White Castle, and headed home to the birds singing in the trees.
Now, this weekend was nearly as much fun. A group of five friends and I met up at The Hopleaf again, talked for hours, left for pizza, and then two of us came back, again, for seats at the bar. This night's fun was a bartender from up the street who told me I had "leadership eyes" (which I think is the same as "tiny eyes devoid of makeup on a woman who looks like she can beat the crap out of you") and told my friend that she had a good heart. She also had on her sexy jeans, but we aren't going there.
Anyway, he was fun, but before we knew it, 3:30, last call, light's up, and I'm trying to figure out why my bike lock is being so stubborn. With an audience.
Two random guys (one mute, the other with hair just long enough to scream "I'm a writer") stoppped to give me shit for my inability to unlock the bike. I blamed the Dogfish, completed the herculean task, rolled up my pants to avoid snaggage, and got on the bike. After they tried to ply us with a trip to a bar open till 5:00, we headed back North to our respective homes, hoping to beat the birds.
It didn't happen. The birds were up and chirping by the time my friend locked her gate. As she called to confirm a safe arrival, I realized I definitely had the good end of this deal: her cats had drug the Ritz crackers we had taken to the beach, to her bed. Desperate for some buttery goodness (even the low-fat variety) they had scratched and scratched to get into the sleeve, with no avail.
So what I really learned on Memorial Day weekend is this: put away the crackers, step away from the beer, and always make friends at the bar.
Maybe not quite what Ruby would have wanted, but I think she might have enjoyed the weekend if she were here. Okay, except that whole biking thing....
Hope you're all doing well, and I'll keep you more up to date about life in the city...
Monday, May 25, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
City Living
People from Cincinnati often ask me how I like living in Chicago. I've been here more than 10 years now, and mostly, they assume I like it. They're right.
Chicago's the perfect city, in my humble opinion. We have great parks, the gorgeous lakefront, a (mostly) decent economy, good restaurants, theatre, music, and people. And we're still in the heart of the midwest. We can fly anywhere in the country in about 3 hours (with some exceptions) and we don't have to spend an arm and a leg to do it.
But city living is, frankly, city living. It means there are a lot of people in tight spaces. It means traffic, and a 10% sales tax (thanks, Cook County Board of Commissioners! I'll be voting you out soon!!!). It means an ancient public transportation system that is unworthy of a city our size. And, despite the fact that we have wonderful, amazing neighborhoods, it means noise.
I live in a beautiful old building in a two bedroom condo. There is a basement below me (no neighbors) and only one set of neighbors with whom I share walls. They're above me - and nice people - a couple, with a dog. The dog, per restrictions, is less than 45 pounds. He's pretty tame. The couple, without restrictions, are also appropriately sized. And mostly, they're pretty quiet. I think they're students. But, to be honest, when I was working and going to Racine, Wisconsin every day, I wanted to murder them. Every morning. Because they generally go to bed around 11:30 p.m. I went to bed at 10. Quietly. Them? Not so much.
Do you know what a dog leash sounds like when dropped on a hardwood floor from five feet? Or what a pocketful of change sounds like as it hits the floor and rolls around?
On concrete, it's nothing. It disappears into the abyss. But on 100 year old hardwood, with little insulation between floors, it's like someone playing the Liberty Bell in the room above. I tried everything. Ear plugs, alcohol, going to bed earlier, going to bed later. I slept in my second bedroom (their TV room above me). I laughed, I cried. I read. Usually by Wednesday night of a given week, I was so exhausted that I slept regardless of how loud they were.
Ironically, now that I'm out of work, I can't seem to hear them. Maybe it's because I go to bed after they do - but even in the morning, when I know they're running around up there, it doesn't phase me. I'm guessing that's because I can roll over and sleep for another 2 hours if I want to - which seems SO wrong, but is really SO right.
Anyway, that's not the only noise we get. Soon, it will be spring. (I know, where you live, it may already be spring, but until we get 10 days above 50 degrees in a row, I'm refusing to call it). That means open windows, and birds in the morning, and squirrels running around at night (yes, dammit, they are squirrels, they are NOT rats...well, most of the time. Let me live in my delusion, okay?) Anyway, the windows are going to be open. The occasional hoodlum will ride by with his H to the I to the Z to the Izzo blaring out the window (but he's rare, really). And other sounds will wander in - people walking home from a night out, bikers zipping up my street to head North. Did I mention the birds? Allow me to detour, because yes, in reality, this scene plays through my head on more occasions than I like to admit:
City Living Video: Take One
But you know what? They're not that bad. I live 3 blocks from the train, and when it's quiet, late at night, I can hear it roll by. When I was growing up, we always heard the trains - even though they were far away - rolling down along the Ohio River. It's a sound that I have always associated with home. And maybe that's why that noise - my kind of ambient noise - is not that hard to bear.
Don't get me wrong. I'd still like to play Liberty Bell to my neighbors some mornings (Saturday morning runs at 6:30 are REALLY fun in the summer!). But for the most part, I'm learning to live with it. Twelve years in, I've adapted. Sort of. Through ear plugs, alcohol, and a ceiling fan. I feel like Ruby would shake her head at me - what a softie her granddaughter is! But then again, maybe she'd be just as happy that I'm here at all - just a little bit far from home, living in the best city in the world.
A granddaughter can dream....
Chicago's the perfect city, in my humble opinion. We have great parks, the gorgeous lakefront, a (mostly) decent economy, good restaurants, theatre, music, and people. And we're still in the heart of the midwest. We can fly anywhere in the country in about 3 hours (with some exceptions) and we don't have to spend an arm and a leg to do it.
But city living is, frankly, city living. It means there are a lot of people in tight spaces. It means traffic, and a 10% sales tax (thanks, Cook County Board of Commissioners! I'll be voting you out soon!!!). It means an ancient public transportation system that is unworthy of a city our size. And, despite the fact that we have wonderful, amazing neighborhoods, it means noise.
I live in a beautiful old building in a two bedroom condo. There is a basement below me (no neighbors) and only one set of neighbors with whom I share walls. They're above me - and nice people - a couple, with a dog. The dog, per restrictions, is less than 45 pounds. He's pretty tame. The couple, without restrictions, are also appropriately sized. And mostly, they're pretty quiet. I think they're students. But, to be honest, when I was working and going to Racine, Wisconsin every day, I wanted to murder them. Every morning. Because they generally go to bed around 11:30 p.m. I went to bed at 10. Quietly. Them? Not so much.
Do you know what a dog leash sounds like when dropped on a hardwood floor from five feet? Or what a pocketful of change sounds like as it hits the floor and rolls around?
On concrete, it's nothing. It disappears into the abyss. But on 100 year old hardwood, with little insulation between floors, it's like someone playing the Liberty Bell in the room above. I tried everything. Ear plugs, alcohol, going to bed earlier, going to bed later. I slept in my second bedroom (their TV room above me). I laughed, I cried. I read. Usually by Wednesday night of a given week, I was so exhausted that I slept regardless of how loud they were.
Ironically, now that I'm out of work, I can't seem to hear them. Maybe it's because I go to bed after they do - but even in the morning, when I know they're running around up there, it doesn't phase me. I'm guessing that's because I can roll over and sleep for another 2 hours if I want to - which seems SO wrong, but is really SO right.
Anyway, that's not the only noise we get. Soon, it will be spring. (I know, where you live, it may already be spring, but until we get 10 days above 50 degrees in a row, I'm refusing to call it). That means open windows, and birds in the morning, and squirrels running around at night (yes, dammit, they are squirrels, they are NOT rats...well, most of the time. Let me live in my delusion, okay?) Anyway, the windows are going to be open. The occasional hoodlum will ride by with his H to the I to the Z to the Izzo blaring out the window (but he's rare, really). And other sounds will wander in - people walking home from a night out, bikers zipping up my street to head North. Did I mention the birds? Allow me to detour, because yes, in reality, this scene plays through my head on more occasions than I like to admit:
City Living Video: Take One
But you know what? They're not that bad. I live 3 blocks from the train, and when it's quiet, late at night, I can hear it roll by. When I was growing up, we always heard the trains - even though they were far away - rolling down along the Ohio River. It's a sound that I have always associated with home. And maybe that's why that noise - my kind of ambient noise - is not that hard to bear.
Don't get me wrong. I'd still like to play Liberty Bell to my neighbors some mornings (Saturday morning runs at 6:30 are REALLY fun in the summer!). But for the most part, I'm learning to live with it. Twelve years in, I've adapted. Sort of. Through ear plugs, alcohol, and a ceiling fan. I feel like Ruby would shake her head at me - what a softie her granddaughter is! But then again, maybe she'd be just as happy that I'm here at all - just a little bit far from home, living in the best city in the world.
A granddaughter can dream....
Monday, April 20, 2009
Distractathon
I think there should be a new Olympic event added to the next games.
Distractathon (n.)
Competitors will select from a series of events to distract them from everyday life. Including Watching Useless Television, Talking To Yourself, Cleaning The Kitchen, Analyzing Your Checkbook, and Catching Up On Junk Mail, participants will attempt to avoid all "real" responsibilities by using these Distracting Events. The winner will be the person who successfully avoids performing any real life work for a period exceeding 2 days.
Clearly, this is an endurance event. But I think that perhaps I'd win.
So what distracts you from thinking (or managing) everyday life? Is it the garden? Cooking a new recipe? Catching up on the neighborhood gossip? Admit it - you've got a "go to" for avoiding life - we all do.
And while it doesn't necessarily amount to an Olympic sport, it DOES keep us from dealing with the things we don't want to address. I'd argue that there is a place for it - some days, you just don't want to deal, right?
But, then again, maybe there's a reason there's no Avoidance Olympics. Because if we all avoided, for this long, we most certainly would NOT be the Land of Opportunity. We'd be the Land of Empty Gas Tanks, the Land of Past-Expiration Date Refrigerator Contents, and the Land of Shoes Without Soles.
I, for one, am off to make my kitchen The Land Without Dishes.
See ya on the backside!
Distractathon (n.)
Competitors will select from a series of events to distract them from everyday life. Including Watching Useless Television, Talking To Yourself, Cleaning The Kitchen, Analyzing Your Checkbook, and Catching Up On Junk Mail, participants will attempt to avoid all "real" responsibilities by using these Distracting Events. The winner will be the person who successfully avoids performing any real life work for a period exceeding 2 days.
Clearly, this is an endurance event. But I think that perhaps I'd win.
So what distracts you from thinking (or managing) everyday life? Is it the garden? Cooking a new recipe? Catching up on the neighborhood gossip? Admit it - you've got a "go to" for avoiding life - we all do.
And while it doesn't necessarily amount to an Olympic sport, it DOES keep us from dealing with the things we don't want to address. I'd argue that there is a place for it - some days, you just don't want to deal, right?
But, then again, maybe there's a reason there's no Avoidance Olympics. Because if we all avoided, for this long, we most certainly would NOT be the Land of Opportunity. We'd be the Land of Empty Gas Tanks, the Land of Past-Expiration Date Refrigerator Contents, and the Land of Shoes Without Soles.
I, for one, am off to make my kitchen The Land Without Dishes.
See ya on the backside!
Friday, April 10, 2009
Big Brother's Always Watching
About 10 years ago, I clearly recall sitting at a bar with a bunch of the girls on my softball team. We were accountants, and operations folks, who all worked (at one time or another) for Ernst & Young.
We got to talking about those "membership" cards that you got at the grocery store. In Chicago, it's a Dominick's or a Jewel card, and it gets you special deals and discounts at the store. One woman was adamant that she would NOT get the card, because she did not need nameless corporations tracking what she ate, and how often. She wanted her privacy to remain in her control, and to hell be damned if she couldn't cash a check at the grocery store.
At the time, I didn't think much of it. Some of my friends thought she was overreacting. Some figured what they ate wasn't ever going to be headline news. I just thought that it was too much trouble to go to the store and fill out the application for the card, so it wasn't an issue I had.
I changed my tune on that last year (yes, it took 9 years for me to break down and fill out the app.) I moved into a neighborhood with a Dominick's. In Chicago, Dominick's has better produce than Jewel; and it's a block away from my apartment. I figured, why spend all the extra money if I didn't have to? So I signed up, and took no notice of what I bought.
Then, I joined Costco. Costco's a membership club - I basically pay $50 a year to buy cheap electronics, wine, english muffins, and DVD's. And, occasionally, a large box of something chocolate that should last 8 weeks, but really lasts for two.
But last weekend, I had my day of reckoning with Big Brother knowing everything I eat. I mean, sure, I've wondered: does the fact that I buy Thomas' English Muffins (Multigrain, Low-Fat, one "point" on Weightwatchers) every two weeks send up a flare? What about my intermittent fish purchases? Are they indicative of someone who's not fully willing to commit to a diet high in Omega-3s?
But I digress. I came home, a week after purchasing my first, large bag of trail mix. I've been doing more walking and the weather's getting better, so I wanted to have a cheap bag of decent mix to take out on hikes. When I got home from running, one week later, I had a message on my voicemail. From Costco. Telling me that they knew that I had recently purchased my trail mix, and that it had pistachios in it, and that it had been recalled.
It was an automated message, yes. And it wasn't like they were standing in my kitchen. But I have to admit, it comforted, AND freaked me out at the same time.
On the upside, they warned me about the pistachio issue a full WEEK before anything went out on the news. Downside: I was reminded, yet again, that they know EVERYTHING you purchase.
I worked for a consumer products company briefly last year. I know the kind of data that is available on buying behavior. And I'm not sure, frankly, that I'm hip to being used as a marketing tool.
But if sharing my data just saved me from one sick day (which, for a girl who is underinsured at the moment, can be important), or from one day hugging the porcelain god - well, then, I think I'm just about reconciled with Big Brother watching what I eat.
At least until they tell me my chocolate is compromised. Then I think I'll just take to my bed, anyway.
We got to talking about those "membership" cards that you got at the grocery store. In Chicago, it's a Dominick's or a Jewel card, and it gets you special deals and discounts at the store. One woman was adamant that she would NOT get the card, because she did not need nameless corporations tracking what she ate, and how often. She wanted her privacy to remain in her control, and to hell be damned if she couldn't cash a check at the grocery store.
At the time, I didn't think much of it. Some of my friends thought she was overreacting. Some figured what they ate wasn't ever going to be headline news. I just thought that it was too much trouble to go to the store and fill out the application for the card, so it wasn't an issue I had.
I changed my tune on that last year (yes, it took 9 years for me to break down and fill out the app.) I moved into a neighborhood with a Dominick's. In Chicago, Dominick's has better produce than Jewel; and it's a block away from my apartment. I figured, why spend all the extra money if I didn't have to? So I signed up, and took no notice of what I bought.
Then, I joined Costco. Costco's a membership club - I basically pay $50 a year to buy cheap electronics, wine, english muffins, and DVD's. And, occasionally, a large box of something chocolate that should last 8 weeks, but really lasts for two.
But last weekend, I had my day of reckoning with Big Brother knowing everything I eat. I mean, sure, I've wondered: does the fact that I buy Thomas' English Muffins (Multigrain, Low-Fat, one "point" on Weightwatchers) every two weeks send up a flare? What about my intermittent fish purchases? Are they indicative of someone who's not fully willing to commit to a diet high in Omega-3s?
But I digress. I came home, a week after purchasing my first, large bag of trail mix. I've been doing more walking and the weather's getting better, so I wanted to have a cheap bag of decent mix to take out on hikes. When I got home from running, one week later, I had a message on my voicemail. From Costco. Telling me that they knew that I had recently purchased my trail mix, and that it had pistachios in it, and that it had been recalled.
It was an automated message, yes. And it wasn't like they were standing in my kitchen. But I have to admit, it comforted, AND freaked me out at the same time.
On the upside, they warned me about the pistachio issue a full WEEK before anything went out on the news. Downside: I was reminded, yet again, that they know EVERYTHING you purchase.
I worked for a consumer products company briefly last year. I know the kind of data that is available on buying behavior. And I'm not sure, frankly, that I'm hip to being used as a marketing tool.
But if sharing my data just saved me from one sick day (which, for a girl who is underinsured at the moment, can be important), or from one day hugging the porcelain god - well, then, I think I'm just about reconciled with Big Brother watching what I eat.
At least until they tell me my chocolate is compromised. Then I think I'll just take to my bed, anyway.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Things I learned today....
Unemployment occasionally has its advantages.
Today, my little sister (bless her heart) woke me up at 9:30 to talk about a trip she took two weeks ago. Since the trip wasn't changing between 9:30 and 11:00, I wasn't certain what compelled her to call at such an ungodly hour, but I did, at least, owe her a short chat.
Lesson No. 1 of the day: don't take your cellphone to bed.
Later, I made a yummy egg scramble with red and green peppers, spinach, and reduced-fat cheddar cheese. Then, when looking up the nutrition information, realized that "reduced fat shredded cheddar" is actually listed as a "cheese product" in my Calorie and Fat counter (circa 2005).
Lesson No. 2: "cheese products" have neither flavor, nor a place on your eggs. Just skip it and add more salt.
This afternoon, I found myself yelling at a lovely woman from Chase, who, apparently, I had confused with a scammer who called last week about "my account" and lowering an interest rate. This woman was merely checking to make sure that I knew my account had been transferred to Chase, from Wamu. Yeah, yeah.
Lesson No. 3: Don't paint all scammers with accents with the same brush. But don't give them any information on the phone, either.
And finally, this evening, after a successful day of Weight Watchering, and counting all my points, and eating perfectly healthy, I saw an ad for Dunkin Donuts while watching ER. Citing forces beyond my control, I found myself whipping up a batch of Ruby's Peanut Butter cookies without thinking.
Lesson No. 4: Don't leave the Big Girl alone with butter, sugar, and eggs when there's a Lifestyle Change afoot. It never ends well.
And with that, I'm putting the uncooked batter in the fridge, and going to bed!
Today, my little sister (bless her heart) woke me up at 9:30 to talk about a trip she took two weeks ago. Since the trip wasn't changing between 9:30 and 11:00, I wasn't certain what compelled her to call at such an ungodly hour, but I did, at least, owe her a short chat.
Lesson No. 1 of the day: don't take your cellphone to bed.
Later, I made a yummy egg scramble with red and green peppers, spinach, and reduced-fat cheddar cheese. Then, when looking up the nutrition information, realized that "reduced fat shredded cheddar" is actually listed as a "cheese product" in my Calorie and Fat counter (circa 2005).
Lesson No. 2: "cheese products" have neither flavor, nor a place on your eggs. Just skip it and add more salt.
This afternoon, I found myself yelling at a lovely woman from Chase, who, apparently, I had confused with a scammer who called last week about "my account" and lowering an interest rate. This woman was merely checking to make sure that I knew my account had been transferred to Chase, from Wamu. Yeah, yeah.
Lesson No. 3: Don't paint all scammers with accents with the same brush. But don't give them any information on the phone, either.
And finally, this evening, after a successful day of Weight Watchering, and counting all my points, and eating perfectly healthy, I saw an ad for Dunkin Donuts while watching ER. Citing forces beyond my control, I found myself whipping up a batch of Ruby's Peanut Butter cookies without thinking.
Lesson No. 4: Don't leave the Big Girl alone with butter, sugar, and eggs when there's a Lifestyle Change afoot. It never ends well.
And with that, I'm putting the uncooked batter in the fridge, and going to bed!
Saturday, March 28, 2009
God Said Ha!
Okay, just because it's too wrong not to share:
Last post: SPRING IS COMING.
Forecast for tonight: 3-7 inches of SNOW (YES, the FLUFFY, WET, COLD, WINTER-ESQUE white stuff) for tomorrow.
Number of people registered to run the "Shamrock Shuffle" 8K in downtown Chicago tomorrow morning: 35,000
Number of idiots running in the snow and slush, thinking they were going to be running in shorts and tanks: 10,000
Number of smartypants home in bed (just my guess): 25,000
Me? Snug as a bug in a rug. Screw spring. I'm sleeping in :)
Last post: SPRING IS COMING.
Forecast for tonight: 3-7 inches of SNOW (YES, the FLUFFY, WET, COLD, WINTER-ESQUE white stuff) for tomorrow.
Number of people registered to run the "Shamrock Shuffle" 8K in downtown Chicago tomorrow morning: 35,000
Number of idiots running in the snow and slush, thinking they were going to be running in shorts and tanks: 10,000
Number of smartypants home in bed (just my guess): 25,000
Me? Snug as a bug in a rug. Screw spring. I'm sleeping in :)
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Spring is Coming!!!!
And here, my best signs that Spring is actually coming to Chicago:
1. The boiler located underneath my unit does not run from 1:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m. (interittently turning off every three minutes or so, then back on) all night long.
2. The Lake is no longer covered by icebergs, as far as the eye can see.
3. I can't leave my Diet Coke outside the back door for 5 minutes and have something that is ice cold. Dammit.
4. I actually have to use moisturizer on my arms, because there's a chance someone will see them and run, screaming at my dry skin. (No risk when it's cold as we Nannok of the North ourselves all winter here.)
5. The running gear bag no longer contains YakTrax, which are designed to grip the snow like chains on a tire. Dont' get me wrong, it doesn't mean I've put them away. But they're no longer "in the bag".
6. There's a serious increase in the postings on Craigslist's "Missed Connections" site, as people leave their homes and start looking for a lil lovin. It's spring. People have hope. Also, there has been a slight increase in the amount of men viewing my profile on Match.com. Note that hope doesn't necessarily mean ACTION.
7. David Letterman got married. Seems more like a "hell freezing over" moment, but hey, I'll take it as a sign of spring.
8. All the dog poo that people left in the snow during the winter is now lying on the ground, melting. It's lovely.
9. At least once a week, I wake up, and open all the windows without checking the temperature. Thirty minutes later, I'm a shivering mess. But at least I'm awake!!!
10. People are grilling. Really, is there any better sign than grilling? I think not!!!!
1. The boiler located underneath my unit does not run from 1:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m. (interittently turning off every three minutes or so, then back on) all night long.
2. The Lake is no longer covered by icebergs, as far as the eye can see.
3. I can't leave my Diet Coke outside the back door for 5 minutes and have something that is ice cold. Dammit.
4. I actually have to use moisturizer on my arms, because there's a chance someone will see them and run, screaming at my dry skin. (No risk when it's cold as we Nannok of the North ourselves all winter here.)
5. The running gear bag no longer contains YakTrax, which are designed to grip the snow like chains on a tire. Dont' get me wrong, it doesn't mean I've put them away. But they're no longer "in the bag".
6. There's a serious increase in the postings on Craigslist's "Missed Connections" site, as people leave their homes and start looking for a lil lovin. It's spring. People have hope. Also, there has been a slight increase in the amount of men viewing my profile on Match.com. Note that hope doesn't necessarily mean ACTION.
7. David Letterman got married. Seems more like a "hell freezing over" moment, but hey, I'll take it as a sign of spring.
8. All the dog poo that people left in the snow during the winter is now lying on the ground, melting. It's lovely.
9. At least once a week, I wake up, and open all the windows without checking the temperature. Thirty minutes later, I'm a shivering mess. But at least I'm awake!!!
10. People are grilling. Really, is there any better sign than grilling? I think not!!!!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
How the Single Girls Roll
I was thinking today about the difference between single midwestern girls, and the common perception of "Single in the City". Between what Hollywood, and advertisers, and, heck, even all of our married friends, think of our "glamorous" life, and what it really looks like.
I'm not sure, when Hollywood drafts up its idea of how we roll, it really has a good idea. Do I want to look like Kate Walsh, kiss Dr. McDreamy, and drive a ruby-red Cadillac? Oh, sure, maybe...but my life is just a tad more...well...real?
Take today. I picked up my friend up this afternoon for some serious errand running. We headed North, into the afternoon rush, and first hit Costco (yes, even I sometimes tempt the fates of Crazy and Death and North Shore Jewish Women by walking into a big-box store in Skokie on a Sunday.)
Now, in Carrie Bradshaw's world, I would have run into a handsome 40-something trying to decide between the latest Smartphone, while sporting just-perfect denim and a fine leather shoe. I would NOT have been wearing running shoes, and I most certainly would have had on some lip gloss. (Um, yeah. It's Sunday. You can guess how I looked.)
Instead, I found myself chatting up a customer at the Verizon counter, trying to find out the difference between DVR-R and DVR+R for my friend Val. That friendly customer? He told me first, not to leave my purse on the cart, because he was a cop (And no, contrary to popular opinion, music does NOT cue and the lights dim when this happens. I do, however, find myself giggling like a ten year old. It's pretty embarrassing, especially since I have on gym shoes and no lip gloss.)
After overlooking the fact that he was in sweatpants in a public place, he was actually very helpful. He went on to recommend storage solutions, (portable hard drives?), read the instructions on the DVRs, and generally chat us up. It was lovely. Mostly because he outweighed me and didn't have a ring on his finger. But it wasn't quite what Carrie goes through on a Sunday, right?
I also have a hard time imagining the conversation we had in the Toilet Paper section. Yes, you read that correctly.
Me: "What are you doing?" I asked as I approached my friend.
Friend: Muttering, punching numbers into her phone. "$18.99 divided by 15,000 sheets equals .001 cents per sheet."
Me: "But that's for the Scott stuff. It's not very nice to your ass."
Friend: "Okay, so the Charmin is how much?"
Me: "$19.99 less the $2.50 coupon, is $17.50. And there's 30 rolls with 1500 sheets per roll. So it's $17.50 divided by 7500."
Friend: "That's .002 cents per sheet."
Me: "Well, the Charmin is more expensive, but personally, I find that I use more of the cheap stuff because - well, it doesn't quite get the same coverage."
Friend, looking at me like she didn't need to know this information. "I think you use what you use, you know?"
Me: "Yeah, but really, doesn't your ass deserve the very best?"
She bought the Charmin.
But really, that wasn't the best part of the day. Next, we went to Lowe's (my friend and I). She purchased a 52" ceiling fan (which her brother is going to install next week). Then we looked for the appropriate lightbulbs (a process nearly as difficult as calculating the per sheet price of toilet paper); and then she bought the storm door that she had measured for, and we had pre-selected a few weeks back.
She also smartly picked out the thermostat that she needed (a programmable 5/2 day one) AND selected the energy-saving dimmer switch to go along with the fan.
And THEN, we loaded it all into my big ole Santa Fe. Even the 82" door!!! Two city chics. Loading up the Santa Fe. And since there weren't any magically appearing Men-Elves to help us get it into her unit, when we arrived at her condo, we hauled it up the two flights of stairs. Because we're damn good.
Now, I know Beyoncee sings about All the Single Ladies, and Shonda Rhimes writes great characters for Grey's (sometimes). And there are some great women writers out there. But this, my friends - this is what we single ladies do here. In Cincinnati today, my mom probably bent over 1,000 times (and no, she wasn't praying to the Hindu God of anything, she was just weeding her yard.
So yes, we still need brothers and friends or the occasional installer to put that door into its place. But we're the ones running that show. We measure. We haul. We lift, and we (often) drop. But we do take care of ourselves, and each other, more than you might think.
So the next time your friendly neighborhood single girl shows up for a party, or dinner, give her a little bit of credit - because she's probably running a pretty big show on her own - and, probably doing it pretty well.
Because that's how we real single girls roll.
I'm not sure, when Hollywood drafts up its idea of how we roll, it really has a good idea. Do I want to look like Kate Walsh, kiss Dr. McDreamy, and drive a ruby-red Cadillac? Oh, sure, maybe...but my life is just a tad more...well...real?
Take today. I picked up my friend up this afternoon for some serious errand running. We headed North, into the afternoon rush, and first hit Costco (yes, even I sometimes tempt the fates of Crazy and Death and North Shore Jewish Women by walking into a big-box store in Skokie on a Sunday.)
Now, in Carrie Bradshaw's world, I would have run into a handsome 40-something trying to decide between the latest Smartphone, while sporting just-perfect denim and a fine leather shoe. I would NOT have been wearing running shoes, and I most certainly would have had on some lip gloss. (Um, yeah. It's Sunday. You can guess how I looked.)
Instead, I found myself chatting up a customer at the Verizon counter, trying to find out the difference between DVR-R and DVR+R for my friend Val. That friendly customer? He told me first, not to leave my purse on the cart, because he was a cop (And no, contrary to popular opinion, music does NOT cue and the lights dim when this happens. I do, however, find myself giggling like a ten year old. It's pretty embarrassing, especially since I have on gym shoes and no lip gloss.)
After overlooking the fact that he was in sweatpants in a public place, he was actually very helpful. He went on to recommend storage solutions, (portable hard drives?), read the instructions on the DVRs, and generally chat us up. It was lovely. Mostly because he outweighed me and didn't have a ring on his finger. But it wasn't quite what Carrie goes through on a Sunday, right?
I also have a hard time imagining the conversation we had in the Toilet Paper section. Yes, you read that correctly.
Me: "What are you doing?" I asked as I approached my friend.
Friend: Muttering, punching numbers into her phone. "$18.99 divided by 15,000 sheets equals .001 cents per sheet."
Me: "But that's for the Scott stuff. It's not very nice to your ass."
Friend: "Okay, so the Charmin is how much?"
Me: "$19.99 less the $2.50 coupon, is $17.50. And there's 30 rolls with 1500 sheets per roll. So it's $17.50 divided by 7500."
Friend: "That's .002 cents per sheet."
Me: "Well, the Charmin is more expensive, but personally, I find that I use more of the cheap stuff because - well, it doesn't quite get the same coverage."
Friend, looking at me like she didn't need to know this information. "I think you use what you use, you know?"
Me: "Yeah, but really, doesn't your ass deserve the very best?"
She bought the Charmin.
But really, that wasn't the best part of the day. Next, we went to Lowe's (my friend and I). She purchased a 52" ceiling fan (which her brother is going to install next week). Then we looked for the appropriate lightbulbs (a process nearly as difficult as calculating the per sheet price of toilet paper); and then she bought the storm door that she had measured for, and we had pre-selected a few weeks back.
She also smartly picked out the thermostat that she needed (a programmable 5/2 day one) AND selected the energy-saving dimmer switch to go along with the fan.
And THEN, we loaded it all into my big ole Santa Fe. Even the 82" door!!! Two city chics. Loading up the Santa Fe. And since there weren't any magically appearing Men-Elves to help us get it into her unit, when we arrived at her condo, we hauled it up the two flights of stairs. Because we're damn good.
Now, I know Beyoncee sings about All the Single Ladies, and Shonda Rhimes writes great characters for Grey's (sometimes). And there are some great women writers out there. But this, my friends - this is what we single ladies do here. In Cincinnati today, my mom probably bent over 1,000 times (and no, she wasn't praying to the Hindu God of anything, she was just weeding her yard.
So yes, we still need brothers and friends or the occasional installer to put that door into its place. But we're the ones running that show. We measure. We haul. We lift, and we (often) drop. But we do take care of ourselves, and each other, more than you might think.
So the next time your friendly neighborhood single girl shows up for a party, or dinner, give her a little bit of credit - because she's probably running a pretty big show on her own - and, probably doing it pretty well.
Because that's how we real single girls roll.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
No, Really, It's NOT About Me!
Anyone who's grown up and wandered into the great outside world knows that there are a LOT of people who can scare you out there.
A few years back, I had the misfortune to date one of them. Sort of. He wasn't scary in the "get me a restraining order" sense - but other ways. Big ego. Total lack of accountability. Smart enough to get away with things, but not forever.
Recently, I worked for someone who exhibited some of the same tendencies. Notoriously, and unapologetically, late to every important meeting (because they were, say, getting their hair done); the need to be constantly complemented "no really, YOU'RE the best dresser ever!" (as I noted that really, she needed three more inches on those pants to compensate for the shelf on the backside).
And I think, over time, I've learned how to deal with these folks.
RUN. RUN LIKE THE WIND.
No, it's not quite that bad, but almost. Generally speaking, I refer to them as narcissists. When Psycho Boy was really done messing with my head, I spent some quality time at the local Borders, going through the American Psychological Association's DSM-IV (which lists out all the ways in which one can be certified crazy). And I found, frighteningly, that he met most of the criteria. Since then, I've been on the lookout for other dudes who fit that criteria, and I do run (well, you know me, waddle) when I see them coming.
So imagine my surprise today when I saw this article on Slate talking about whether the narcissists are to blame for the current state of Wall Street (and, frankly, Main Street). The point made is that many people claim we all became Mini-Psycho Boys (of the material variety) in the past few years, buying up everything we could, centering the world around our consumerism, etc. etc.
I'll spare you the long read, and tell you the conclusion, however, which made me feel better. We're NOT all narcissists. To really be one of those, you'd need a striking lack of empathy; a desire to make yourself much more important than you really are; and a belief that normal rules just don't apply to you.
(And I know what you're thinking - my driving DOES NOT make me a narcissist, really).
So see, don't you feel better? This economy, it's not all your fault! It's not all my fault! At least, not because you have a diagnosable pschological disorder. Now your credit card debt, that's another story :)
A few years back, I had the misfortune to date one of them. Sort of. He wasn't scary in the "get me a restraining order" sense - but other ways. Big ego. Total lack of accountability. Smart enough to get away with things, but not forever.
Recently, I worked for someone who exhibited some of the same tendencies. Notoriously, and unapologetically, late to every important meeting (because they were, say, getting their hair done); the need to be constantly complemented "no really, YOU'RE the best dresser ever!" (as I noted that really, she needed three more inches on those pants to compensate for the shelf on the backside).
And I think, over time, I've learned how to deal with these folks.
RUN. RUN LIKE THE WIND.
No, it's not quite that bad, but almost. Generally speaking, I refer to them as narcissists. When Psycho Boy was really done messing with my head, I spent some quality time at the local Borders, going through the American Psychological Association's DSM-IV (which lists out all the ways in which one can be certified crazy). And I found, frighteningly, that he met most of the criteria. Since then, I've been on the lookout for other dudes who fit that criteria, and I do run (well, you know me, waddle) when I see them coming.
So imagine my surprise today when I saw this article on Slate talking about whether the narcissists are to blame for the current state of Wall Street (and, frankly, Main Street). The point made is that many people claim we all became Mini-Psycho Boys (of the material variety) in the past few years, buying up everything we could, centering the world around our consumerism, etc. etc.
I'll spare you the long read, and tell you the conclusion, however, which made me feel better. We're NOT all narcissists. To really be one of those, you'd need a striking lack of empathy; a desire to make yourself much more important than you really are; and a belief that normal rules just don't apply to you.
(And I know what you're thinking - my driving DOES NOT make me a narcissist, really).
So see, don't you feel better? This economy, it's not all your fault! It's not all my fault! At least, not because you have a diagnosable pschological disorder. Now your credit card debt, that's another story :)
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
It's Like Dating...Only Different...
I've been searching for an analogy that accurately describes the dance between job hunter and job recruiter. Given all the different elements at play - power, intrigue, salesmanship, personal connection, and personal fulfillment - well, I couldn't help but think of dating.
Take, for instance, mystery. How much do you reveal on the first date/call? Do you tell your new recruiter up front why you left your last job after six months? Or do you let that hang until he's had the good sense to dig a little deeper? In the dating world, it's the equivalent of "so, what's the longest relationship you've been in?" If the answer is "three months", that's not necessarily something you want to reveal on Date One. (It scares them away, trust me.)
And then there's that awkward "where are we going with this?" moment. In a real relationship, you've got at least a few dates before THAT awkward conversation. Typically (not that I've got much recent experience here) asked after several glasses of wine and a particularly nice night out, when you're wondering if he's going to be around next year...
I had forgotten that, in the job hunt, this conversation - and the "what's your ideal date" conversation - comes at you fast. Like, first phone call fast. Yesterday I was speaking with a recruiter for a staffing firm, who, having seen my "diverse" background in public accounting, wanted to know "what I was looking for". And immediately I felt like I was back on Match.com, searching for Mr. Right.
"In order of priority, I'd like him to be kind, funny, intelligent, financially solvent, and - ideally - taller than me."
Oh, wait...that's the dude part.
"Actually, I'd like a job where I can use the compliance, analytical, project management, and client relationship skills I've built in ten years of consulting."
Which, in dude speak, means "I'll take any guy who is willing to date me."
As you might imagine, this is not exactly a position of power. So, I guess it's back to doing what we always do in these situations: tell the other person what you THINK they want to hear, in order to get close to what YOU want.
Ergo, for the finance guys: "I'd really like an opportunity to work in a strong team of dedicated finance professionals who are interested in making strategic recommendations, and providing good analytics to help the business unit."
Oh, and for dude speak, that would be "I'd like him to be breathing, funny, taller than me, and preferably work in Finance or Law, making more than $75,000/year."
Right. Perhaps both of these are lost causes? I'll let you know how it goes. Here's hoping it's better than the last dude in the inbox on Match.com :)
Take, for instance, mystery. How much do you reveal on the first date/call? Do you tell your new recruiter up front why you left your last job after six months? Or do you let that hang until he's had the good sense to dig a little deeper? In the dating world, it's the equivalent of "so, what's the longest relationship you've been in?" If the answer is "three months", that's not necessarily something you want to reveal on Date One. (It scares them away, trust me.)
And then there's that awkward "where are we going with this?" moment. In a real relationship, you've got at least a few dates before THAT awkward conversation. Typically (not that I've got much recent experience here) asked after several glasses of wine and a particularly nice night out, when you're wondering if he's going to be around next year...
I had forgotten that, in the job hunt, this conversation - and the "what's your ideal date" conversation - comes at you fast. Like, first phone call fast. Yesterday I was speaking with a recruiter for a staffing firm, who, having seen my "diverse" background in public accounting, wanted to know "what I was looking for". And immediately I felt like I was back on Match.com, searching for Mr. Right.
"In order of priority, I'd like him to be kind, funny, intelligent, financially solvent, and - ideally - taller than me."
Oh, wait...that's the dude part.
"Actually, I'd like a job where I can use the compliance, analytical, project management, and client relationship skills I've built in ten years of consulting."
Which, in dude speak, means "I'll take any guy who is willing to date me."
As you might imagine, this is not exactly a position of power. So, I guess it's back to doing what we always do in these situations: tell the other person what you THINK they want to hear, in order to get close to what YOU want.
Ergo, for the finance guys: "I'd really like an opportunity to work in a strong team of dedicated finance professionals who are interested in making strategic recommendations, and providing good analytics to help the business unit."
Oh, and for dude speak, that would be "I'd like him to be breathing, funny, taller than me, and preferably work in Finance or Law, making more than $75,000/year."
Right. Perhaps both of these are lost causes? I'll let you know how it goes. Here's hoping it's better than the last dude in the inbox on Match.com :)
Monday, March 16, 2009
The AARP Exit Aisle
Last week I took advantage of my underemployment status and flew to Florida to spend some time on a beach. I know, traveling while unemployed is about as financially savvy as shopping at Whole Foods with food stamps. But hey, when else was I going to have 10 days to sit on the beach, relax, and invite skin cancer to take over my pasty facade?
Not for much longer, we hope.
But I digress. It was an interesting week. I got in some beach time, some pool time, and have worked myself into a love of open lap swimming...and all in all, I dealt with my immersion into great AARP retirement center with just a mild irritation. Waiting at traffic lights? Please, come to Chicago - I'll show you waiting. Standing in line at Publix? Again, step right up (there's a reason we go nowhere without books here). Worried about the best spot on the beach, far, far away from that smoker? PLEASE! You have a beach! And water you can enter before August! What's a little smoke amongst friends???
But perhaps my funniest moment of dealing with the Senior Set came on Saturday when I flew home. As I boarded my AirTran (yes, that bucket of death) flight in Sarasota, I grinned as two septaugenarians sat down - IN THE EXIT ROW in front of me. See, on AirTran, only those who fork over an additional $20.00 can choose to sit in the exit row. I restrained myself and took my $6.00 seat in the row behind - but when these two sat down, I was having second thoughts. I mean, hadn't a hundred or so people just needed to use those exits over the wing??? Shouldn't we be putting, I don't know, people who had used their muscles this decade in those chairs???
"You do recognize that you are seated in an exit row, and you are prepared to assume the duties required of sitting here?" asked the pretty flight attendant of the three in front of me.
Someone's very Jewish father, occupying the middle seat, with his full head of hair and slight Chicago accent, held up his hand to ask her to stop - he couldn't hear her while the other overhead annoucements were going on.
I looked at the fit, 30-something next to me and we shared a laugh.
"What was that, honey?" he asked again.
She repeated her shpiel. He and his wife Delores (well, she looked like a Delores) nodded - somewhat vigorously. Clearly they knew that admitting they couldn't put their luggage over their heads, let alone hoist a 40 pound door in an emergency, would result in the sacrifice of leg room that Delores, at 5'2", really needed.
My seatmate and I just grinned, tacitly acknowledging our fate. As we settled in for the ride home, we agreed that, if necessary, we could just talk loudly during the emergency, climb over them, and help ourselves out.
And maybe that's the lesson from Florida - that when you're surrounded by crazy people, or crazy days, you just have to accept the cards you're dealt, and find a working alternative. Don't sweat, don't get freaked out, don't tailgate, don't cuss (not even with your inside voice). Just sit back, let the crazies fly their Freak Flag, and enjoy the ride.
Usually, it's a lot more fun.
Not for much longer, we hope.
But I digress. It was an interesting week. I got in some beach time, some pool time, and have worked myself into a love of open lap swimming...and all in all, I dealt with my immersion into great AARP retirement center with just a mild irritation. Waiting at traffic lights? Please, come to Chicago - I'll show you waiting. Standing in line at Publix? Again, step right up (there's a reason we go nowhere without books here). Worried about the best spot on the beach, far, far away from that smoker? PLEASE! You have a beach! And water you can enter before August! What's a little smoke amongst friends???
But perhaps my funniest moment of dealing with the Senior Set came on Saturday when I flew home. As I boarded my AirTran (yes, that bucket of death) flight in Sarasota, I grinned as two septaugenarians sat down - IN THE EXIT ROW in front of me. See, on AirTran, only those who fork over an additional $20.00 can choose to sit in the exit row. I restrained myself and took my $6.00 seat in the row behind - but when these two sat down, I was having second thoughts. I mean, hadn't a hundred or so people just needed to use those exits over the wing??? Shouldn't we be putting, I don't know, people who had used their muscles this decade in those chairs???
"You do recognize that you are seated in an exit row, and you are prepared to assume the duties required of sitting here?" asked the pretty flight attendant of the three in front of me.
Someone's very Jewish father, occupying the middle seat, with his full head of hair and slight Chicago accent, held up his hand to ask her to stop - he couldn't hear her while the other overhead annoucements were going on.
I looked at the fit, 30-something next to me and we shared a laugh.
"What was that, honey?" he asked again.
She repeated her shpiel. He and his wife Delores (well, she looked like a Delores) nodded - somewhat vigorously. Clearly they knew that admitting they couldn't put their luggage over their heads, let alone hoist a 40 pound door in an emergency, would result in the sacrifice of leg room that Delores, at 5'2", really needed.
My seatmate and I just grinned, tacitly acknowledging our fate. As we settled in for the ride home, we agreed that, if necessary, we could just talk loudly during the emergency, climb over them, and help ourselves out.
And maybe that's the lesson from Florida - that when you're surrounded by crazy people, or crazy days, you just have to accept the cards you're dealt, and find a working alternative. Don't sweat, don't get freaked out, don't tailgate, don't cuss (not even with your inside voice). Just sit back, let the crazies fly their Freak Flag, and enjoy the ride.
Usually, it's a lot more fun.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Shop Till You Drop
When I was growing up, my mom and I would wander through Cincinnati's West Side. Filled with guilted Catholics, working and middle class folks who sent their kids to schools with uniforms and nuns, shopping was a little extravagance in our world.
Don't get me wrong - it's not like we ever wanted for anything - but with three kids at home, and a sense of style that Ruby gave her, my mom had an eye for the nicest, best cut, most fashionable items on any rack - and thankfully, imparted that skill to me.
Fortunately, I never inherited her great legs, or ability to maintain a size 12, or I'd be in the poorhouse. You see, I learned to shop at the feet of the master, and to this day, both my sister and I would admit that, though we frequently don't buy exactly what we want, we always want to buy something.
I thought about that a lot this week, as I examined the overflow of clothing in my second bedroom. More closet than sleeping area, the bedroom has become a bit of a disaster zone. Frankly, Susan Lucci could be hiding out under the clothes on the bed and I wouldn't know it.
So it's with some surprise that I spent Sunday inventorying a friend's shoe and purse collection to sell it off on eBay. You'd think my selling would begin at home - but nope, I'm far more content to sell other people's fine items than my own.
The store is up and running now (you can visit it here). What I'm enjoying most is a tossup - is it writing the fun descriptions of the merchandise? Maybe. But maybe it's also that feeling - that you're giving someone else the chance to do what my mom and I did, all those Saturdays growing up - to run your fingers along the bargain rack, hoping to find that one piece of gorgeous cashmere, or well-cut wool, or beautiful loafers. Hoping to find that one thing that made you feel like you found a bargain, and got something that made you feel like you had won the shopping lotto.
I'll admit - in these times, it's a hard feeling to come by. But in the absence of wandering around the mall with Mom, spreading a little shopping glee is a pretty good substitute...
Shop on...
Don't get me wrong - it's not like we ever wanted for anything - but with three kids at home, and a sense of style that Ruby gave her, my mom had an eye for the nicest, best cut, most fashionable items on any rack - and thankfully, imparted that skill to me.
Fortunately, I never inherited her great legs, or ability to maintain a size 12, or I'd be in the poorhouse. You see, I learned to shop at the feet of the master, and to this day, both my sister and I would admit that, though we frequently don't buy exactly what we want, we always want to buy something.
I thought about that a lot this week, as I examined the overflow of clothing in my second bedroom. More closet than sleeping area, the bedroom has become a bit of a disaster zone. Frankly, Susan Lucci could be hiding out under the clothes on the bed and I wouldn't know it.
So it's with some surprise that I spent Sunday inventorying a friend's shoe and purse collection to sell it off on eBay. You'd think my selling would begin at home - but nope, I'm far more content to sell other people's fine items than my own.
The store is up and running now (you can visit it here). What I'm enjoying most is a tossup - is it writing the fun descriptions of the merchandise? Maybe. But maybe it's also that feeling - that you're giving someone else the chance to do what my mom and I did, all those Saturdays growing up - to run your fingers along the bargain rack, hoping to find that one piece of gorgeous cashmere, or well-cut wool, or beautiful loafers. Hoping to find that one thing that made you feel like you found a bargain, and got something that made you feel like you had won the shopping lotto.
I'll admit - in these times, it's a hard feeling to come by. But in the absence of wandering around the mall with Mom, spreading a little shopping glee is a pretty good substitute...
Shop on...
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Now Casting
For those of you who don't know me (or haven't seen me in awhile), I'm what we pleasantly refer to as "plus sized". In the vernacular, this means that, while I can tie my shoes and fit behind the wheel of a car, I'd be better off if I weighed just a bit less.
This, for obvious reasons, not the least of which are that I'm single, 34, and would like to, someday, perhaps, join a gift registry with someone other than The Invisible Man (which happened a couple years back at Marshall Fields when my parents couldn't figure out what to get me for Christmas.)
In any case, this extra poundage issue is not a new one for me. I've gained and lost enough weight in my adult life to be an expert at all things weight related. Want to know the serving size for a lean piece of protein? Come to my kitchen. Expect there to be chips around? Go somewhere else.
You see, over time, I've learned how to be incredibly active (well, occasionally active) by running, biking, doing triathlons, etc. But I've not put together the food AND exercise for a couple of years now.
Hence, The Biggest Loser Open Casting Call.
Yes, you read that correctly. Last Saturday, I gussied myself up, threw on my most adorable jeans, jacket and sparkly tee shirt (really, it was quite cute) and headed down to the NBC Tower with a ViP Pass (which allowed me to skip in front of the other 11,000 (yes, THOUSAND) people in line.
I was struck by two things at the casting call: first, I looked WAY better than anyone else in my group - or, for that matter, anyone I saw in line. Period. Not to be braggy about it, but my hair looked golden, my makeup was perfection, and at least I showered before showing up! (Which could not necessarily be said for my competitors).
Alas, no callback.
So I'm moving into the next phase: The Personal Video. Right now, I'm struggling with the screenplay. What will sell? Clearly, my "I'm fat BUT active" shtick didn't make it. 12 half marathons? Who cares! Licensed attorney? Who cares! Funny? Well, come to think of it, maybe funny didn't come through enough.
So I'm putting pen to paper and trying to give it a go...right now, I'm struggling between leading a revolt at Weight Watchers and fighting someone over the last batch of chocolate chips at the Jewel. Both of which have sort of happened at one time or another.
I'm kidding, really. What I'd like to do is create a tape that captures who I am. I promise to post the video when I'm finished. But for now, if you have any ideas, send them my way!
I'm also accepting recommendations for the background/theme music that should be playing in the background....so send it along!!!
This, for obvious reasons, not the least of which are that I'm single, 34, and would like to, someday, perhaps, join a gift registry with someone other than The Invisible Man (which happened a couple years back at Marshall Fields when my parents couldn't figure out what to get me for Christmas.)
In any case, this extra poundage issue is not a new one for me. I've gained and lost enough weight in my adult life to be an expert at all things weight related. Want to know the serving size for a lean piece of protein? Come to my kitchen. Expect there to be chips around? Go somewhere else.
You see, over time, I've learned how to be incredibly active (well, occasionally active) by running, biking, doing triathlons, etc. But I've not put together the food AND exercise for a couple of years now.
Hence, The Biggest Loser Open Casting Call.
Yes, you read that correctly. Last Saturday, I gussied myself up, threw on my most adorable jeans, jacket and sparkly tee shirt (really, it was quite cute) and headed down to the NBC Tower with a ViP Pass (which allowed me to skip in front of the other 11,000 (yes, THOUSAND) people in line.
I was struck by two things at the casting call: first, I looked WAY better than anyone else in my group - or, for that matter, anyone I saw in line. Period. Not to be braggy about it, but my hair looked golden, my makeup was perfection, and at least I showered before showing up! (Which could not necessarily be said for my competitors).
Alas, no callback.
So I'm moving into the next phase: The Personal Video. Right now, I'm struggling with the screenplay. What will sell? Clearly, my "I'm fat BUT active" shtick didn't make it. 12 half marathons? Who cares! Licensed attorney? Who cares! Funny? Well, come to think of it, maybe funny didn't come through enough.
So I'm putting pen to paper and trying to give it a go...right now, I'm struggling between leading a revolt at Weight Watchers and fighting someone over the last batch of chocolate chips at the Jewel. Both of which have sort of happened at one time or another.
I'm kidding, really. What I'd like to do is create a tape that captures who I am. I promise to post the video when I'm finished. But for now, if you have any ideas, send them my way!
I'm also accepting recommendations for the background/theme music that should be playing in the background....so send it along!!!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
V-Day: Single Style
Valentine's Day is usually pretty uneventful. Yet this year, mine was so completely and totally stereotypical that I had to disclose the events in full (and if this is not motivation to continue on Match.com, I don't know what is...)
6:30 a.m. Shower, shave legs, throw on running gear, go to group run. (No, the shaving was not completely necessary, but it made me feel better.)
9:00 a.m. Post-run trip to Starbucks. Show remarkable restraint ordering NO $4.50 mocha, instead order "Venti" Icewater (free) and low-fat banana-chocolate chip coffee cake. IT WAS EARLY. I STILL HAD RESTRAINT LEFT.
10:00 a.m. Return to car, find $50 parking ticket. CAN YOU FEEL THE LOVE???
11:30 a.m. Shower again, curl up on the couch for a nap. I put on LIFE with Damian Lewis (my TV boyfriend) in the background.
12:30 p.m. Call from cousin Jess. We agree workouts on V-Day are big accomplishment. Maybe the only productive thing we'll do all day. We pat ourselves on the back. I go back to sleep. She goes to ger her hair cut.
1:30 p.m. Call from mom. Who reveals her giant pine tree wiped out neighbors electrical/phone on Wednesday. Mom is fine, electrical is fine. Tree is sleeping with the fishes. I'm reminded that life, and lumber, are fleeting.
3:00 p.m. Sucked into Hallmark movie. Wha???
6:50 p.m. Friend Val and I are comfortably ensconced in the near-empty Skokie theatre to catch Confessions of a Shopaholic. Woo HOOOOOO. Movie is so funny I cry several times.
8:45 p.m. Consider going to BW3s next to theatre, only to spy 200 15 year olds eating wings. Where are their parents???
9:30 p.m. Val and I call an audible for an emergency stop at KFC. Yes, that's right. Stupid new ad campaign. After debating the merits of various chicken combos, we both suck down crispy chicken something or others, and grin at the complete lameness of the evening. Thankfully, the two single Russian guys across from us don't make any comments. Though, they do seem to be headed out for a night of drinking, whereas we are heading to our homes. Well, Val is. I'm...
10:30 pm. Making an emergency stop at CVS for chocolate. Oh please, you knew this was coming. It takes 20 minutes to check out, which I think was God's way of telling me to PUT THE ALMOND KISSES DOWN and STEP AWAY FROM THE COUNTER. I don't listen.
12:00 p.m. Bed. I have bad dreams about the Hallmark movie girl beating up the Shopaholic girl because she spent too much money. Wha?
Another stellar Valentine's Day is in the books. Here's to next year!!!!
6:30 a.m. Shower, shave legs, throw on running gear, go to group run. (No, the shaving was not completely necessary, but it made me feel better.)
9:00 a.m. Post-run trip to Starbucks. Show remarkable restraint ordering NO $4.50 mocha, instead order "Venti" Icewater (free) and low-fat banana-chocolate chip coffee cake. IT WAS EARLY. I STILL HAD RESTRAINT LEFT.
10:00 a.m. Return to car, find $50 parking ticket. CAN YOU FEEL THE LOVE???
11:30 a.m. Shower again, curl up on the couch for a nap. I put on LIFE with Damian Lewis (my TV boyfriend) in the background.
12:30 p.m. Call from cousin Jess. We agree workouts on V-Day are big accomplishment. Maybe the only productive thing we'll do all day. We pat ourselves on the back. I go back to sleep. She goes to ger her hair cut.
1:30 p.m. Call from mom. Who reveals her giant pine tree wiped out neighbors electrical/phone on Wednesday. Mom is fine, electrical is fine. Tree is sleeping with the fishes. I'm reminded that life, and lumber, are fleeting.
3:00 p.m. Sucked into Hallmark movie. Wha???
6:50 p.m. Friend Val and I are comfortably ensconced in the near-empty Skokie theatre to catch Confessions of a Shopaholic. Woo HOOOOOO. Movie is so funny I cry several times.
8:45 p.m. Consider going to BW3s next to theatre, only to spy 200 15 year olds eating wings. Where are their parents???
9:30 p.m. Val and I call an audible for an emergency stop at KFC. Yes, that's right. Stupid new ad campaign. After debating the merits of various chicken combos, we both suck down crispy chicken something or others, and grin at the complete lameness of the evening. Thankfully, the two single Russian guys across from us don't make any comments. Though, they do seem to be headed out for a night of drinking, whereas we are heading to our homes. Well, Val is. I'm...
10:30 pm. Making an emergency stop at CVS for chocolate. Oh please, you knew this was coming. It takes 20 minutes to check out, which I think was God's way of telling me to PUT THE ALMOND KISSES DOWN and STEP AWAY FROM THE COUNTER. I don't listen.
12:00 p.m. Bed. I have bad dreams about the Hallmark movie girl beating up the Shopaholic girl because she spent too much money. Wha?
Another stellar Valentine's Day is in the books. Here's to next year!!!!
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Dear Wall Street:
Dear Wall Street Bankers: (excepting my brother)
I am writing to tell you it's going to be okay. I hear you all are a little worried. There was this article yesterday in The New York Times about how hard it is to live on less than $500,000/year in New York. And then there was this article about how long it's been since many passed the $500,000 mark, and how hard it might be to go back.
One of the hallmarks of good citizenship is empathizing with those who are having hard times. I'm used to doing that with people who make about $12,000/year. Or less. Single moms who work two jobs, who never got the chance to go to college because they never had the confidence. Or working dads who rarely get a chance to see their kids because they're trying to put in as much overtime as possible.
It's rare for me to sympathize with people making $500,000/year. But I can do it. And what's more, I have some suggestions for you:
WAKE THE EFF UP.
You make more money in a year than most people in this country would make in five years. And you're not that smart. You use other people's money - OUR MONEY - to make deals, trade stock, and generally destroy what we work hard to achieve.
So what can you do now? Try this: move to a more affordable place. Live in a home that costs less than $8,000/month in mortage payments. Take the subway to work. Drop the personal trainer. Tell your kids to get a loan to go to college.
And stop whining. You're embarrassing yourself.
Thank you.
I am writing to tell you it's going to be okay. I hear you all are a little worried. There was this article yesterday in The New York Times about how hard it is to live on less than $500,000/year in New York. And then there was this article about how long it's been since many passed the $500,000 mark, and how hard it might be to go back.
One of the hallmarks of good citizenship is empathizing with those who are having hard times. I'm used to doing that with people who make about $12,000/year. Or less. Single moms who work two jobs, who never got the chance to go to college because they never had the confidence. Or working dads who rarely get a chance to see their kids because they're trying to put in as much overtime as possible.
It's rare for me to sympathize with people making $500,000/year. But I can do it. And what's more, I have some suggestions for you:
WAKE THE EFF UP.
You make more money in a year than most people in this country would make in five years. And you're not that smart. You use other people's money - OUR MONEY - to make deals, trade stock, and generally destroy what we work hard to achieve.
So what can you do now? Try this: move to a more affordable place. Live in a home that costs less than $8,000/month in mortage payments. Take the subway to work. Drop the personal trainer. Tell your kids to get a loan to go to college.
And stop whining. You're embarrassing yourself.
Thank you.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Oh the Karma
It was 50 and sunny here today in Chicago.
I got up, ran 4 miles with my running group, and generally had a ball.
Except for that part where I was avoiding a puddle, bit it on some ice/snow, and landed in 3 inches of water. And goose poop.
Lovely. Just lovely.
I got up, ran 4 miles with my running group, and generally had a ball.
Except for that part where I was avoiding a puddle, bit it on some ice/snow, and landed in 3 inches of water. And goose poop.
Lovely. Just lovely.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
There's Something Wrong With You
Lately, when my mother has a whiff that I've gone round the bend, she takes a breath and half laughs "well, there's something wrong with you", like she's not feeling the exact same way.
We shared a moment earlier this week when we both admitted to a frightening case of "get me the hell out of here". Mine, due to the fact that I've been living in temperatures normally reserved for Arctic expeditions; hers, due to the fact that she lives in Cincinnati, and they've been under a blanket of ice for the better part of 4 days. I don't think they're comparable, but to be fair, there are no hills here, so I can't really say.
Luckily, mom is gainfully employed, so she's heading off on vacation soon. I can already smell the surf for her.
I find myself, on the other hand, contemplating whether it's better to jump on a plane to Florida or continue to sit in the cold, dark wintry mix that is 60660.
After much thought, I've decided that, while I love my father, and should probably go visit, I'm staying home. The daily job forecasts are depressing and make me want to scream, but I'm beginning to think that massive assualts on recruiter inboxes are the only way to come out of this successful.
Plus, there's the slim chance that my application to be on Oprah goes through, and well, I just can't miss that call.
I know, there's something wrong with me. Get in line.
We shared a moment earlier this week when we both admitted to a frightening case of "get me the hell out of here". Mine, due to the fact that I've been living in temperatures normally reserved for Arctic expeditions; hers, due to the fact that she lives in Cincinnati, and they've been under a blanket of ice for the better part of 4 days. I don't think they're comparable, but to be fair, there are no hills here, so I can't really say.
Luckily, mom is gainfully employed, so she's heading off on vacation soon. I can already smell the surf for her.
I find myself, on the other hand, contemplating whether it's better to jump on a plane to Florida or continue to sit in the cold, dark wintry mix that is 60660.
After much thought, I've decided that, while I love my father, and should probably go visit, I'm staying home. The daily job forecasts are depressing and make me want to scream, but I'm beginning to think that massive assualts on recruiter inboxes are the only way to come out of this successful.
Plus, there's the slim chance that my application to be on Oprah goes through, and well, I just can't miss that call.
I know, there's something wrong with me. Get in line.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Big Plans. Huge. Massive.
I love making plans. Plans are kind of like the stars for me - they look amazing from far away, I can spend hours gazing at them, and yet, while I appreciate them very much, I don't really have to DO anything about them.
Unless I get into a star-corralling mode, and then all bets are off.
These days, I find myself in just such a mode, as my ass has recently expanded to galactic-like proportions. I saw my GP this week, and while she is lovely, kind, and really glad my numbers are all good (impossible, I know, but true), she basically told me to stick to the spring/summer workout plan I had devised, and all would be better come fall.
So, to help, I've put together a summer race calendar that looks like a Midwest Tour of Champions.
In June, I will head to DC to see my old friend Kim from law school. I know, most of you don't hear me talk about law school friends often - and that's because there are few I keep in touch with. Kim is an exception. As she said the other day on Facebook, she's probably the only lawyer in DC who can rope a steer, operate a combine, and file a brief (or something like that). She bakes cookies like I do, and we're doing the Lawyers Have Heart 10k as a goal for both of us. I'm excited - both for the chance to see DC, as much as to hang with Kim for a few days. Plus, I haven't trained for a 10k in years, and it sounds SO much better than a 1/2 marathon!
In early July, I will head to Minneapolis for the Lifetime Fitness Triathlon. I'm going with my friend Val, and we'll be visiting her brother, and my friends Jen and Sarah, and their two lovely kids. A couple of years ago, Jen, Sarah, and Jen's sister Becky and me did the race. I remember two things: first, there were some gear changing issues when we left transition (um, I think actually I had to teach another unnamed participant how to use her gears :)); and second, it was a really, really pretty course. I'm looking forward to getting Val on the Tri bandwagon, and to doing this course like I mean it.
In late July, it's party time, as I head to Cincinnati to compete in the Cincy Tri with my family. We are a growing group - but at least five of us are committing to doing the race, either solo or as part of a relay team. At the end, we're hoping to be down some pounds, up some fitness, and holding many, many beers. To motivate us further, I'm considering what we should put on our shirts. "Stiens for Steins" might work, but we now include many other surnames. What about "Where's the Beer?" Or perhaps "IF I JUST PASSED YOU, WOOOO HOOOOOO!"
Finally, there's a late August race (either the Chicago Olympic or the Pleasant Prairie Olympic) which will be the highlight of my season. In 2003, I trained myself into the ground for the Olympic Triathlon. It was hard, and I loved every minute of it. I cannot WAIT to do this race, and to be fit enough to do it well.
So that's the goal. Finish these races, have a fun summer...oh, and be fully employed while I'm doing it!
With the cast of characters I've got coming along, I'm pretty sure I don't have a choice about being ready. I love it when a plan comes together!
Unless I get into a star-corralling mode, and then all bets are off.
These days, I find myself in just such a mode, as my ass has recently expanded to galactic-like proportions. I saw my GP this week, and while she is lovely, kind, and really glad my numbers are all good (impossible, I know, but true), she basically told me to stick to the spring/summer workout plan I had devised, and all would be better come fall.
So, to help, I've put together a summer race calendar that looks like a Midwest Tour of Champions.
In June, I will head to DC to see my old friend Kim from law school. I know, most of you don't hear me talk about law school friends often - and that's because there are few I keep in touch with. Kim is an exception. As she said the other day on Facebook, she's probably the only lawyer in DC who can rope a steer, operate a combine, and file a brief (or something like that). She bakes cookies like I do, and we're doing the Lawyers Have Heart 10k as a goal for both of us. I'm excited - both for the chance to see DC, as much as to hang with Kim for a few days. Plus, I haven't trained for a 10k in years, and it sounds SO much better than a 1/2 marathon!
In early July, I will head to Minneapolis for the Lifetime Fitness Triathlon. I'm going with my friend Val, and we'll be visiting her brother, and my friends Jen and Sarah, and their two lovely kids. A couple of years ago, Jen, Sarah, and Jen's sister Becky and me did the race. I remember two things: first, there were some gear changing issues when we left transition (um, I think actually I had to teach another unnamed participant how to use her gears :)); and second, it was a really, really pretty course. I'm looking forward to getting Val on the Tri bandwagon, and to doing this course like I mean it.
In late July, it's party time, as I head to Cincinnati to compete in the Cincy Tri with my family. We are a growing group - but at least five of us are committing to doing the race, either solo or as part of a relay team. At the end, we're hoping to be down some pounds, up some fitness, and holding many, many beers. To motivate us further, I'm considering what we should put on our shirts. "Stiens for Steins" might work, but we now include many other surnames. What about "Where's the Beer?" Or perhaps "IF I JUST PASSED YOU, WOOOO HOOOOOO!"
Finally, there's a late August race (either the Chicago Olympic or the Pleasant Prairie Olympic) which will be the highlight of my season. In 2003, I trained myself into the ground for the Olympic Triathlon. It was hard, and I loved every minute of it. I cannot WAIT to do this race, and to be fit enough to do it well.
So that's the goal. Finish these races, have a fun summer...oh, and be fully employed while I'm doing it!
With the cast of characters I've got coming along, I'm pretty sure I don't have a choice about being ready. I love it when a plan comes together!
Monday, February 2, 2009
I Stopped Traffic. Sort Of.
My mom told me that Ruby originally hailed from the hills of Tennessee. When we traced back my family tree at some point, I don't think I got very far. But I knew one thing about my grandmother: her phrases, her sayings, and some of that sass made it to my mom, and my aunt, and most definitely to my cousin, sister, and me.
I know, for instance, that I really should never leave the house without makeup. My mom never did. I mean, you were bound to run into someone at the grocery store, and there is NO way that she ever looks less than put together.
So today, when I was getting ready to go get my annual physical, I slathered on the Bare Minerals foundation (and seriously, those people make money because it ALL LANDS IN MY SINK and not on the brush...but anyway). I did something scary with bobbypins and my hair, and threw on my big Jackie O sunglasses for the trip downtown.
And, I'll admit, I felt pretty good. I had lipstick on (for the first time in at least two weeks). I looked kinda cute - and you could even see cheekbones on my face. So when I walked up to the platform at Sedgwick and the train slowed into the station, I smiled back at the cute conductor and hopped on the train.
Four stops later, I hopped off, and walked towards the exit. I felt the train start to pull out, and I slapped on my sunglasses, smiling at the fact that I needed them. And then, I hear the train slow, and a voice beside me. I look, and the conductor has pulled down the little window.
"If you don't mind my saying so, you are looking fabulous (or was it fantastic?) today," he says, smiling at me.
I bust open a big, toothy, seriously fine grin for this nice man, who clearly means what he says.
"Well, thank you!" I say, grinning back at him, extending my hand. We do a sort of shake/slap thing, and I immediately wish I was cooler at accepting complements from random conductors. "You know, I needed that today," I say, thinking damn, that feels good!
He smiles back. And I figure I'm now lacking in the complement department, so I say "You're looking pretty good yourself", and I smile, and start to walk away.
"Thank you" he says, and we both sort of grin. Well, I gotta go, and he has a train to drive, and I'm sure there are people in that car going all "why is that fool conductor flirting with the fat girl in the wide leg jeans?"...
"You have a good day now" he says to me, and I respond in kind, smiling as I walk away. But wait, there's more!
The train's moving again, but he's re-opened the window, and as he pulls away, he says "You know, I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it!" and now I'm really laughing - the guy may be a player, but I don't care.
And all because I put on a little makeup, smiled back at someone, and, possibly, looked quite fine. Who knew jeans and some MAC lipglass could go so far? Maybe Ruby, and mom, knew something about looking good to feel good. Or maybe it was an unexpected jolt of Vitamin D from the sun. Either way, I'm still grinning.
I know, for instance, that I really should never leave the house without makeup. My mom never did. I mean, you were bound to run into someone at the grocery store, and there is NO way that she ever looks less than put together.
So today, when I was getting ready to go get my annual physical, I slathered on the Bare Minerals foundation (and seriously, those people make money because it ALL LANDS IN MY SINK and not on the brush...but anyway). I did something scary with bobbypins and my hair, and threw on my big Jackie O sunglasses for the trip downtown.
And, I'll admit, I felt pretty good. I had lipstick on (for the first time in at least two weeks). I looked kinda cute - and you could even see cheekbones on my face. So when I walked up to the platform at Sedgwick and the train slowed into the station, I smiled back at the cute conductor and hopped on the train.
Four stops later, I hopped off, and walked towards the exit. I felt the train start to pull out, and I slapped on my sunglasses, smiling at the fact that I needed them. And then, I hear the train slow, and a voice beside me. I look, and the conductor has pulled down the little window.
"If you don't mind my saying so, you are looking fabulous (or was it fantastic?) today," he says, smiling at me.
I bust open a big, toothy, seriously fine grin for this nice man, who clearly means what he says.
"Well, thank you!" I say, grinning back at him, extending my hand. We do a sort of shake/slap thing, and I immediately wish I was cooler at accepting complements from random conductors. "You know, I needed that today," I say, thinking damn, that feels good!
He smiles back. And I figure I'm now lacking in the complement department, so I say "You're looking pretty good yourself", and I smile, and start to walk away.
"Thank you" he says, and we both sort of grin. Well, I gotta go, and he has a train to drive, and I'm sure there are people in that car going all "why is that fool conductor flirting with the fat girl in the wide leg jeans?"...
"You have a good day now" he says to me, and I respond in kind, smiling as I walk away. But wait, there's more!
The train's moving again, but he's re-opened the window, and as he pulls away, he says "You know, I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it!" and now I'm really laughing - the guy may be a player, but I don't care.
And all because I put on a little makeup, smiled back at someone, and, possibly, looked quite fine. Who knew jeans and some MAC lipglass could go so far? Maybe Ruby, and mom, knew something about looking good to feel good. Or maybe it was an unexpected jolt of Vitamin D from the sun. Either way, I'm still grinning.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Delusions of Grandeur
Just a quick note from Chicago, where, today, it seems that delusions of grandeur are the story.
I listened to the Guv's impassioned speech before the Illinois Senate this morning (before they voted unanimously to impeach him.) He made some good points, I'll admit. First, the House was quite stupid to include in the Articles of Incorporation acts which occurred before this term. The Guv was right, that the people knew he had done these things; and we elected him anyway. The Senate, technically, shouldn't have the right to pretend that these issues are anything new.
However, when The Guv stands in the Senate and says "look, we've all got dirty hands" and "I was just trying to get medicine to sick kiddies" I think he understates, perhaps, what he was doing to make money for himself at the same time.
I'm glad he's been impeached. I'm glad we have a Governor who can govern. But I can't help but wonder if there were many, many mental health professionals watching today's show and thinking "dude, this guy compares himself to Ghandi and Martin Luther King, bring on the meds!"
On an a related note, it appears that our state's problem with Hype has made its way to Craigslist, where I found this picture posted earlier today:
I was LOOKING for a sofa table, for less than $10.00. (For my entry hallway). This came up, described as "Contemporary Sofa Table, Cream, Modern".
Is it just me, or is this an ironing board on a solid foundation?
As I said, Delusions of Grandeur.
I listened to the Guv's impassioned speech before the Illinois Senate this morning (before they voted unanimously to impeach him.) He made some good points, I'll admit. First, the House was quite stupid to include in the Articles of Incorporation acts which occurred before this term. The Guv was right, that the people knew he had done these things; and we elected him anyway. The Senate, technically, shouldn't have the right to pretend that these issues are anything new.
However, when The Guv stands in the Senate and says "look, we've all got dirty hands" and "I was just trying to get medicine to sick kiddies" I think he understates, perhaps, what he was doing to make money for himself at the same time.
I'm glad he's been impeached. I'm glad we have a Governor who can govern. But I can't help but wonder if there were many, many mental health professionals watching today's show and thinking "dude, this guy compares himself to Ghandi and Martin Luther King, bring on the meds!"
On an a related note, it appears that our state's problem with Hype has made its way to Craigslist, where I found this picture posted earlier today:
I was LOOKING for a sofa table, for less than $10.00. (For my entry hallway). This came up, described as "Contemporary Sofa Table, Cream, Modern".
Is it just me, or is this an ironing board on a solid foundation?
As I said, Delusions of Grandeur.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
