After reading this article on Buzzfeed this morning, I couldn't help but giggle. Not only is it totally true on so many levels, but it made me feel slightly less nutty that my sisters and I aren't the only ones out there. The best part is that I am lucky to have two best friends to do the dance from Robin Hood: Men in Tights at 3am on Christmas day when we've had too much wine while playing Sweet Valley High. Many people that get close to me are intrigued by my odd stories about my mom, my hideous dog that I grew up with and my Grampy that has a colorful way of describing weather patterns. Pile all that on with the mind blowing fact that there are two more of me floating around in the US. Gasp! We're all J's, even our nicknames - James and Jose. The three of us are completely different in so many ways; physically, our interests, taste in music/men/food, ambition, but have the most important thing in common: our high standards, Midwestern family values and a ridiculous laugh that could only come from our mother.
The best part about the Buzzfeed post was that all of the reasons are 100% spot-on (as always, way to go Buzzfeed), but that they're the same whether I'm thinking of my sisters when I was 4 years old playing with my Briar Horses or right now, as a 24 year old on my iPad, thinking about what type of whiskey I'll be consuming during the Burlesque show at Untitled tonight. I love and welcome change, but my relationship with both sisters is something that I don't think could be any more perfect.
It's rare to find someone that truly knows every dark secret about you, has lived with your high maintenance and borderline OCD ticks, and still loves you unconditionally. I think of the bitchy things I've said to the middle sister or the times that I said I would do something for my older sister and couldn't be happier that they're stuck with me and have to forgive me eventually. Too many hard lessons that I've had to learn has been at the expense of one of my siblings or they were going down the same road with me and we all pushed each other on.
I take full advantage of being baby of the family and if anyone takes the time to get to know me, it's clear that I'm the youngest child. Because I'm the youngest by eight years from James and four and a half from Jose, I have had the pleasure of compiling life advice at the expense of their mistakes:
- Always take your papers to school when mom tells you to. If not, she will show up to your middle school in her faded red, holey sweatpants, ratty slippers and bedhead to turn in your paper to the teach in front of your whole class. (Jose)
- Be as involved in as many extracirricular activities as you can ; academics, track/cross country, dorky zoo school, volunteer work and spilling Dairy Queen ice cream on your shirt and pretending it's a job. The more you're wrapped up in, the less mom harasses you. (James)
- A genuine, sincere apology goes a long way with mom. (Jose)
- Don't piss off mom so you don't have to offer perfectly thought-out apologies on the regular. (James)
- Being smart is cool, sexy and leads to meeting true friends. (James)
- But being a party animal, dressing sexy, and never wearing a bra leads to a lot of friends and even hotter guys. (Jose)
-Later realizing that those "cool" friends suck and the guys aren't hot after high school. They're just fat and have crappy jobs. (Jose)
- Pseudo-stalking your high school crush will lead to 10 years of a solid marriage, two amazing children and a lot of happiness. Still waiting for this to happen, by the way, James.
- How to mix the perfect drinks, throw a badass party in mom's basement, highlight my green eyes with the right eyeliner, shave my legs, walk in heels, show just the right amount of the little cleavage I do have, and, most importantly, have fun. Jose taught me every detail of being a girly-girl. I would say that I've surpassed the master in this area.
- You don't always need to be the prettiest, happiest, and most-outgoing. James unknowingly made me realize that the most stunning accessory is confidence and without it, you probably won't be the gorgeous girl laughing in a group of people. You'll be the depressed weirdo that no one wants to be around.
The best part has been that I grew up with the opportunity to see what I love the most about them and morph it into one. I'll never be as intelligent, motherly or athletic as James. She's so crafty and was that way long before Pinterest was a thing. Thanks to her, I took school very seriously and am very proud of my degrees, and will never apologize for being an educated woman. I take a lot of pride in seeing my nephews become little men and applaud her for her patience with them. To top it off, all of my crafts look like they belong on the Island of Misfit Toys. On the flip side, I don't think I will ever have the deep-seeded charisma that Jose has. She has the most amazing way of making any random person feel like they are the only one in the world, it's a gift that doesn't come easily. Even better, though, is that she has an innocent way of only seeing the positive in people. Oh, and she's a self-taught chef. One of those people that can look in a pantry and magically concoct a 5-Star quality meal out of the random shit without thinking twice. I still read the directions on my canned soup just to be sure I don't mess anything up. It's bad.
None of us live in the same state but, even without seeing each other for months or a year, I'll never be closer to anyone but these two. Part of that may be because they have too much dirt on me.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Monday, December 30, 2013
It's not me.... it's you.
Everyone's heard it the words and I'm 100% sure that no one believes them. "It's not you, it's me," screams bullshit to even the most naive recipient. What's the most irritating part of that? The self-righteousness of the whole concept, the disrespect of being blatantly lied to, and the fact that you aren't even worth the time for some original material is all insulting. As if ending a relationship isn't bad enough, let's add some cliches in there for good measure!
I overheard (or was I eavesdropping on random people at Starbucks because I still have yet to meet more than a handful of people worthy of being friends? tomato, tamatoh) a bro-ish looking college student saying this to a gorgeous and unsuspecting sorority girl the other afternoon. I gritted my teeth and raised the volume on my Ellie Goulding in the anticipation of tears or a dramatic gesture of some sort but was pleasantly surprised. She blankly looked in his face and basically thanked him for the honesty (in pure sarcasm, is she my little sister?), wished him good luck in the search for a woman that will tolerate his bad habits (I wish she elaborated, I was very intrigued by this), and said that she would appreciate it if he spared her from the rumor mill, as he's the one with the small penis. I don't know this girl but I was proud of her! I was compelled, but resisted, to buy her a beer, give her a hug, and smack her ass as she walked onto Michigan Avenue and exclaim, "go get 'em!!"
In one hell of a roundabout way, the stupidity of his poor selection of words to break up got me thinking. Oh no. "It's not you, it's me," has never been something I could comprehend. An ex-boyfriend of mine would often say something similar when we were in those arguments that dance along the edge of breaking up. If I was the reason I'm breaking up with someone I cared for I would, a) figure my shit out and find out why I suck and, b) let the fully-functioning adult that I'm dating make the decision if they can put up with my crap. Is it my bitching that you work too much that thus makes you unhappy because you do, in fact, spend too much time at the office? Then it's not you, it's my nagging. Come on. Why can't anyone be blunt, doesn't the person you've dated for x-amount of time (2 years?) deserve some constructive criticism or at least honesty as they swiftly get pushed out of your life? Yes. In a perfect world, every relationship of mine would conclude with an exit interview so I can learn from the infinite mistakes I make, spend some time on my neuroses and always do that one thing in bed that got you every time. This is probably yet another reason I'm single but, hey, I'm a nerd. So what if I like to analyze data and make myself better for it? :)
I'm only 24 so of course some of my views on relationships are immature, perhaps a little strange and most definitely the reason I struggle to find someone with similar values. Unless there are very upsetting circumstances, I don't understand why break ups are usually so toxic. Say you spend two years with this person that you're ending things with, one would assume that those are some of the best years of your life, right? You and whoever probably know each other well enough to know when they're lying through their teeth, no? Then why lie about the break up? Lying is too much work. I'd rather hear, "Lady, your quirks, psychotic family, and weird tribe of gay men are way too much for me to handle. Good luck, smell ya later gorgeous," than something pulled out of air. It's the need for closure, people, and it's important for post-breakup sanity. Just going on a date that you thought was incredible only to never hear from the guy again is a bummer but have you ever been dumped abruptly when you think things are going well? It's rough!
How will I avoid my next and inevitable, "It's not you, it's me," talk? I don't know. What I do know is that the darling 19 year old Starbucks girl reminded me of the feisty side of me that I sometimes lose when I'm hurt by someone I care for and put a lot of work into being around. I like the fireball (not the whiskey, that's trouble!) that doesn't take any shit and she will certainly be around as I try and fail to navigate the Chicago dating scene.
I overheard (or was I eavesdropping on random people at Starbucks because I still have yet to meet more than a handful of people worthy of being friends? tomato, tamatoh) a bro-ish looking college student saying this to a gorgeous and unsuspecting sorority girl the other afternoon. I gritted my teeth and raised the volume on my Ellie Goulding in the anticipation of tears or a dramatic gesture of some sort but was pleasantly surprised. She blankly looked in his face and basically thanked him for the honesty (in pure sarcasm, is she my little sister?), wished him good luck in the search for a woman that will tolerate his bad habits (I wish she elaborated, I was very intrigued by this), and said that she would appreciate it if he spared her from the rumor mill, as he's the one with the small penis. I don't know this girl but I was proud of her! I was compelled, but resisted, to buy her a beer, give her a hug, and smack her ass as she walked onto Michigan Avenue and exclaim, "go get 'em!!"
In one hell of a roundabout way, the stupidity of his poor selection of words to break up got me thinking. Oh no. "It's not you, it's me," has never been something I could comprehend. An ex-boyfriend of mine would often say something similar when we were in those arguments that dance along the edge of breaking up. If I was the reason I'm breaking up with someone I cared for I would, a) figure my shit out and find out why I suck and, b) let the fully-functioning adult that I'm dating make the decision if they can put up with my crap. Is it my bitching that you work too much that thus makes you unhappy because you do, in fact, spend too much time at the office? Then it's not you, it's my nagging. Come on. Why can't anyone be blunt, doesn't the person you've dated for x-amount of time (2 years?) deserve some constructive criticism or at least honesty as they swiftly get pushed out of your life? Yes. In a perfect world, every relationship of mine would conclude with an exit interview so I can learn from the infinite mistakes I make, spend some time on my neuroses and always do that one thing in bed that got you every time. This is probably yet another reason I'm single but, hey, I'm a nerd. So what if I like to analyze data and make myself better for it? :)
I'm only 24 so of course some of my views on relationships are immature, perhaps a little strange and most definitely the reason I struggle to find someone with similar values. Unless there are very upsetting circumstances, I don't understand why break ups are usually so toxic. Say you spend two years with this person that you're ending things with, one would assume that those are some of the best years of your life, right? You and whoever probably know each other well enough to know when they're lying through their teeth, no? Then why lie about the break up? Lying is too much work. I'd rather hear, "Lady, your quirks, psychotic family, and weird tribe of gay men are way too much for me to handle. Good luck, smell ya later gorgeous," than something pulled out of air. It's the need for closure, people, and it's important for post-breakup sanity. Just going on a date that you thought was incredible only to never hear from the guy again is a bummer but have you ever been dumped abruptly when you think things are going well? It's rough!
How will I avoid my next and inevitable, "It's not you, it's me," talk? I don't know. What I do know is that the darling 19 year old Starbucks girl reminded me of the feisty side of me that I sometimes lose when I'm hurt by someone I care for and put a lot of work into being around. I like the fireball (not the whiskey, that's trouble!) that doesn't take any shit and she will certainly be around as I try and fail to navigate the Chicago dating scene.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Beauty in the Breakdown
Last month, I referenced my mini mental breakdown on the Brownline. This was probably slightly over-dramatic, but it happens to the best of us. My Brownline Breakdown was the combination of two months of overwhelming emotions all hitting me at once; stress, excitement and sadness prior to moving and the anticipation, limited finances and change in routine once arriving in Chicago. I hope that it's safe to say that many people in my position would have a spontaneous, inconvenient and awkward freak out if found in a similar situation. Conversations with many that have actually experienced this life changing move has confirmed that thought.
Anyway, as I was yelling at the disgusting man that threw his gas station food into my shopping bag from a designer on Michigan Avenue, I felt the crazies coming my way. May I point out that this was the final straw in one of the most frustrating days I had experienced in quite a while. This was the cherry on top of a day spent looking at apartments that don't meet the detailed qualifications that I had emailed the woman assisting me. Tiles falling off of the kitchen ceiling and a huge crack in the window - seriously - in the first building I looked at made me realize that this was going to be a very painful process. After half-screaming, half-crying at the foolish woman that chose to ignore my requests because she apparently knows me better than I do, I opted not to see the next six crackhouses she was planning to take me to.
Why was I on the Brownline instead of the usual Redline, you ask? Let me explain. Most of my friends know that I have a love/hate relationship with technology that mostly consists of hate. I have an appreciation for it and especially those that work in the area. However, I don't like learning to use a new phone, having to download new apps or anything else. I have about five apps on my personal iPhone that weren't already installed. Also, I hate checking the apps that I do have. Sometimes days will go by before I check Facebook or Instagram, or even my voicemail. I've had the same iPhone for over two years simply because I don't want to adjust to a new phone. I am pathetic. So, I was on the Brownline because my network provider (cough, AT&T cough), is trying to kill me. Too dramatic? I don't care. I am new in the city, more so when this occurred, and kept getting lost. It was so frustrating because it would be in areas that I was semifamilar with but Siri, that stupid bitch, would tell me to "head west on Franklin Avenue," and make me doubt myself. After about five "are you sure, Siri?" moments, I found myself in unfamiliar territory. I was exhausted from carrying around the giant shopping bags, wearing cute heels because I thought it was just going to be a quick trip to have lunch with my sister and get my clothes for work, and I'd be back home. According to my Jawbone UP, I had already walked about 8 miles at this point. I ran into a CTA train stop and got on the first train heading somewhat north.
It was on this train that all of my insecurities that I had no idea what the hell I was doing, the fear of starting the new job for which I was carrying around a terribly heavy bag of beautiful clothing, and the overwhelming notion that apartment hunting was going to be a lose-lose situation, all hit me the minute the pork-rinds wrapper touched my black trench coat. I straightened up my posture, cleared the tears that were clouding my eyes and raised my voice at the dipshit that was wiping his hands on the outside of my shopping bag. "What in the fuck do you think you are doing? Get your shit out of my bag and get the hell away from me," I stared him down as I yelled. He literally jumped with surprise and started to stammer. As he slowly began to walk away, I pointed out that he tried to, "fuck with the wrong white bitch today," and he and his partner in crime nodded in agreement.I got two high fives when I got off the train two stops later.
I'm always going to have the crazies come over me at strange and unexpected moments and will probably find unusual outlets for my current stressor(s). What I have learned, is that usually there's a reason for my breakdown and a strange beauty in it. That afternoon I started out as a wandering deer-in-headlights girl that felt lost and alone in the city, to the Chicagoan that can stand up for herself, put on her big girl panties get things done. I felt far more confident, told Siri to shut it, and knew that I could figure things out one way or another. Was cussing out a disgusting man on the train or scream-crying to an apartment broker the most appropriate way to find this out? Meh, probably not. Maybe one day I will better control my frustrations but for now, it is a learning experience for all three of us.
Anyway, as I was yelling at the disgusting man that threw his gas station food into my shopping bag from a designer on Michigan Avenue, I felt the crazies coming my way. May I point out that this was the final straw in one of the most frustrating days I had experienced in quite a while. This was the cherry on top of a day spent looking at apartments that don't meet the detailed qualifications that I had emailed the woman assisting me. Tiles falling off of the kitchen ceiling and a huge crack in the window - seriously - in the first building I looked at made me realize that this was going to be a very painful process. After half-screaming, half-crying at the foolish woman that chose to ignore my requests because she apparently knows me better than I do, I opted not to see the next six crackhouses she was planning to take me to.
Why was I on the Brownline instead of the usual Redline, you ask? Let me explain. Most of my friends know that I have a love/hate relationship with technology that mostly consists of hate. I have an appreciation for it and especially those that work in the area. However, I don't like learning to use a new phone, having to download new apps or anything else. I have about five apps on my personal iPhone that weren't already installed. Also, I hate checking the apps that I do have. Sometimes days will go by before I check Facebook or Instagram, or even my voicemail. I've had the same iPhone for over two years simply because I don't want to adjust to a new phone. I am pathetic. So, I was on the Brownline because my network provider (cough, AT&T cough), is trying to kill me. Too dramatic? I don't care. I am new in the city, more so when this occurred, and kept getting lost. It was so frustrating because it would be in areas that I was semifamilar with but Siri, that stupid bitch, would tell me to "head west on Franklin Avenue," and make me doubt myself. After about five "are you sure, Siri?" moments, I found myself in unfamiliar territory. I was exhausted from carrying around the giant shopping bags, wearing cute heels because I thought it was just going to be a quick trip to have lunch with my sister and get my clothes for work, and I'd be back home. According to my Jawbone UP, I had already walked about 8 miles at this point. I ran into a CTA train stop and got on the first train heading somewhat north.
It was on this train that all of my insecurities that I had no idea what the hell I was doing, the fear of starting the new job for which I was carrying around a terribly heavy bag of beautiful clothing, and the overwhelming notion that apartment hunting was going to be a lose-lose situation, all hit me the minute the pork-rinds wrapper touched my black trench coat. I straightened up my posture, cleared the tears that were clouding my eyes and raised my voice at the dipshit that was wiping his hands on the outside of my shopping bag. "What in the fuck do you think you are doing? Get your shit out of my bag and get the hell away from me," I stared him down as I yelled. He literally jumped with surprise and started to stammer. As he slowly began to walk away, I pointed out that he tried to, "fuck with the wrong white bitch today," and he and his partner in crime nodded in agreement.I got two high fives when I got off the train two stops later.
I'm always going to have the crazies come over me at strange and unexpected moments and will probably find unusual outlets for my current stressor(s). What I have learned, is that usually there's a reason for my breakdown and a strange beauty in it. That afternoon I started out as a wandering deer-in-headlights girl that felt lost and alone in the city, to the Chicagoan that can stand up for herself, put on her big girl panties get things done. I felt far more confident, told Siri to shut it, and knew that I could figure things out one way or another. Was cussing out a disgusting man on the train or scream-crying to an apartment broker the most appropriate way to find this out? Meh, probably not. Maybe one day I will better control my frustrations but for now, it is a learning experience for all three of us.
My Crazy Peggy
It's been about a month since my last update. In case you were unaware (which isn't possible if you've read any other post here), I just moved to Chicago, started my new job and am getting settled in my own apartment. A little busy.
I've mentioned my mom in almost every post since I've started this blog. A majority of my posts include two very accurate comments about her: she is totally nuts and even more amazing. I wouldn't be who I am if it weren't for how she's raised me, everything she's given up for me and all of the support she has offered. Honestly, a post about my mom could very quickly turn into an entire book or 8 part series. In order to avoid that, I guess this is basically an overview of the most important to me: momma T.
My mom is the craziest woman I know. Depending on which sides of her you've seen, you could interpret this in many ways. She's crazy because her drunk alter-ego, Peggy, loves to dance in the crosswalk downtown to Gangnam Style. Also, she's crazy because she's the mother of three even goofier girls. Mainly, she's crazy because she's selfless. Another crazy thing about her, is that she's not nearly as crazy as she should be. Let me start from the top.
I have far too many examples of Peggy's finest moments, but the origin is the best place to start. Peggy evolved during football season 2012. My BFF and I were tailgating with my mom and her friend, Limber Kimber. As she's taking her third or fourth Jell-O shot in the newspaper parking lot, my best friend says, "Peggy is so funny. She's loving the shots!" Wait, what now? Turns out, for the past few weekends that we've spent binge-drinking at tailgates, he (incorrectly) thought my mom's name was Peggy. We died laughing as we headed toward our favorite spot that's typically reserved for US Soccer and black outs. Peggy determined that she would go forward with that name as her official "bar name." After this decision, she kicked off her new heeled boots, threw her purse on the ground and giggled that her "puss and boots" were on the floor as she skipped over to the door guy. God help us all.
Perhaps it's because I don't have children of my own, but I feel like my mom must be insane because she raised three girls. No other reason, just that I can't imagine parenting anything, let alone the daunting task of three beautiful, intelligent women. My Tamagotchi pets would always die because I forgot to feed them or pick up their nano-poop. She continues to parent us as the eldest has become a mother, the middle continued to make dumbass decisions into her late twenties, and I still find myself in crisis after crisis. Those that believe parenting stops when the kids move out are the most foolish people I know and should reconsider the decision to reproduce. She still offers daughter #1 parenting advice (have a margarita before putting L to bed when he's sick), though sometimes the validity is questionable. Peggy talks to #2 after each stressful day at work to say that things are heading in the right direction and remind her that she's come so far. And, just today, bailed me out with some cash because Ventra hijacked my bank account again and I don't have anything in my cupboards except tea and a jar of almond butter that I recently used as a hammer. This doesn't include consoling me IN HER SLEEP on Sunday night when I finally realized I'm all alone in the city. After 32 years of parenting, my mom continues to be number one for each of us girls. Did I mention that she did a lot of this on her own? Saint.
Obviously she's selfless as a mommy of three, but it extends so far beyond that. Her motherly calling bleeds into every area of her life and strongly embraces anyone close to our family. After 35 years at the same employer, she is known to all as "Aunt B." She bakes cookies for birthdays, brings treats on holidays, plans at least one party a year, reaches out to coworkers that are going through hardship and remembers everyone's special moments. So many of the men that she works with have sought me out to tell me what an incredible woman she is. Many of these colleagues of hers have become invested in our family, coming to dance recitals, graduation parties, weddings, and any event that Peggy determines worthy of a gathering.
In high school, a group of friends came to my house to celebrate a wrestling team win and have cookies my mom made followed by some shots of Barton's (barf). A boy that I wasn't particularly fond of had gotten into a fight. His lip was bleeding, his eye was bruised, and his hand was sliced to the bone from glass- clearly in need of some immediate medical attention. One of the other boys explained to my mom that the injured guy's parent was abusive. It was this reason that he was refusing to go to the hospital. My mom drove him to the ER, worked her magic, and covered everything so his parent wouldn't find out. She did all of this without hesitation. I had forgotten about this night until about a year ago, when he told me how much it meant to him that she did that. Again, I have countless friends who could easily tell you how my mom has made them feel loved; giving up her day off to take care of them after surgery, gotten out of bed at four in the morning to drive them home because they took too many shots of Rumpleminz, baking and delivering lasagna for a friend that just gave birth, picking them up from the airport because I'm at work, or just a quick phone call to say hi. It's one thing to have a great mom, but even better to share her. Mostly for bragging rights though.
Finally, she's totally not crazy. How does that happen? I can truly count the number of times I've seen her in tears and tell you in extreme detail how it went down because it is so rare to see her in an emotional state. I'll never forget the times that she has yelled at me, partly because she scares the shit out of me but also because it's only happened a few times(sister #2 probably can't say that, she was more naughty!). This lady has had a ton on her plate, oh, and she tries to have a life of her own. Many people in her situation would be locked in a looney-bin or at least involved in some seriously-needed social services. I would know, I worked with that population for years.
Maybe people think I'm a social outcast, freakishly introverted, or suffering from some developmental delays when I immediately blurt that my mom is my best friend. But, as I previously mentioned, we've been through some serious shit together. My mom is the only one that has been literally next to me in each step of my life: walking across the stage when receiving my diplomas; going through the tedious processes of selecting my first car, my puppy, my college, my prom dress, etc.; excitement of new relationships and depression of wrecked ones; years of my autoimmune issues and the very odd side effects I've experienced; and, most recently, visiting my new home in Chicago. I was only ten, but I knew that the minute I lost my other parent, that mom would be twice the parent and the only person that will ever love me unconditionally. She just needs to learn to grill some filet mignon and we'll know that she's a robot.
I've mentioned my mom in almost every post since I've started this blog. A majority of my posts include two very accurate comments about her: she is totally nuts and even more amazing. I wouldn't be who I am if it weren't for how she's raised me, everything she's given up for me and all of the support she has offered. Honestly, a post about my mom could very quickly turn into an entire book or 8 part series. In order to avoid that, I guess this is basically an overview of the most important to me: momma T.
My mom is the craziest woman I know. Depending on which sides of her you've seen, you could interpret this in many ways. She's crazy because her drunk alter-ego, Peggy, loves to dance in the crosswalk downtown to Gangnam Style. Also, she's crazy because she's the mother of three even goofier girls. Mainly, she's crazy because she's selfless. Another crazy thing about her, is that she's not nearly as crazy as she should be. Let me start from the top.
I have far too many examples of Peggy's finest moments, but the origin is the best place to start. Peggy evolved during football season 2012. My BFF and I were tailgating with my mom and her friend, Limber Kimber. As she's taking her third or fourth Jell-O shot in the newspaper parking lot, my best friend says, "Peggy is so funny. She's loving the shots!" Wait, what now? Turns out, for the past few weekends that we've spent binge-drinking at tailgates, he (incorrectly) thought my mom's name was Peggy. We died laughing as we headed toward our favorite spot that's typically reserved for US Soccer and black outs. Peggy determined that she would go forward with that name as her official "bar name." After this decision, she kicked off her new heeled boots, threw her purse on the ground and giggled that her "puss and boots" were on the floor as she skipped over to the door guy. God help us all.
Perhaps it's because I don't have children of my own, but I feel like my mom must be insane because she raised three girls. No other reason, just that I can't imagine parenting anything, let alone the daunting task of three beautiful, intelligent women. My Tamagotchi pets would always die because I forgot to feed them or pick up their nano-poop. She continues to parent us as the eldest has become a mother, the middle continued to make dumbass decisions into her late twenties, and I still find myself in crisis after crisis. Those that believe parenting stops when the kids move out are the most foolish people I know and should reconsider the decision to reproduce. She still offers daughter #1 parenting advice (have a margarita before putting L to bed when he's sick), though sometimes the validity is questionable. Peggy talks to #2 after each stressful day at work to say that things are heading in the right direction and remind her that she's come so far. And, just today, bailed me out with some cash because Ventra hijacked my bank account again and I don't have anything in my cupboards except tea and a jar of almond butter that I recently used as a hammer. This doesn't include consoling me IN HER SLEEP on Sunday night when I finally realized I'm all alone in the city. After 32 years of parenting, my mom continues to be number one for each of us girls. Did I mention that she did a lot of this on her own? Saint.
Obviously she's selfless as a mommy of three, but it extends so far beyond that. Her motherly calling bleeds into every area of her life and strongly embraces anyone close to our family. After 35 years at the same employer, she is known to all as "Aunt B." She bakes cookies for birthdays, brings treats on holidays, plans at least one party a year, reaches out to coworkers that are going through hardship and remembers everyone's special moments. So many of the men that she works with have sought me out to tell me what an incredible woman she is. Many of these colleagues of hers have become invested in our family, coming to dance recitals, graduation parties, weddings, and any event that Peggy determines worthy of a gathering.
In high school, a group of friends came to my house to celebrate a wrestling team win and have cookies my mom made followed by some shots of Barton's (barf). A boy that I wasn't particularly fond of had gotten into a fight. His lip was bleeding, his eye was bruised, and his hand was sliced to the bone from glass- clearly in need of some immediate medical attention. One of the other boys explained to my mom that the injured guy's parent was abusive. It was this reason that he was refusing to go to the hospital. My mom drove him to the ER, worked her magic, and covered everything so his parent wouldn't find out. She did all of this without hesitation. I had forgotten about this night until about a year ago, when he told me how much it meant to him that she did that. Again, I have countless friends who could easily tell you how my mom has made them feel loved; giving up her day off to take care of them after surgery, gotten out of bed at four in the morning to drive them home because they took too many shots of Rumpleminz, baking and delivering lasagna for a friend that just gave birth, picking them up from the airport because I'm at work, or just a quick phone call to say hi. It's one thing to have a great mom, but even better to share her. Mostly for bragging rights though.
Finally, she's totally not crazy. How does that happen? I can truly count the number of times I've seen her in tears and tell you in extreme detail how it went down because it is so rare to see her in an emotional state. I'll never forget the times that she has yelled at me, partly because she scares the shit out of me but also because it's only happened a few times(sister #2 probably can't say that, she was more naughty!). This lady has had a ton on her plate, oh, and she tries to have a life of her own. Many people in her situation would be locked in a looney-bin or at least involved in some seriously-needed social services. I would know, I worked with that population for years.
Maybe people think I'm a social outcast, freakishly introverted, or suffering from some developmental delays when I immediately blurt that my mom is my best friend. But, as I previously mentioned, we've been through some serious shit together. My mom is the only one that has been literally next to me in each step of my life: walking across the stage when receiving my diplomas; going through the tedious processes of selecting my first car, my puppy, my college, my prom dress, etc.; excitement of new relationships and depression of wrecked ones; years of my autoimmune issues and the very odd side effects I've experienced; and, most recently, visiting my new home in Chicago. I was only ten, but I knew that the minute I lost my other parent, that mom would be twice the parent and the only person that will ever love me unconditionally. She just needs to learn to grill some filet mignon and we'll know that she's a robot.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Fourteen Years of Good and Bad Advice
Fourteen years ago today was day one of me becoming an emotional odd-ball that matured too quickly. Of course, no one told me that things would unfold this way, so instead I slowly learned through the Mean Girls in school, the guys that I dated, and observations of others with similar experiences. Oh, and the four years earning a degree in Psychology and Sociology was basically so I could understand why I'm so fucked in the head.
Honestly, the thing that bothers me the most is exactly that: no one tells you about this. All I heard when I was a ten year old at my dad's funeral was people saying something along the lines of, "it gets better." Well guess what, IT DOESN'T! Though I was ten, I feel like I deserved some hard-earned respect and some awesome street-cred. I had literally watched my dad die right before my eyes just days before and I really just wish someone would have given me some sincere and genuine advice. Input that would have been ideal to be forewarned about:
-Dating will be hard. You don't have a scary dad to threaten potentials and you will have a very challenging time trusting and dealing with men. Guys you date will hate this about you.-You will know NOTHING about cars, classic music, guns, math or really anything. Meh.-It will take your mom ten years to figure out how to use the grill and reap positive results. You will eventually become a vegetarian, perhaps for this reason.
-You will cry at random things that make zero sense at very inconvenient times. Example: on the four hour flight yesterday, I was reading an autobiography and felt warm tears running down my cheeks while the author described a pine tree. Seriously.
-Father-daughter dances at weddings? I still have yet to determine if it's more awkward to exit the reception during this or to make everyone uncomfortable as I wipe runny mascara from my face with the lovely cream linens on the table. (If anyone has the answer to this, feel free to share!)
-Many of my elementary school peers will remember me as "the girl who watched her dad die." They will drunkenly bring it up at weddings, nights out at local bars or just awkwardly in the grocery store.
-Anytime a friend loses someone close to them, you're their go-to. An expert. Grim Reaper, almost.
-Some people will always give you that sad, pathetic look, no matter how much time passes. And it makes you despise those people or find them more endearing.... depends on the person.
-You will be oddly more mature than the kids in your fifth grade class and other grades to come, making it nearly impossible to have close friends that aren't at least five years older than you.
Essentially, you will never quite "fit in."
Instead of the real talk that I needed, everyone leaned over, looked into my naive, green eyes and embraced me. Their arms rubbed the back of my velvety black sweater that went perfectly with my black and grey pleated skirt. I stood on my tip-toes in my black patent Mary-Jane Hush Puppies to hug the caring friends of my older sisters. I was the youngest and overlooked, just the assumption that I am resilient. They were probably hoping that I wasn't old enough for any long-term damage. Newsflash, that's very inaccurate. However, how many people have that experience? I can't imagine that watching the life drain from your dad's body on your way to fifth grade is a common occurrence so maybe no one knew how screwed I would turn out.
And the best part? I totally embrace it. Who gives a shit if I am an offensive combination of emotionally detached and overly sensitive? I'm plagued with the ever-present "daddy issues," that most men can smell from miles away. It's worse than a tramp stamp-- the minute I mention something about my dad in the past tense, the heart of a skeezeball skips a beat. I enjoy my dark and morbid sense of humor that only someone who rides in a minivan with their dead parent can truly pull off. My family puts the FUN in dysfunctional like it's nobody's business. I have fourteen years of hard-earned emotional problems. So, while the above items would have been nice to be cautioned about, I will continue to share the following with anyone that comes to me following a loss:
-Dead parents club (DPC). You can spot anyone missing a parent within minutes of meeting them. It's a creepy sixth sense. Find these people, some of them have become close friends of mine.
-I've developed an appreciate for unconventional families. Half-siblings? Awesome! Ex-step-parents? Cool! Oh, you have no family? Join mine, my mom bakes great cookies!
-My mom is my best friend. Probably kind of weird because she knows far more about me than any of my friends ever will. My hair might be full of secrets, but my mom has even more...kind of like an external hard drive. It's been like this from the minute the news was shared. I sat in her lap while we were both completely silent and I knew that I'd never be as close with anyone as I was with her in that room.
-Mastering the art of consoling friends, strangers and family is a big accomplishment that I'm proud of. I enjoy being the go-to person as a well-seasoned veteran in the funeral game.
-I've found that I can make it through anything as long as I have my mom and sisters by my side. After hearing that your dad is dead while sitting with mom in a cold hospital room, anything else is a minor setback.
-It's okay to feel however you want to. Are you happy, relieved, angry, terrified or crushed? Honestly, you're going to be all of those things at once, some more than others but it will be hard and it never gets easier. That's okay. They are your feelings and you don't have to apologize. Ever.
-Therapy. It's wonderful when you're ready for it but a terrible idea if you aren't. It could be the same week or ten years later. Having someone to discuss the fact that you hate your dad for being so unhealthy that he abandoned three amazing daughters and the most devoted woman on the planet when you're 22 and lost is completely invaluable. No judgment, no guilt, just facts.
There you have it. This is why I am one of the most crazy women I know...and the other whackjobs are my mom and sisters. I would like to believe that, though I have countless neurotic personality traits, the positive quirks and values I've gained through very hard lessons outweigh them. Even so, I know that there will always be three amazing girls by my side to keep me pushing through.
Rest in Peace, dad.
Honestly, the thing that bothers me the most is exactly that: no one tells you about this. All I heard when I was a ten year old at my dad's funeral was people saying something along the lines of, "it gets better." Well guess what, IT DOESN'T! Though I was ten, I feel like I deserved some hard-earned respect and some awesome street-cred. I had literally watched my dad die right before my eyes just days before and I really just wish someone would have given me some sincere and genuine advice. Input that would have been ideal to be forewarned about:
-Dating will be hard. You don't have a scary dad to threaten potentials and you will have a very challenging time trusting and dealing with men. Guys you date will hate this about you.-You will know NOTHING about cars, classic music, guns, math or really anything. Meh.-It will take your mom ten years to figure out how to use the grill and reap positive results. You will eventually become a vegetarian, perhaps for this reason.
-You will cry at random things that make zero sense at very inconvenient times. Example: on the four hour flight yesterday, I was reading an autobiography and felt warm tears running down my cheeks while the author described a pine tree. Seriously.
-Father-daughter dances at weddings? I still have yet to determine if it's more awkward to exit the reception during this or to make everyone uncomfortable as I wipe runny mascara from my face with the lovely cream linens on the table. (If anyone has the answer to this, feel free to share!)
-Many of my elementary school peers will remember me as "the girl who watched her dad die." They will drunkenly bring it up at weddings, nights out at local bars or just awkwardly in the grocery store.
-Anytime a friend loses someone close to them, you're their go-to. An expert. Grim Reaper, almost.
-Some people will always give you that sad, pathetic look, no matter how much time passes. And it makes you despise those people or find them more endearing.... depends on the person.
-You will be oddly more mature than the kids in your fifth grade class and other grades to come, making it nearly impossible to have close friends that aren't at least five years older than you.
Essentially, you will never quite "fit in."
Instead of the real talk that I needed, everyone leaned over, looked into my naive, green eyes and embraced me. Their arms rubbed the back of my velvety black sweater that went perfectly with my black and grey pleated skirt. I stood on my tip-toes in my black patent Mary-Jane Hush Puppies to hug the caring friends of my older sisters. I was the youngest and overlooked, just the assumption that I am resilient. They were probably hoping that I wasn't old enough for any long-term damage. Newsflash, that's very inaccurate. However, how many people have that experience? I can't imagine that watching the life drain from your dad's body on your way to fifth grade is a common occurrence so maybe no one knew how screwed I would turn out.
And the best part? I totally embrace it. Who gives a shit if I am an offensive combination of emotionally detached and overly sensitive? I'm plagued with the ever-present "daddy issues," that most men can smell from miles away. It's worse than a tramp stamp-- the minute I mention something about my dad in the past tense, the heart of a skeezeball skips a beat. I enjoy my dark and morbid sense of humor that only someone who rides in a minivan with their dead parent can truly pull off. My family puts the FUN in dysfunctional like it's nobody's business. I have fourteen years of hard-earned emotional problems. So, while the above items would have been nice to be cautioned about, I will continue to share the following with anyone that comes to me following a loss:
-Dead parents club (DPC). You can spot anyone missing a parent within minutes of meeting them. It's a creepy sixth sense. Find these people, some of them have become close friends of mine.
-I've developed an appreciate for unconventional families. Half-siblings? Awesome! Ex-step-parents? Cool! Oh, you have no family? Join mine, my mom bakes great cookies!
-My mom is my best friend. Probably kind of weird because she knows far more about me than any of my friends ever will. My hair might be full of secrets, but my mom has even more...kind of like an external hard drive. It's been like this from the minute the news was shared. I sat in her lap while we were both completely silent and I knew that I'd never be as close with anyone as I was with her in that room.
-Mastering the art of consoling friends, strangers and family is a big accomplishment that I'm proud of. I enjoy being the go-to person as a well-seasoned veteran in the funeral game.
-I've found that I can make it through anything as long as I have my mom and sisters by my side. After hearing that your dad is dead while sitting with mom in a cold hospital room, anything else is a minor setback.
-It's okay to feel however you want to. Are you happy, relieved, angry, terrified or crushed? Honestly, you're going to be all of those things at once, some more than others but it will be hard and it never gets easier. That's okay. They are your feelings and you don't have to apologize. Ever.
-Therapy. It's wonderful when you're ready for it but a terrible idea if you aren't. It could be the same week or ten years later. Having someone to discuss the fact that you hate your dad for being so unhealthy that he abandoned three amazing daughters and the most devoted woman on the planet when you're 22 and lost is completely invaluable. No judgment, no guilt, just facts.
There you have it. This is why I am one of the most crazy women I know...and the other whackjobs are my mom and sisters. I would like to believe that, though I have countless neurotic personality traits, the positive quirks and values I've gained through very hard lessons outweigh them. Even so, I know that there will always be three amazing girls by my side to keep me pushing through.
Rest in Peace, dad.
Monday, October 28, 2013
The Do's and Don't's of Keeping in Touch
I've been living in Chicago for a full month today. Away from my friends, my mom and brother, and the comfort of my couch sanctuary in a dungeon-like basement. I'm in a new, unfamiliar and very different city. Recently I've had the pleasure of a mental breakdown on the Brownline, wandering around downtown thanks to the faulty GPS in my iPhone, and taking in the beautiful skyline from Museum Campus. Gotta take the good with the bad, right?
Either way, I've been here for a short thirty days and have realized a couple of things: some people really suck at keeping in touch and, fortunately, some friends have pleasantly surprised me by staying in contact. The dirty and loveable men from the Valley? I swap messages with most of them at least twice weekly. It's sweet that they want to make sure I'm alive, haven't been raped and repeatedly assure them they haven't missed out on watching my steamy lesbian encounters. The great guy that lived up the street from me and went on my insomnia-induced late night walks with me? We text daily and it's become one of my favorite parts of my day. This is the guy that those friends that don't do a good job of staying in touch haven't been overly in favor of me talking to and especially dismissive of. Interesting. Old coworkers, friends from a few summers ago that are doing big things and the countless array of exboyfriends (that's a story for another day), have surprised me -- both good and bad -- about reaching out and congratulating me on the move.
I can't say how happy I am that some people have stayed in touch so well. It makes living in a new place far more comforting and gives me something to look forward to when I return to my cornfields back home. That said, it makes me very upset that many of my closest and oldest friends are so awful at remaining in contact. I don't think I'm overly needy or have too high of expectations but it would be nice to hear from my friends about how their lives are going, to know that they care that I'll soon be starting my amazing job, or just to see if I've gotten pushed off the Redline by a crazy on the Wilson stop. To make things easier, I will outline a few "Do's and Don't's" of keeping in touch.
Don't think that Snapchat is an acceptable substitute for real communication. Yes, it is a segue into a further conversation. I send you a snappy of me frowning from the couch and saying I'm hungover? Ask what I did the night before! You send me one of you looking frazzled from a crazy day of work? I will text you that you look ridiculous and to get some sleep. Send me a picture of you looking adorable before a tailgate? I'll ask where you got that cute tshirt the next time we speak on the phone. Snapchat, I hate you and the false illusion you give my friends. Also, it's not "keeping in touch," when you send the same thing to 45 people.
Do leave me hilarious voicemails when you call and I don't pick up. If I don't answer, I'm probably pissed off because my stupid phone died (thank you, AT&T), I'm walking and it's too loud to talk on the phone with the trains above me, or I am a little grumpy and not in the mood to talk. Last week, I was so happy to listen to a message from Cherry that she had a dream that I had to cut off my legs and she was worried about me. Picturing her waking up in a panic that her partner in crime was now legless made me giggle all the way home from the bustop.
Do send me stupid drunk texts or pictures of my mom when she's tipsy and tailgating. Of course I miss my friends and I can't wait to go out with them again when I'm home. The divey bar with our favorite bartender mixing UV Blue and red bull, dancing to Selena at the gay bar, and having housemade infused vodka in the Haymarket are all things I'm excited to do when I'm home for Christmas. But in the mean time? Please send me silly booze-induced texts. Texting the guy that lived up the street from me while consuming vodka-waters at the gay bar always gives me something to laugh about in the morning.
Don't be an asshole. Cut me some slack, people! I'm probably not the greatest at staying in touch right now, but if you're close to me you should understand why: I'm overwhelmed, a little out of my element and nervous as hell to start my new job. I realize that I haven't been entirely reaching out to everyone but to be completely honest? It's because a lot of my friends upset me before I left, have empty conversations with me now that I'm gone and, just so that I sound like a whiny bitch, it's hurt my feelings.
Do take this post as an apology on my part for not being the best at this but also as a helpful suggestion that you could be doing better because the phone works both ways. If you miss me, it's a pretty good assumption that I'm missing you too.... unless you're one of the exes in the previously mentioned parade.
Don't be afraid to plan a trip to visit me, meet halfway or at least ask what my holiday plans are. I posted on Facebook that I had signed a lease and thought that maybe a few of my friends would message me about visiting before Christmas to do some holiday shopping on Michigan Avenue. Nope. What about the girls that had been wanting to visit Chicago before I even wanted to move here? Nothing. A little frustrating but I will throw on my Burberry sweater, beautiful black pumps and get out of bed tomorrow to head to my amazing new job.
So, friends, I hope to hear from y'all soon and can't wait to catch up on the latest gossip, silly things you've been up to, and what ridiculous trouble you've gotten yourself into. If you have to ask if this post is about you..... it probably is.
Either way, I've been here for a short thirty days and have realized a couple of things: some people really suck at keeping in touch and, fortunately, some friends have pleasantly surprised me by staying in contact. The dirty and loveable men from the Valley? I swap messages with most of them at least twice weekly. It's sweet that they want to make sure I'm alive, haven't been raped and repeatedly assure them they haven't missed out on watching my steamy lesbian encounters. The great guy that lived up the street from me and went on my insomnia-induced late night walks with me? We text daily and it's become one of my favorite parts of my day. This is the guy that those friends that don't do a good job of staying in touch haven't been overly in favor of me talking to and especially dismissive of. Interesting. Old coworkers, friends from a few summers ago that are doing big things and the countless array of exboyfriends (that's a story for another day), have surprised me -- both good and bad -- about reaching out and congratulating me on the move.
I can't say how happy I am that some people have stayed in touch so well. It makes living in a new place far more comforting and gives me something to look forward to when I return to my cornfields back home. That said, it makes me very upset that many of my closest and oldest friends are so awful at remaining in contact. I don't think I'm overly needy or have too high of expectations but it would be nice to hear from my friends about how their lives are going, to know that they care that I'll soon be starting my amazing job, or just to see if I've gotten pushed off the Redline by a crazy on the Wilson stop. To make things easier, I will outline a few "Do's and Don't's" of keeping in touch.
Don't think that Snapchat is an acceptable substitute for real communication. Yes, it is a segue into a further conversation. I send you a snappy of me frowning from the couch and saying I'm hungover? Ask what I did the night before! You send me one of you looking frazzled from a crazy day of work? I will text you that you look ridiculous and to get some sleep. Send me a picture of you looking adorable before a tailgate? I'll ask where you got that cute tshirt the next time we speak on the phone. Snapchat, I hate you and the false illusion you give my friends. Also, it's not "keeping in touch," when you send the same thing to 45 people.
Do leave me hilarious voicemails when you call and I don't pick up. If I don't answer, I'm probably pissed off because my stupid phone died (thank you, AT&T), I'm walking and it's too loud to talk on the phone with the trains above me, or I am a little grumpy and not in the mood to talk. Last week, I was so happy to listen to a message from Cherry that she had a dream that I had to cut off my legs and she was worried about me. Picturing her waking up in a panic that her partner in crime was now legless made me giggle all the way home from the bustop.
Do send me stupid drunk texts or pictures of my mom when she's tipsy and tailgating. Of course I miss my friends and I can't wait to go out with them again when I'm home. The divey bar with our favorite bartender mixing UV Blue and red bull, dancing to Selena at the gay bar, and having housemade infused vodka in the Haymarket are all things I'm excited to do when I'm home for Christmas. But in the mean time? Please send me silly booze-induced texts. Texting the guy that lived up the street from me while consuming vodka-waters at the gay bar always gives me something to laugh about in the morning.
Don't be an asshole. Cut me some slack, people! I'm probably not the greatest at staying in touch right now, but if you're close to me you should understand why: I'm overwhelmed, a little out of my element and nervous as hell to start my new job. I realize that I haven't been entirely reaching out to everyone but to be completely honest? It's because a lot of my friends upset me before I left, have empty conversations with me now that I'm gone and, just so that I sound like a whiny bitch, it's hurt my feelings.
Do take this post as an apology on my part for not being the best at this but also as a helpful suggestion that you could be doing better because the phone works both ways. If you miss me, it's a pretty good assumption that I'm missing you too.... unless you're one of the exes in the previously mentioned parade.
Don't be afraid to plan a trip to visit me, meet halfway or at least ask what my holiday plans are. I posted on Facebook that I had signed a lease and thought that maybe a few of my friends would message me about visiting before Christmas to do some holiday shopping on Michigan Avenue. Nope. What about the girls that had been wanting to visit Chicago before I even wanted to move here? Nothing. A little frustrating but I will throw on my Burberry sweater, beautiful black pumps and get out of bed tomorrow to head to my amazing new job.
So, friends, I hope to hear from y'all soon and can't wait to catch up on the latest gossip, silly things you've been up to, and what ridiculous trouble you've gotten yourself into. If you have to ask if this post is about you..... it probably is.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Martial Advice from The Valley
Yes, this is yet another post regarding the members of The Valley. Also known as the c-list stars in the reality show that I made up in my head every day while slinging drinks at the golf club. Judge if you must.
For over four months I spent my time psychoanalyzing these guys, listening to their assessments of their wives and families, and pretending to listen to their unsolicited dating/life/marriage advice. Because of this, I have likely developed even more trust issues, fears of marriage and a general feeling that males are basically a population to be avoided until I have mentally prepared myself in such a way to deal with them. Also, it only made me love these guys even more.
I have developed a very real fear of tying the knot, more so than before, due to these gems from some of my favorite men.
"I'm like Santa Claus, I only come once a year." They insist that the minute the ring went on the delicate finger of their beautiful wife, they stopped having sex unless it's for reproduction. Also included in this is that the wedding band delivers a cease-and-desist order to blow jobs. My favorite guys swear that their wives never want to have sex with them, they don't wear anything sexy for them, and some of their time is spent sleeping on the couch. Of course all of this is said when a lot of the guys spend at least three a week at the golf club eating Snickers, drinking Miller Lite and Vodka-Tonics. However, I am not a marriage therapist (I don't get paid enough by the Valley to do that shit!), so I simply choose to point out that they are no longer young studs anymore and they should be happy when they do get it. In the mean time, I will listen to the dirty things they used to do on the back nine and half blush, half laugh my ass off. There are images in my brain from a tournament in May that will never leave -- thanks, Roy. I like to have sex when I'm in a relationship with a sexy man that I care a lot about so I'm in no rush to become Mrs. Claus.
"Don't get married unless you want to have kids." Well, this is stereotypical. I have friends that have been married in the three years since I was of legal drinking age that already tell me this. Isn't that part of the reason you get married, to give unwanted martial advice instead of working out your issues? Nah, too easy. Well, why did you get married then? Just for kids, well that was with your first wife so now what's your excuse? I just don't understand why everyone that has sealed the deal hates it. No one told you this before you got married? Doubtful. I don't know if I want kids but I sure as hell want a license to complain all the time so this is a perfect opportunity. Is that in the fine print of the marriage license?
"I'm the best husband ever, I don't know why she's upset." This single sentence took fifteen minutes to write because I was shaking from laughing. Granted, the first time I heard this wasn't from any regulars, it was a guy in a bachelor party. He also said this about five minutes after I politely declined his offer of $100 to take my top off on #13. My creepy new friend insisted that his wife is lucky to have him and that he's happily married. Let me give you the full scene: picture Jonah Hill (when he was fat) with the pregnant beer belly of Kevin James and some nasty Duck Dynasty style clothing. He's shooting tequila (requesting to take the shots from my toned tummy and being told to "kindly fuck off,"), drinking warm Captain and Coke, and wearing hideous street clothes. My golfer is bragging to what I assumed to be his buddies from a small town out west or from their agricultural college about the two "sluts" that are "so ready to fuck," in an attempt to sound relevant. He met one of the via Facebook and the other is the assistant at his son's doctor's office. Say what? There are children involved? I may or may not have ran my beverage cart over his 9 iron. I did.
"Just, whatever you do, don't get married before thirty." Okay, so this one has merit. The reasoning behind this, and the advice was unanimous, is that you need time to mature and figure out what's important before getting hitched. Nail on the head!!! I agree. However, I have plenty of friends (men and women) that were mature long before 30 and I see their marriage being nothing short of successful, happy and loving. On the flip side, there are some real dipshits that are going to be lucky if they ever determine their values and priorities. Unfortunately, most of my friends that are single are the emotionally healthy ones and, more often than not, the dipshits include some friends that have shiny bands on their left hand. Though the advice has a good foundation, I just don't think you can put a number on maturity, values, and just not being a selfish idiot.
Really though, I'm just afraid to have a husband that dreads coming home to me. Some guys would golf two or three nights a week and on the weekends. I would jokingly ask where their wives or girlfriends were while they hit the green and would receive blank stares. They don't care! The men on bachelor parties, work outings, and especially charity events were the worst. As were the men of the religious golf league. Of course I want whoever I'm with to be a guy and day drink on the course with friends while talking about the ass on the new cart girl. However, taking a body shot off of her or begging her to take off her top for $100 is totally different. Why aren't more men thinking how great of a woman they have that and be thankful that we all turn the cheeks on our beautiful faces to overlook the creepy things that we know they do? You can look at all the titties you want as long as you come home to the ones attached to your girl's toned body and appreciate all the shit we put up with to make you relaxed. Come home saying that I'm way hotter than any 19 year old with the volleyball-player body, the flawless ass on the wolf-eyed girl, and the legs of the blonde in the white shortie-shorts and you'll be a very happy man.
Oh, and guys, guess what? We complain about you when we're out with our friends too :)
For over four months I spent my time psychoanalyzing these guys, listening to their assessments of their wives and families, and pretending to listen to their unsolicited dating/life/marriage advice. Because of this, I have likely developed even more trust issues, fears of marriage and a general feeling that males are basically a population to be avoided until I have mentally prepared myself in such a way to deal with them. Also, it only made me love these guys even more.
I have developed a very real fear of tying the knot, more so than before, due to these gems from some of my favorite men.
"I'm like Santa Claus, I only come once a year." They insist that the minute the ring went on the delicate finger of their beautiful wife, they stopped having sex unless it's for reproduction. Also included in this is that the wedding band delivers a cease-and-desist order to blow jobs. My favorite guys swear that their wives never want to have sex with them, they don't wear anything sexy for them, and some of their time is spent sleeping on the couch. Of course all of this is said when a lot of the guys spend at least three a week at the golf club eating Snickers, drinking Miller Lite and Vodka-Tonics. However, I am not a marriage therapist (I don't get paid enough by the Valley to do that shit!), so I simply choose to point out that they are no longer young studs anymore and they should be happy when they do get it. In the mean time, I will listen to the dirty things they used to do on the back nine and half blush, half laugh my ass off. There are images in my brain from a tournament in May that will never leave -- thanks, Roy. I like to have sex when I'm in a relationship with a sexy man that I care a lot about so I'm in no rush to become Mrs. Claus.
"Don't get married unless you want to have kids." Well, this is stereotypical. I have friends that have been married in the three years since I was of legal drinking age that already tell me this. Isn't that part of the reason you get married, to give unwanted martial advice instead of working out your issues? Nah, too easy. Well, why did you get married then? Just for kids, well that was with your first wife so now what's your excuse? I just don't understand why everyone that has sealed the deal hates it. No one told you this before you got married? Doubtful. I don't know if I want kids but I sure as hell want a license to complain all the time so this is a perfect opportunity. Is that in the fine print of the marriage license?
"I'm the best husband ever, I don't know why she's upset." This single sentence took fifteen minutes to write because I was shaking from laughing. Granted, the first time I heard this wasn't from any regulars, it was a guy in a bachelor party. He also said this about five minutes after I politely declined his offer of $100 to take my top off on #13. My creepy new friend insisted that his wife is lucky to have him and that he's happily married. Let me give you the full scene: picture Jonah Hill (when he was fat) with the pregnant beer belly of Kevin James and some nasty Duck Dynasty style clothing. He's shooting tequila (requesting to take the shots from my toned tummy and being told to "kindly fuck off,"), drinking warm Captain and Coke, and wearing hideous street clothes. My golfer is bragging to what I assumed to be his buddies from a small town out west or from their agricultural college about the two "sluts" that are "so ready to fuck," in an attempt to sound relevant. He met one of the via Facebook and the other is the assistant at his son's doctor's office. Say what? There are children involved? I may or may not have ran my beverage cart over his 9 iron. I did.
"Just, whatever you do, don't get married before thirty." Okay, so this one has merit. The reasoning behind this, and the advice was unanimous, is that you need time to mature and figure out what's important before getting hitched. Nail on the head!!! I agree. However, I have plenty of friends (men and women) that were mature long before 30 and I see their marriage being nothing short of successful, happy and loving. On the flip side, there are some real dipshits that are going to be lucky if they ever determine their values and priorities. Unfortunately, most of my friends that are single are the emotionally healthy ones and, more often than not, the dipshits include some friends that have shiny bands on their left hand. Though the advice has a good foundation, I just don't think you can put a number on maturity, values, and just not being a selfish idiot.
Really though, I'm just afraid to have a husband that dreads coming home to me. Some guys would golf two or three nights a week and on the weekends. I would jokingly ask where their wives or girlfriends were while they hit the green and would receive blank stares. They don't care! The men on bachelor parties, work outings, and especially charity events were the worst. As were the men of the religious golf league. Of course I want whoever I'm with to be a guy and day drink on the course with friends while talking about the ass on the new cart girl. However, taking a body shot off of her or begging her to take off her top for $100 is totally different. Why aren't more men thinking how great of a woman they have that and be thankful that we all turn the cheeks on our beautiful faces to overlook the creepy things that we know they do? You can look at all the titties you want as long as you come home to the ones attached to your girl's toned body and appreciate all the shit we put up with to make you relaxed. Come home saying that I'm way hotter than any 19 year old with the volleyball-player body, the flawless ass on the wolf-eyed girl, and the legs of the blonde in the white shortie-shorts and you'll be a very happy man.
Oh, and guys, guess what? We complain about you when we're out with our friends too :)
Pizza.... SLICED!
Yes, I'm new
to Chicago. I will confess that it took me nearly three weeks to try
the standard Chicago-style deep dish pizza. My neighbor from back home, my late-night walk accomplice, and guy that's been cheering me up when I'm crabby for no reason had been making fun of me regularly for not achieving this milestone since living in the city. While stumbling home drunk
following a Balvenie scotch tasting was the perfect setting for me to
determine that it was time to pop my cherry (cherry tomato, used for
pizza sauce--obviously!). My roomie and
I popped into the nearest pizza joint. We promptly ordered local brews
to wash over the burning feeling in my chest from the scotch I had just
been forced to consume. Is this why they call it, "putting hair on your
chest?" Not a fan.
We started our meal with mozzarella sticks, as always because we're fat girls stuck in fabulously slim bodies, and my drunken meal was off to a great start. We were forewarned that our pizza would take about thirty minutes and were enjoying our time sobering up with beers. While we waited, we recapped the evening: six shots of Balvenie, meeting our very own version of Karen Walker from Will&Grace, and, unfortunately I can't remember the rest because of the previously mentioned six shots of scotch. I do not drink scotch, and that is precisely the reason.
As promised, our pizza arrived thirty minutes later and within fifteen seconds it was sliced, plated and almost gone. Drunk munchies? Totally. My first slice of Chicago-style pizza was way better than I anticipated and the restaurant staff was great! My entire slice was almost gone when I felt something pinch the inside of my mouth. A little strange, but I had been drinking an unfamiliar kind of booze so I thought I was crazy. I kept chewing and instead of a little pinch, I felt a sharp pain and my mouth began to warm. You know that feeling when you've had too much to drink and your throat and the roof of your mouth gets warm before you puke? Luckily this wasn't it. That feeling before you cry that your eyes water and your throat tightens? Not it either. So, I choose to do the ladylike thing and spit my food gracefully into a napkin.
I see red on the linen that isn't pizza sauce or my Chanel lipstain and I realize that it's my blood. I feel around my mouth and sense a little warm liquid on the corner of my lips on the dimple-less side of my face. I have a Cindy Crawford-esque mole that my mom, after twenty four years, insists is chocolate from her famous monster cookies every time she sees me. Anyway, I realize that there is no trace of Chanel, no perfectly seasoned pizza sauce, only fresh blood on my face.
I want nothing to do with blood unless it involves Alexander Skarsgard as Eric Northman from Trueblood, so I was mortified. I slowly, not-so-sexily, and painfully remove a rigid shard of glass or plastic from my cheek as my best friend sits across from me, speechless. One would assume it's because I'm so attractive at this point but who knows? The waiter stops by our table to innocently inquire how my first slice of Chicago is treating me and he's greeted with a bloody mouth, disgusted gay, and chewed up food folded in a napkin.
The restaurant comped our entire meal, offered to make a new pizza to send home with us and the manager apologized repeatedly. Was I rushing out the next evening to get another slice of pizza? Definitely not. But I would go back to the restaurant and try the pizza again, only because of the amazing customer service that we received while there. Accidents happen, commercial kitchens are bound to have something unfortunate occur, and I am hailing from a family of accident-prone weirdos, so it only makes sense that the shard of plastic ended up in my mouth after a night of shooting single malt. However, this is partially (read: mostly), my favorite Nebraskan neighbor.
Needless to say, I ended the night with hair on my chest and blood in my mouth. Thursday night drinking? Not going to happen for a while....well, not until we attend the Macallan Finest Cut event in two weeks. Who am I to turn down free booze, delicious food and making new friends?
We started our meal with mozzarella sticks, as always because we're fat girls stuck in fabulously slim bodies, and my drunken meal was off to a great start. We were forewarned that our pizza would take about thirty minutes and were enjoying our time sobering up with beers. While we waited, we recapped the evening: six shots of Balvenie, meeting our very own version of Karen Walker from Will&Grace, and, unfortunately I can't remember the rest because of the previously mentioned six shots of scotch. I do not drink scotch, and that is precisely the reason.
As promised, our pizza arrived thirty minutes later and within fifteen seconds it was sliced, plated and almost gone. Drunk munchies? Totally. My first slice of Chicago-style pizza was way better than I anticipated and the restaurant staff was great! My entire slice was almost gone when I felt something pinch the inside of my mouth. A little strange, but I had been drinking an unfamiliar kind of booze so I thought I was crazy. I kept chewing and instead of a little pinch, I felt a sharp pain and my mouth began to warm. You know that feeling when you've had too much to drink and your throat and the roof of your mouth gets warm before you puke? Luckily this wasn't it. That feeling before you cry that your eyes water and your throat tightens? Not it either. So, I choose to do the ladylike thing and spit my food gracefully into a napkin.
I see red on the linen that isn't pizza sauce or my Chanel lipstain and I realize that it's my blood. I feel around my mouth and sense a little warm liquid on the corner of my lips on the dimple-less side of my face. I have a Cindy Crawford-esque mole that my mom, after twenty four years, insists is chocolate from her famous monster cookies every time she sees me. Anyway, I realize that there is no trace of Chanel, no perfectly seasoned pizza sauce, only fresh blood on my face.
I want nothing to do with blood unless it involves Alexander Skarsgard as Eric Northman from Trueblood, so I was mortified. I slowly, not-so-sexily, and painfully remove a rigid shard of glass or plastic from my cheek as my best friend sits across from me, speechless. One would assume it's because I'm so attractive at this point but who knows? The waiter stops by our table to innocently inquire how my first slice of Chicago is treating me and he's greeted with a bloody mouth, disgusted gay, and chewed up food folded in a napkin.
The restaurant comped our entire meal, offered to make a new pizza to send home with us and the manager apologized repeatedly. Was I rushing out the next evening to get another slice of pizza? Definitely not. But I would go back to the restaurant and try the pizza again, only because of the amazing customer service that we received while there. Accidents happen, commercial kitchens are bound to have something unfortunate occur, and I am hailing from a family of accident-prone weirdos, so it only makes sense that the shard of plastic ended up in my mouth after a night of shooting single malt. However, this is partially (read: mostly), my favorite Nebraskan neighbor.
Needless to say, I ended the night with hair on my chest and blood in my mouth. Thursday night drinking? Not going to happen for a while....well, not until we attend the Macallan Finest Cut event in two weeks. Who am I to turn down free booze, delicious food and making new friends?
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
CTA Fails
Now that I've been a Chicago resident for ten days, I feel that I have earned the right to complain about the public transportation. I've ridden the bus a couple of times, used Uber to snag a town car, hailed a cab in the rain at Boystown as my hair frizzed, and traveled nearly every color of the rainbow via the train.
The CTA is in the process of implementing a new system, called Ventra. The transitchicago.com website indicates that the new system is easier, more convenient and will slowly phase out prior methods for this reason. Oh, and the website boasts for shorter lines through the turnstiles.
I'll name a few of my joyous experiences as Ventra is put into motion, starting with a longer line in the ever-pleasant Monday morning rush this week. There were close to twice as many bodies on the platforms, so much so that people were unable to get on/off the cars at their desired stop. I feel that it's obvious to state that I, along with anyone else that took the L to work Monday, ended up late. I lightly tapped my Ventra card, as I have been for the ten days I've been living here, only for it to be denied, causing the turnstile to whack me in the uterus. Turnstile: 5, Me: 1. Also, the announcements on the Redline were off by one stop (after the intersection had passed, not before), and had this been my first week here I would have been totally screwed. The doors were opening when they weren't supposed to and didn't open on the Fullerton stop. Awesome start to a chilly week, Ventra!
Yesterday the train home from a long eleven hour day of watching someone else's child that has mommy issues, behavioral problems and no structure, was also a treat. I sat on the train next to a woman that appeared nice and polite (no earbuds even!), smiled at her and acknowledged her sneeze with the common phrase, "bless you," only to be returned with a dead-eyed stare. Seriously? I'm still geographically in the Midwest, but where I'm from, we say either, "thank you," or, "excuse me." That statement makes me sound like a redneck, my apologies.
Has anyone heard of "leg infection guy?" This is a phrase I never imagined myself saying, for the record. There have been very few times in my adult life that the thought crossed my mind that I am naive...leg infection guy is one of them. LIG hobbles around on the Blueline in the same clothes, sweating from his poorly tattooed pores, stating that he was kicked out of the hospital. His schtick is that he has a leg infection but the doctor's released him due to his lack of insurance and he needs eighteen dollars for his antibiotics but only has four. He was leaning against me on Sunday and used me as a crutch. I obviously bathed in bleach that night.
Finally, and the most appalling, was what my roomie, Often Annoyed Designer and I witnessed last night. A beautiful Louis Vuitton bag caught my eye while we were waiting for our train. A British man boarded the Brownline behind the gorgeous leather in a suit jacket that looked like the chair in my 93 year old grandmother's 125 year old farmhouse. My roomie and I exchanged glances, acknowledging both the stunning luggage and the offensively ugly yellow jacket. My smirk was quickly interrupted by someone screaming, I'm not exaggerating, "CUNT!!! You sick, fucking, abomination! You are a cunt!!!!" And the next thing I know the Yellow Chair is squeezing behind me by the door (hopefully it accidentally opens like it did on Monday!), as though LIG had exposed his imaginary wound and exchanged his bodily fluids with the Chair. No, rather, it was that Yellow Chair had sat down on the public seating on this train used for public transportation and that LV that I was talking about earlier? It was attached to the slender arm of a well-dressed woman whose lifestyle he didn't agree with.
Side note: I'm struggling how to refer to this woman. I believe she was born a man and is in the process of transitioning into a woman. She was sweet, well spoken, dressed in cute black leggings and riding boots that I've seen in my dreams. The only giveaways were the very slight facial hair on her otherwise smooth skin, her hands grasping her belongings, and the slight hint at an adam's apple.
Anyway, Yellow Chair was shrieking "You disgusting cunt!!" on the train full of those young, old, religious, student, whatever. Initially, I thought it was a friendly banter between a young student and her professor (who else could justify such a disturbing outfit?). Then I thought that she had said something vulgar to him. Turns out, the reason that his guy was screaming as though he had seen the man that his wife was fucking while he's at work in a library from 1959, was because this woman sat next to him.
His screaming words echoing on the train ran through my head the rest of the night. The funny thing is that the woman on the train didn't. Only that beautiful purse. Ignorant, intolerant, and yellow jackets have no place on public transportation because that it where one will see the most hideous (people and clothing).
The CTA is in the process of implementing a new system, called Ventra. The transitchicago.com website indicates that the new system is easier, more convenient and will slowly phase out prior methods for this reason. Oh, and the website boasts for shorter lines through the turnstiles.
I'll name a few of my joyous experiences as Ventra is put into motion, starting with a longer line in the ever-pleasant Monday morning rush this week. There were close to twice as many bodies on the platforms, so much so that people were unable to get on/off the cars at their desired stop. I feel that it's obvious to state that I, along with anyone else that took the L to work Monday, ended up late. I lightly tapped my Ventra card, as I have been for the ten days I've been living here, only for it to be denied, causing the turnstile to whack me in the uterus. Turnstile: 5, Me: 1. Also, the announcements on the Redline were off by one stop (after the intersection had passed, not before), and had this been my first week here I would have been totally screwed. The doors were opening when they weren't supposed to and didn't open on the Fullerton stop. Awesome start to a chilly week, Ventra!
Yesterday the train home from a long eleven hour day of watching someone else's child that has mommy issues, behavioral problems and no structure, was also a treat. I sat on the train next to a woman that appeared nice and polite (no earbuds even!), smiled at her and acknowledged her sneeze with the common phrase, "bless you," only to be returned with a dead-eyed stare. Seriously? I'm still geographically in the Midwest, but where I'm from, we say either, "thank you," or, "excuse me." That statement makes me sound like a redneck, my apologies.
Has anyone heard of "leg infection guy?" This is a phrase I never imagined myself saying, for the record. There have been very few times in my adult life that the thought crossed my mind that I am naive...leg infection guy is one of them. LIG hobbles around on the Blueline in the same clothes, sweating from his poorly tattooed pores, stating that he was kicked out of the hospital. His schtick is that he has a leg infection but the doctor's released him due to his lack of insurance and he needs eighteen dollars for his antibiotics but only has four. He was leaning against me on Sunday and used me as a crutch. I obviously bathed in bleach that night.
Finally, and the most appalling, was what my roomie, Often Annoyed Designer and I witnessed last night. A beautiful Louis Vuitton bag caught my eye while we were waiting for our train. A British man boarded the Brownline behind the gorgeous leather in a suit jacket that looked like the chair in my 93 year old grandmother's 125 year old farmhouse. My roomie and I exchanged glances, acknowledging both the stunning luggage and the offensively ugly yellow jacket. My smirk was quickly interrupted by someone screaming, I'm not exaggerating, "CUNT!!! You sick, fucking, abomination! You are a cunt!!!!" And the next thing I know the Yellow Chair is squeezing behind me by the door (hopefully it accidentally opens like it did on Monday!), as though LIG had exposed his imaginary wound and exchanged his bodily fluids with the Chair. No, rather, it was that Yellow Chair had sat down on the public seating on this train used for public transportation and that LV that I was talking about earlier? It was attached to the slender arm of a well-dressed woman whose lifestyle he didn't agree with.
Side note: I'm struggling how to refer to this woman. I believe she was born a man and is in the process of transitioning into a woman. She was sweet, well spoken, dressed in cute black leggings and riding boots that I've seen in my dreams. The only giveaways were the very slight facial hair on her otherwise smooth skin, her hands grasping her belongings, and the slight hint at an adam's apple.
Anyway, Yellow Chair was shrieking "You disgusting cunt!!" on the train full of those young, old, religious, student, whatever. Initially, I thought it was a friendly banter between a young student and her professor (who else could justify such a disturbing outfit?). Then I thought that she had said something vulgar to him. Turns out, the reason that his guy was screaming as though he had seen the man that his wife was fucking while he's at work in a library from 1959, was because this woman sat next to him.
His screaming words echoing on the train ran through my head the rest of the night. The funny thing is that the woman on the train didn't. Only that beautiful purse. Ignorant, intolerant, and yellow jackets have no place on public transportation because that it where one will see the most hideous (people and clothing).
Friday, October 4, 2013
This is why I'm not on a dating site, Part II
In somewhat of a social experiment, I decided to create a free profile on OKCupid. My roomie has a profile, and a Grindr, and everything else, so I thought I would see what this online scene is like from an anthropological stand point. Does this sound cruel, pathetic, or bored? Possibly. So, since moving to Chicago, I've become a desperate housewife and needed something to fill my time. What better than hopefully make a couple of new friends and see where it goes? Well, I quickly found out that there are a lot of things that are better than that; getting off on the Wilson stop on the Redline and nearly falling through the rotting wooden floors, getting "holla'ed" at while on the phone with my grandmother, or getting lost for an hour downtown in my three inch, $200 Pella Mode stilettos.
Sure, I exchanged messages with a couple of cute, seemingly sane men and women, but a majority of my inbox was filled with demeaning, offensive, or just plain hilarious messages. I've listed a few of my favorites below. Also, just to put this into perspective, this all occurred within a 48 hour time slot. And, I slightly altered the usernames of these men. I won't even include the three messages I received from women.
Catchoftheday
Let's be serious, you definitely had someone help you write your profile. And did you really transform into a straight up carnivore, or do you still enjoy the occasional veggie?
Why would someone help me write this? I can't be pretty and have the intellectual ability to create an engaging profile? Asshole.
YourHero
You're cute who are you & how come you're not my girlfriend?
Where to start.....
MuscleTwitch
Hi, my name is Kyle. I think you are cute, and I think you might possess the intellectual capacity to keep up in witty social banter.
I have to ask, do you really have narcolepsy? I am a Paramedic and have never come across that in "the wild" so to speak. Do you have a helmet?!? I mean that in a playful fashion; in my opinion have to be able to give and take playfulness and sarcasm.
I'm not a fucking science project! He sounds like a robot right?
AssholeVA
Wow you are probably the most beautiful woman ive seen on this site...
Lol, I'm sure that's a copy/paste message
BaronFan
Hey u caught my eye & i think u'r cute...& i'd be a little angry with myself for not saying hi ;) which made me wonder how many hearts have you broken already?
One, if we're counting yours.
Becks
Top of the morning Joni,
Given your ravishing smile, abundance of confidence and charm, and recent relocation to Chicago I am certain you're inundated with messages... the fact that some of them think psychology is the science of reading thoughts is a wee bit disheartening.
That being said, and I hope this isn't much too forward of me... but I think you are absolutely bloody gorgeous and seem quite lovely.
I'd adore a chance to get to know you a bit.
What??
Annnnnnd my personal favorite,
WhiteRabbit
hello beautiful joni you're really cute. im Nick, whats your name hun? From what i read you strike me as a very kind girl, and fun. i like how easy going you seem, you know, not so hard to please. i like that. and im pretty open about doing whatever, and not such a hard person to please either.. sounds like we'd get along pretty well. i just like to enjoy the moment, you know.. sometimes just sitting outside on a nice day watching the tree's blow in the breeze, pleases me enough i also have to say you have such GORGEOUS eyes you've got a really cute face, very sexi especially your lips, they look quite yummy haha! are you a good kisser? ;P i would love to chill some time, come check me out and let me know whats up? would love to hear from you
Holy mother of god.
Lord help me. If this is what my selection process will be, please consider me forever single. How many of the deadly sins can I commit before I'm out of the running to become a nun? Like three of seven or what? Needless to say, I think my time on a dating site will remain a simple social experiment conducted by the psychology nerd inside of me. For the record, my account has long since been deleted. Too horrifying!
Sure, I exchanged messages with a couple of cute, seemingly sane men and women, but a majority of my inbox was filled with demeaning, offensive, or just plain hilarious messages. I've listed a few of my favorites below. Also, just to put this into perspective, this all occurred within a 48 hour time slot. And, I slightly altered the usernames of these men. I won't even include the three messages I received from women.
Catchoftheday
Let's be serious, you definitely had someone help you write your profile. And did you really transform into a straight up carnivore, or do you still enjoy the occasional veggie?
Why would someone help me write this? I can't be pretty and have the intellectual ability to create an engaging profile? Asshole.
YourHero
You're cute who are you & how come you're not my girlfriend?
Where to start.....
MuscleTwitch
Hi, my name is Kyle. I think you are cute, and I think you might possess the intellectual capacity to keep up in witty social banter.
I have to ask, do you really have narcolepsy? I am a Paramedic and have never come across that in "the wild" so to speak. Do you have a helmet?!? I mean that in a playful fashion; in my opinion have to be able to give and take playfulness and sarcasm.
I'm not a fucking science project! He sounds like a robot right?
AssholeVA
Wow you are probably the most beautiful woman ive seen on this site...
Lol, I'm sure that's a copy/paste message
BaronFan
Hey u caught my eye & i think u'r cute...& i'd be a little angry with myself for not saying hi ;) which made me wonder how many hearts have you broken already?
One, if we're counting yours.
Becks
Top of the morning Joni,
Given your ravishing smile, abundance of confidence and charm, and recent relocation to Chicago I am certain you're inundated with messages... the fact that some of them think psychology is the science of reading thoughts is a wee bit disheartening.
That being said, and I hope this isn't much too forward of me... but I think you are absolutely bloody gorgeous and seem quite lovely.
I'd adore a chance to get to know you a bit.
What??
Annnnnnd my personal favorite,
WhiteRabbit
hello beautiful joni you're really cute. im Nick, whats your name hun? From what i read you strike me as a very kind girl, and fun. i like how easy going you seem, you know, not so hard to please. i like that. and im pretty open about doing whatever, and not such a hard person to please either.. sounds like we'd get along pretty well. i just like to enjoy the moment, you know.. sometimes just sitting outside on a nice day watching the tree's blow in the breeze, pleases me enough i also have to say you have such GORGEOUS eyes you've got a really cute face, very sexi especially your lips, they look quite yummy haha! are you a good kisser? ;P i would love to chill some time, come check me out and let me know whats up? would love to hear from you
Holy mother of god.
Lord help me. If this is what my selection process will be, please consider me forever single. How many of the deadly sins can I commit before I'm out of the running to become a nun? Like three of seven or what? Needless to say, I think my time on a dating site will remain a simple social experiment conducted by the psychology nerd inside of me. For the record, my account has long since been deleted. Too horrifying!
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Don't rain on my parade
My previous post was about my best friend and the incredible surprise birthday party that he constructed. He put more thought into this than anyone, boyfriends included, have into anything--ever. Is this sad? Probably. Either way, the entire surprise was a complete blast.
The night included my favorite people, our specialty made-up cocktail (chamblue), hummus with grilled zucchini, and my favorite bars. The only thing that put a damper on the night was our grouchy ex-friend that had RSVP'd to my party but chose not to show up. No big deal. I am all for everyone having fun and if something better came along then good for them! Except he was sitting at my favorite Jetson's-style bar (supposed to be a 50's bar but it's the Jetson's DAMN IT) looking sullen as per usual with another friend. Once we got settled in, I was getting up to walk over to him and invite them to join us and he was on his way out the door. I sent him a friendly text saying I missed him, I'd love to get lunch and that the phone works both ways so he's welcome to call me anytime.
Shortly later, we jetpack out of the underground Jetson's bar and head to the local gay bar. Upon getting there to meet with a darling man that had just gotten off work at the Mexican restaurant. He asked what had happened with the ex-friend and I. Confused, I said nothing, and informed my margarita-slinging pal of our plans to get lunch the following week.
Fast forward to the next morning, I send the ex-friend a text saying that it was good to see him and I hope to hear from him soon. Possibly thirty seconds later, I am informed by Often Annoyed Designer (who is passed out on my couch and in my mother's clothing-what the hell??), that ex-friend was talking poorly about me and the long story short was that he broadcasted to our mutual friends that he would be "happy if [I] ended up dead in a ditch somewhere." WHAT NOW??? I, known as The Goddess of the Gays (it was scrawled across my birthday cake), should not be spoken of so negatively by someone I've done no harm to. Ex-friend responded to my friendly message with something fake like, "yes, let's do lunch and I'll let you know when I'm free." After hearing the news of his morbid wishes for me, I naturally replied with, "That, orrrrr I can just die in a ditch somewhere. Have a great day!" He never replied. No apology, no fuck you, no justification--just nothing.
This friend was roomies with my BFF and we continually invited him out but he preferred to sit in his room with the door closed on his distance-related hookup app, while DJ Poodle and I screamed through the wall inviting him to join us to the gay bar. He skipped out on the goodbye dinner, happy hour and made plans for the last weekend that my BFF was in town. Somehow, because he is unhappy in his own life, he placed the blame on us instead of himself and justified not saying goodbye. There are two sides to every story and I like to (stupidly) give everyone the benefit of the doubt, hence the friendly texts asking about lunch plans the week after my birthday.
Long story short; don't try to rain on my parade. Me being found dead in a ditch has been an ongoing joke between about ten of us. The day after all of the events, we all slowly realize that he not only deleted us from Facebook (mature), but blocked us (suuupercool). This wouldn't bother me in anyway except I was going to send him a nice, light message apologizing if I did anything to hurt him or make him feel out of the loop for any reason. Then it dawned on me: why am I going out of my way to make nice with someone who literally said they want me dead? Sometimes I am too nice (I bet most of my friends are peeing their pants laughing) for no reason whatsoever. This guy is a fun guy to go out with and I typically think he has good intentions, but, for whatever reason, is very unhappy with something in his life. Perhaps once he finishes school, stops living off of his parents, and stops sleeping with every guy he meets on Grindr, he will be the sweet, hilarious and pleasant man that became my friend three years ago.
Until then, I'm avoiding all ditches. And death for that matter.
The night included my favorite people, our specialty made-up cocktail (chamblue), hummus with grilled zucchini, and my favorite bars. The only thing that put a damper on the night was our grouchy ex-friend that had RSVP'd to my party but chose not to show up. No big deal. I am all for everyone having fun and if something better came along then good for them! Except he was sitting at my favorite Jetson's-style bar (supposed to be a 50's bar but it's the Jetson's DAMN IT) looking sullen as per usual with another friend. Once we got settled in, I was getting up to walk over to him and invite them to join us and he was on his way out the door. I sent him a friendly text saying I missed him, I'd love to get lunch and that the phone works both ways so he's welcome to call me anytime.
Shortly later, we jetpack out of the underground Jetson's bar and head to the local gay bar. Upon getting there to meet with a darling man that had just gotten off work at the Mexican restaurant. He asked what had happened with the ex-friend and I. Confused, I said nothing, and informed my margarita-slinging pal of our plans to get lunch the following week.
Fast forward to the next morning, I send the ex-friend a text saying that it was good to see him and I hope to hear from him soon. Possibly thirty seconds later, I am informed by Often Annoyed Designer (who is passed out on my couch and in my mother's clothing-what the hell??), that ex-friend was talking poorly about me and the long story short was that he broadcasted to our mutual friends that he would be "happy if [I] ended up dead in a ditch somewhere." WHAT NOW??? I, known as The Goddess of the Gays (it was scrawled across my birthday cake), should not be spoken of so negatively by someone I've done no harm to. Ex-friend responded to my friendly message with something fake like, "yes, let's do lunch and I'll let you know when I'm free." After hearing the news of his morbid wishes for me, I naturally replied with, "That, orrrrr I can just die in a ditch somewhere. Have a great day!" He never replied. No apology, no fuck you, no justification--just nothing.
This friend was roomies with my BFF and we continually invited him out but he preferred to sit in his room with the door closed on his distance-related hookup app, while DJ Poodle and I screamed through the wall inviting him to join us to the gay bar. He skipped out on the goodbye dinner, happy hour and made plans for the last weekend that my BFF was in town. Somehow, because he is unhappy in his own life, he placed the blame on us instead of himself and justified not saying goodbye. There are two sides to every story and I like to (stupidly) give everyone the benefit of the doubt, hence the friendly texts asking about lunch plans the week after my birthday.
Long story short; don't try to rain on my parade. Me being found dead in a ditch has been an ongoing joke between about ten of us. The day after all of the events, we all slowly realize that he not only deleted us from Facebook (mature), but blocked us (suuupercool). This wouldn't bother me in anyway except I was going to send him a nice, light message apologizing if I did anything to hurt him or make him feel out of the loop for any reason. Then it dawned on me: why am I going out of my way to make nice with someone who literally said they want me dead? Sometimes I am too nice (I bet most of my friends are peeing their pants laughing) for no reason whatsoever. This guy is a fun guy to go out with and I typically think he has good intentions, but, for whatever reason, is very unhappy with something in his life. Perhaps once he finishes school, stops living off of his parents, and stops sleeping with every guy he meets on Grindr, he will be the sweet, hilarious and pleasant man that became my friend three years ago.
Until then, I'm avoiding all ditches. And death for that matter.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
My roomie, my best friend, my husband
It only seems appropriate to have a post simply dedicated to the lady that twisted my arm and forced me to move to Chicago: Often Annoyed Designer.
He has been living here only since May but has always had the dream of being the small town girl in the city of Chicago. He's from a cow farm in PA yet makes fun of my hometown. Sigh. My friend is a corporate interior designer, hence the blog name, for a large company internationally known for it's cult following, customer service and delicious product. He is quite literally too gay to function. Don't know the reference? Check out our favorite movie, Mean Girls. We spend most of our time gossiping via Twitter, watching our favorite TV shows, making dinner (which consists of mostly wine), and making our skin beautiful with one of my clay-avocado face masks. We're the perfect puzzle pieces to complement each other; I pick up where his masculinity fails him and vice versa. One could say that we're a modern day Will&Grace, except he's the designer and I'm the argumentative attorney-type.
Yes, one can see that it is love between the two of us. It is rare to find someone that one can be completely, 100%, at-ease with one another. Just minutes ago while he was giggling like a school girl and texting his mother, he let out a princess-esque toot that only caused us to laugh harder. Most people would be slapped for such a crime. We talk about boys, our crazy widowed mothers that we love, my obese dog and everything in between.
It only seemed logical that once he moved from my hometown, that I needed to escape. Thus begun my Summer of Yes (which was the inspiration for this blog) as well as Escape Strategy 2013. He offered to let me live with him, as did two close friends that were moving to New York City, and friends around the country were gracious enough to offer help with shelter, the job search or at least their insight. Then, something happened and I knew that I needed to move to Chicagoland with my gay lover:
MY SURPRISE BIRTHDAY PARTY!
Anyone that knows me knows that I love birthdays, particularly my own. Almost more than birthdays, I love surprises. So, being the sneaky, amazing friend that he is, he orchestrated an elaborate surprise birthday party for me at my favorite bar, with my favorite friends and family that he wasn't even acquainted with! It was so impressive and caught me off guard that I jumped up and down which was followed by the waterworks. Totally not me and I was way embarrassed.
Someone, that has no investment in me other than a friendship, planned all of this from eight hours away? I couldn't believe it. So, that sealed the deal. Immediately, I set a date for me to be in Chicago by. Once I put in my notice at my day job, upped my hours even more at The Valley, and slowly started sorting through years of crap, it became real. The more he and I talked, the more I knew it was the best decision. As excited I was to have Exit Strategy 2013 in motion, he was celebrating that I would be in the City with him.
Now that I'm here, sharing a bed, sharing laundry baskets, and (possibly most difficult) sharing a DVR, it couldn't be any better. I made dinner tonight and didn't undercook the chick -- as he's done in the past. We just finished Modern Family and in his frozen yogurt induced coma, he's snoring away in the chair. I'm going to pour his light beer on him so that we can put our face masks on and head to bed.
No, I don't have a boyfriend. Yes, this is probably why. But my future soulmate (vomit), boyfriend and husband will have a lot to live up to after how good this guy treats me.
Oh, and we call each other whores endless and talk about how much we hate each other. What's better than a caring bestie that you can flip shit to, trip on the side walk, and lock out of the apartment to scare? NOTHING.
He has been living here only since May but has always had the dream of being the small town girl in the city of Chicago. He's from a cow farm in PA yet makes fun of my hometown. Sigh. My friend is a corporate interior designer, hence the blog name, for a large company internationally known for it's cult following, customer service and delicious product. He is quite literally too gay to function. Don't know the reference? Check out our favorite movie, Mean Girls. We spend most of our time gossiping via Twitter, watching our favorite TV shows, making dinner (which consists of mostly wine), and making our skin beautiful with one of my clay-avocado face masks. We're the perfect puzzle pieces to complement each other; I pick up where his masculinity fails him and vice versa. One could say that we're a modern day Will&Grace, except he's the designer and I'm the argumentative attorney-type.
Yes, one can see that it is love between the two of us. It is rare to find someone that one can be completely, 100%, at-ease with one another. Just minutes ago while he was giggling like a school girl and texting his mother, he let out a princess-esque toot that only caused us to laugh harder. Most people would be slapped for such a crime. We talk about boys, our crazy widowed mothers that we love, my obese dog and everything in between.
It only seemed logical that once he moved from my hometown, that I needed to escape. Thus begun my Summer of Yes (which was the inspiration for this blog) as well as Escape Strategy 2013. He offered to let me live with him, as did two close friends that were moving to New York City, and friends around the country were gracious enough to offer help with shelter, the job search or at least their insight. Then, something happened and I knew that I needed to move to Chicagoland with my gay lover:
MY SURPRISE BIRTHDAY PARTY!
Anyone that knows me knows that I love birthdays, particularly my own. Almost more than birthdays, I love surprises. So, being the sneaky, amazing friend that he is, he orchestrated an elaborate surprise birthday party for me at my favorite bar, with my favorite friends and family that he wasn't even acquainted with! It was so impressive and caught me off guard that I jumped up and down which was followed by the waterworks. Totally not me and I was way embarrassed.
Someone, that has no investment in me other than a friendship, planned all of this from eight hours away? I couldn't believe it. So, that sealed the deal. Immediately, I set a date for me to be in Chicago by. Once I put in my notice at my day job, upped my hours even more at The Valley, and slowly started sorting through years of crap, it became real. The more he and I talked, the more I knew it was the best decision. As excited I was to have Exit Strategy 2013 in motion, he was celebrating that I would be in the City with him.
Now that I'm here, sharing a bed, sharing laundry baskets, and (possibly most difficult) sharing a DVR, it couldn't be any better. I made dinner tonight and didn't undercook the chick -- as he's done in the past. We just finished Modern Family and in his frozen yogurt induced coma, he's snoring away in the chair. I'm going to pour his light beer on him so that we can put our face masks on and head to bed.
No, I don't have a boyfriend. Yes, this is probably why. But my future soulmate (vomit), boyfriend and husband will have a lot to live up to after how good this guy treats me.
Oh, and we call each other whores endless and talk about how much we hate each other. What's better than a caring bestie that you can flip shit to, trip on the side walk, and lock out of the apartment to scare? NOTHING.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
HELLO CHICAGO!!!!
Well, duh.
If my last post was saying goodbye to my hometown, clearly the next would be announcing my arrival in my new area code. I've arrived, I have been here at least a couple of days so I know what I'm talking about (a little) and I'm fucking thrilled.
This likely sounds sad, pathetic, and very lame but it has been so refreshing to be alone in a city with nothing to do. Despite the melancholy overtone, it's fabulous. The emptiness only means that my future is a completely blank slate. I am currently in such a state that few people rarely find and even less can be optimistic; no job, no friends, no life. Everything is unknown and it's up to me to shape it. Side note: please ignore this post if future posts are about how much I hate myself, my friends, my career or my city.
I'm getting the opportunity to get to know the beautiful city of Chicago. Despite being told that the weather is horrible, it's expensive and that I'll be in dangerous situations, I love it here! Thankfully, my roomie lives across from the lake and watching the big puffy clouds while writing has been so fun. Yeah, the wind isn't awesome for my big blonde hair but luckily hats have been particularly fashionable lately. I haven't found it to be as overwhelmingly pricey, my take out lunches have been the same as before, drinks are slightly more but that's what one expects when a city has an actual nightlife complete with real DJs and crowds that dance. The most danger I've really encountered has been the random homeless people sprinkled about, but they're actually polite.
My best girlfriend drove me out here, made a playlist as tribute to our over decade-long friendship, and stayed the weekend. It included brunch, slumber parties, and lots of coffee. The three of us had a blast. They took me to my interview with an iconic international clothing brand and celebrated that it went well. That evening, we went to Cafe Iberico with my brother and his friend to enjoy their refreshing sangria and the amazing tapas. Of course we went to Boystown my first weekend so that my girlfriend and I could tear up the dance floor.
Through all of this rambling, the only reason that it's been so easy for me to embrace Chicago (and hopefully vice versa), is because Nebraska made it so easy to say goodbye. My closest friends, like Cherry, made me comfortable that we will stay in touch and remain very close despite the distance. Friends that I thought were my closest pushed me away prior to leaving by remaining so wrapped up in their own drama that they forgot to ask me about the fabulous opportunities that await me, making goodbyes tearless and easy. Finally, what I thought would be the most difficult was leaving my best friend, my cabbie, my partner in crime -- my mom. A few days before taking off, I realized that not only am I starting a new life, but Peggy was too. This will be her first time in a childless house since my oldest sister was born 32 years ago. Peggy finally has the same chance that I have and will be spreading her wings too. Saying goodbye to mom was hard, of course, mainly because both of us are against showing any vulnerable emotions. I think we both had a mutual understanding that I'll always be the baby and that I wouldn't be anything without her.
The only worry I have in the back of my mind as Chicago wraps me up in beautiful lights, fun dance clubs and amazing food? How overweight my mom will allow my dog to get.
If my last post was saying goodbye to my hometown, clearly the next would be announcing my arrival in my new area code. I've arrived, I have been here at least a couple of days so I know what I'm talking about (a little) and I'm fucking thrilled.
This likely sounds sad, pathetic, and very lame but it has been so refreshing to be alone in a city with nothing to do. Despite the melancholy overtone, it's fabulous. The emptiness only means that my future is a completely blank slate. I am currently in such a state that few people rarely find and even less can be optimistic; no job, no friends, no life. Everything is unknown and it's up to me to shape it. Side note: please ignore this post if future posts are about how much I hate myself, my friends, my career or my city.
I'm getting the opportunity to get to know the beautiful city of Chicago. Despite being told that the weather is horrible, it's expensive and that I'll be in dangerous situations, I love it here! Thankfully, my roomie lives across from the lake and watching the big puffy clouds while writing has been so fun. Yeah, the wind isn't awesome for my big blonde hair but luckily hats have been particularly fashionable lately. I haven't found it to be as overwhelmingly pricey, my take out lunches have been the same as before, drinks are slightly more but that's what one expects when a city has an actual nightlife complete with real DJs and crowds that dance. The most danger I've really encountered has been the random homeless people sprinkled about, but they're actually polite.
My best girlfriend drove me out here, made a playlist as tribute to our over decade-long friendship, and stayed the weekend. It included brunch, slumber parties, and lots of coffee. The three of us had a blast. They took me to my interview with an iconic international clothing brand and celebrated that it went well. That evening, we went to Cafe Iberico with my brother and his friend to enjoy their refreshing sangria and the amazing tapas. Of course we went to Boystown my first weekend so that my girlfriend and I could tear up the dance floor.
Through all of this rambling, the only reason that it's been so easy for me to embrace Chicago (and hopefully vice versa), is because Nebraska made it so easy to say goodbye. My closest friends, like Cherry, made me comfortable that we will stay in touch and remain very close despite the distance. Friends that I thought were my closest pushed me away prior to leaving by remaining so wrapped up in their own drama that they forgot to ask me about the fabulous opportunities that await me, making goodbyes tearless and easy. Finally, what I thought would be the most difficult was leaving my best friend, my cabbie, my partner in crime -- my mom. A few days before taking off, I realized that not only am I starting a new life, but Peggy was too. This will be her first time in a childless house since my oldest sister was born 32 years ago. Peggy finally has the same chance that I have and will be spreading her wings too. Saying goodbye to mom was hard, of course, mainly because both of us are against showing any vulnerable emotions. I think we both had a mutual understanding that I'll always be the baby and that I wouldn't be anything without her.
The only worry I have in the back of my mind as Chicago wraps me up in beautiful lights, fun dance clubs and amazing food? How overweight my mom will allow my dog to get.
Goodbye Nebraska
As one could guess, I have been MIA because I was finally making the long anticipated move from my hometown to Chicago. I had a really great post in mind prior to leaving but when it came down to it, I preferred to hang out with my mom, sleep and say goodbye to a few good girlfriends that I didn't have to hunt down.
Yes, my last five days or so were beyond stressful due to issues with selling my car, disappointing friends and realizing that it was the last time in a long while that my puppy would cuddle with me while I was sick. However, I will choose to ignore those items for a more upbeat post. A few great things happened while I was moving; I became closer with friends that I had been close to in the past and saw how they've grown, I went through a very therapeutic purge of everything I've been hanging onto for years, and I shed all of the unnecessary and fake friendships that I had felt obligated to have due to proximity.
I previously wrote about my friend Cherry and how she was catfished via a dating website. She and I were close the last bit of our college experiences and have recently reconnected. I've always adored the talks Cherry and I could have, deep one minute, superficial the next, and a lot of them about our frustrations with guys. Prior to my leaving, she had just started seeing a guy she met in the Old Market one night. She was having a blast and had a few drinks and met a guy that was not drinking. This means that Cherry was her wild, direct and goofy self the first time meeting this guy and she didn't scare him away. They exchanged numbers after he drove she and all of her friends home (winner!) and arranged time for them to meet again. After a few successful dates, which included him surprising her while she was in the Old Market again, things continue to go well. Cherry certainly testing new waters and benefiting significantly from that. Why didn't I think of that? Ugh. Either way, the last month or so, I was lucky enough to get closer to Cherry again. Obviously distance makes everything a little more difficult. Will we meet at a bar for shots of frog sperm again where I subsequently rip my top off? Probably not (thank god), but I do know that as things get more serious with this guy, I will be one of the first in the loop. And I'm okay with that type of friendship...in fact, it's the kind that I seek now that my weekends don't begin on Thursday and end on Monday. My liver can only handle so much of college.
Besides strengthening friendships, I realized which ones were not worth keeping. Whether it was the friends I had to peg down, reminding them that it was the last time they would see me for at least three months and that I worked the rest of the week, or if it were the friends who spent their finals times with me scrolling through facebook and gossiping about people I don't know -- it all bothers me. I have had a lot of friends move away for various reasons; college, job opportunities, many military, or family reasons. After my experience, I truly hope that I didn't make any of them feel the way that some of these people made me. That said, I do see this as a positive. Thanks to your inability to manage your time, have any forethought whatsoever, or think about anyone beside yourself, I will not have to waste further time keeping in touch with you, visiting when I return over the holidays or worrying about your problems. I've always been taught that you should act as the type of friend you would like to have and I try very hard to uphold that. That "golden rule," if you will, is challenging when the types of friend that make me chant this rule in my head, aren't the people I see in my life moving forward anyway. However, I do with them the best on school, relationships, or family drama -- whichever it may be.
Finally, I'm just excited because I got rid of SO MUCH CRAP! I've been hanging on to the most random things; high school prom dresses, old writing samples, shoes that I would never wear again, photos of friends I haven't spoke to in years, and most importantly, most negative feelings. I don't know if it was getting rid of the photos of an ex boyfriend I didn't know that I had, a prom dress that I remember wearing with friends I rarely speak to, or just knowing that I've gotten rid of things that I didn't need anymore -- much like the angry or hurt feelings I have harbored for years over failed relationships, rocky friendships, and things I could have done better.
My finals thoughts and one of my conversations with my mom was that it's time for me to say farewell to a lot of things. The parade of ex-boyfriends that I've allowed to make me feel bad about myself, Mean-Girls that have encouraged me to be a Bitchy Betty myself, the memories of my family the way it used to be, and every little thing in between. Nebraska will always be where I'm from, but it was never where I felt I belonged. I do realize that the phrase "you take you with you where you go," is very true...and thankfully I am not the one that I desire to leave behind. I see only positive things for my future in what is my new home: Chicago. Great friends that I'm friends with because we value each other, a continually evolving career where I am appreciated and, maybe, finding the love that my brother-in-law lectured me about on my first night out in the Windy City.
xx
Yes, my last five days or so were beyond stressful due to issues with selling my car, disappointing friends and realizing that it was the last time in a long while that my puppy would cuddle with me while I was sick. However, I will choose to ignore those items for a more upbeat post. A few great things happened while I was moving; I became closer with friends that I had been close to in the past and saw how they've grown, I went through a very therapeutic purge of everything I've been hanging onto for years, and I shed all of the unnecessary and fake friendships that I had felt obligated to have due to proximity.
I previously wrote about my friend Cherry and how she was catfished via a dating website. She and I were close the last bit of our college experiences and have recently reconnected. I've always adored the talks Cherry and I could have, deep one minute, superficial the next, and a lot of them about our frustrations with guys. Prior to my leaving, she had just started seeing a guy she met in the Old Market one night. She was having a blast and had a few drinks and met a guy that was not drinking. This means that Cherry was her wild, direct and goofy self the first time meeting this guy and she didn't scare him away. They exchanged numbers after he drove she and all of her friends home (winner!) and arranged time for them to meet again. After a few successful dates, which included him surprising her while she was in the Old Market again, things continue to go well. Cherry certainly testing new waters and benefiting significantly from that. Why didn't I think of that? Ugh. Either way, the last month or so, I was lucky enough to get closer to Cherry again. Obviously distance makes everything a little more difficult. Will we meet at a bar for shots of frog sperm again where I subsequently rip my top off? Probably not (thank god), but I do know that as things get more serious with this guy, I will be one of the first in the loop. And I'm okay with that type of friendship...in fact, it's the kind that I seek now that my weekends don't begin on Thursday and end on Monday. My liver can only handle so much of college.
Besides strengthening friendships, I realized which ones were not worth keeping. Whether it was the friends I had to peg down, reminding them that it was the last time they would see me for at least three months and that I worked the rest of the week, or if it were the friends who spent their finals times with me scrolling through facebook and gossiping about people I don't know -- it all bothers me. I have had a lot of friends move away for various reasons; college, job opportunities, many military, or family reasons. After my experience, I truly hope that I didn't make any of them feel the way that some of these people made me. That said, I do see this as a positive. Thanks to your inability to manage your time, have any forethought whatsoever, or think about anyone beside yourself, I will not have to waste further time keeping in touch with you, visiting when I return over the holidays or worrying about your problems. I've always been taught that you should act as the type of friend you would like to have and I try very hard to uphold that. That "golden rule," if you will, is challenging when the types of friend that make me chant this rule in my head, aren't the people I see in my life moving forward anyway. However, I do with them the best on school, relationships, or family drama -- whichever it may be.
Finally, I'm just excited because I got rid of SO MUCH CRAP! I've been hanging on to the most random things; high school prom dresses, old writing samples, shoes that I would never wear again, photos of friends I haven't spoke to in years, and most importantly, most negative feelings. I don't know if it was getting rid of the photos of an ex boyfriend I didn't know that I had, a prom dress that I remember wearing with friends I rarely speak to, or just knowing that I've gotten rid of things that I didn't need anymore -- much like the angry or hurt feelings I have harbored for years over failed relationships, rocky friendships, and things I could have done better.
My finals thoughts and one of my conversations with my mom was that it's time for me to say farewell to a lot of things. The parade of ex-boyfriends that I've allowed to make me feel bad about myself, Mean-Girls that have encouraged me to be a Bitchy Betty myself, the memories of my family the way it used to be, and every little thing in between. Nebraska will always be where I'm from, but it was never where I felt I belonged. I do realize that the phrase "you take you with you where you go," is very true...and thankfully I am not the one that I desire to leave behind. I see only positive things for my future in what is my new home: Chicago. Great friends that I'm friends with because we value each other, a continually evolving career where I am appreciated and, maybe, finding the love that my brother-in-law lectured me about on my first night out in the Windy City.
xx
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
I have awful taste in music.
Okay, maybe "theeee most dreaded" question isn't what this post is about... But it's right up there with, "What's your credit score," "What's your honest opinion," and "do I look fat?"
What type of music do you listen to?
Oh, please no! I always feel like this question is a trap. Whether it's being asked by the sexy professor after a few cocktails, my previous EVP that's anxious to judge, a really fun girl that I want to force into being my friend or anyone, I never see the conversation going well.
Do I admit that I still belt out Disney tunes in the shower? Or that I secretly adore country music on long drives to visit my grandparents? What about the fact that I instantly learn the lyrics to rap and R&B after hearing it a few times? I clean listening to my dad's Eagles records, I dance to oldies with my big sister and I like to get down on the get down to some EDM at the local gay bar....or in my car. No matter which of those responses I select, I'm going to reveal myself as the bag of crazy that I am.
Is there a right answer to this? Absolutely not. I try to play it off as, "oh, I just little to a little of everything." It's totally true but I realize it's vague and doesn't answer anything. However, when getting to know someone new I typically find it to be best practice to wait to confess that I have no idea what I'm talking about when it comes to music. I know what I like, I know what I don't. If I hear something with well written lyrics or a beat that I can get my dance on to, I'll download it and play it again and again. That's about it. Maybe it would be better to ask, "what's on your playlist right now?" Nah, that probably wouldn't be good because it's just Ellie Goulding on repeat. Awkward.
Ask me that question at 9am over Starbucks (trenta iced green tea, nosweetner and extra ice) and you'll probably get a decent answer. Try again over a $2 long island at The Q and I'll tell you all about my Britney obsession (not a joke). Ask me when I'm feeling sullen and you will hear about Explosions in the Sky and how much I love Taylor Kitsch and the series Friday Night Lights. ADD much? Perhaps.
Either way, I'm always looking for someone to educate me about music. I love to sing, I just don't care what it is. If I want to pretend that I'm Ariel in the shower and sing Part of Your World, then I'm going to! You can catch me and my mother jamming to Luke Bryan at any given moment. Applications being accepted for a teacher....ideally one with lots of patience and that realizes I'm an idiot. Thanks in advance. xx
What type of music do you listen to?
Oh, please no! I always feel like this question is a trap. Whether it's being asked by the sexy professor after a few cocktails, my previous EVP that's anxious to judge, a really fun girl that I want to force into being my friend or anyone, I never see the conversation going well.
Do I admit that I still belt out Disney tunes in the shower? Or that I secretly adore country music on long drives to visit my grandparents? What about the fact that I instantly learn the lyrics to rap and R&B after hearing it a few times? I clean listening to my dad's Eagles records, I dance to oldies with my big sister and I like to get down on the get down to some EDM at the local gay bar....or in my car. No matter which of those responses I select, I'm going to reveal myself as the bag of crazy that I am.
Is there a right answer to this? Absolutely not. I try to play it off as, "oh, I just little to a little of everything." It's totally true but I realize it's vague and doesn't answer anything. However, when getting to know someone new I typically find it to be best practice to wait to confess that I have no idea what I'm talking about when it comes to music. I know what I like, I know what I don't. If I hear something with well written lyrics or a beat that I can get my dance on to, I'll download it and play it again and again. That's about it. Maybe it would be better to ask, "what's on your playlist right now?" Nah, that probably wouldn't be good because it's just Ellie Goulding on repeat. Awkward.
Ask me that question at 9am over Starbucks (trenta iced green tea, nosweetner and extra ice) and you'll probably get a decent answer. Try again over a $2 long island at The Q and I'll tell you all about my Britney obsession (not a joke). Ask me when I'm feeling sullen and you will hear about Explosions in the Sky and how much I love Taylor Kitsch and the series Friday Night Lights. ADD much? Perhaps.
Either way, I'm always looking for someone to educate me about music. I love to sing, I just don't care what it is. If I want to pretend that I'm Ariel in the shower and sing Part of Your World, then I'm going to! You can catch me and my mother jamming to Luke Bryan at any given moment. Applications being accepted for a teacher....ideally one with lots of patience and that realizes I'm an idiot. Thanks in advance. xx
Stupid Questions equal Stupid Answers
Moving to Chicago, moving in general, or really just having any ambition whatsoever is apparently frowned upon by the vast majority of people that surround me.... which lead me to post the following status update on my Facebook page
The next pessimistic, negative excuse for a friend that asks me if I am aware of how expensive, cold, dangerous, or different Chicago is from Lincoln will be getting a swift but powerful slap to the face from my wrinkly grandma hands. Thank you.
This was brought on by endless questions and statements by the idiots that surround me on a regular basis. Initially, I tried to fake interest and at least pretend to listen to the input on others about where to live, how much money I should expect to spend, blah blah blah. And then my give-a-shit broke and is too pricey to fix since I'm moving to suuuuuch a costly city. So, being the sarcastic asshole that I am, I've come up with some fabulously sassy responses to the negative fools that try to put me down.
#1 : Do you know that Chicago is so expensive to live in?
Americans are nosey and love to ask about money. Do I tell them that the apartments I'm looking at are upward of a grand? Sure don't! Do I take the time to explain that the money I'm saving by not having a car payment, car insurance, gas or maintenance, knocks the price of my future home down to that of any nice one bedroom in my college town? I don't care enough to take the time. My favorite replies include:
Thank goodness I'll be working the corner and getting paid more than the alleys here in Lincoln.
Oh really? I thought things were cheaper in bigger cities; prostitutes, booze and blow. Right?
Oh, you thought I worked 80 hour weeks all summer for funsies? No, I've been saving so I can escape.
#2 : Have you heard how cold Chicago is?
I live in the Midwest. I've had snow in October and snow until May. It's not the snow that gets me, it's the ice. I am a baaaaad driver in any poor weather condition...which is why I used to make my mom drive me to my college classes. I have no shame. Do I enjoy cold, snow, ice and wind? Not at all but I deal with it just like every other person that lives in the Northern third of the country. The best and only response I need for this is:
I'm so glad I'll be sharing a bed with a gay man and we'll keep warm with our body heat. Followed by a classy wink.
(Please note that I can't wink. I look like I'm missing a chromosome, making it ten times more awkward)
#3 :
a) Did you know Chicago is the murder capitol of the country?
Response:
Did you know I don't care?
Good. I'll blend right in with the rest of the serial killers.
I won't unpack too soon so that Often Annoyed Designer won't have to mail everything back to my mom before my funeral.
Did YOU know that Chicago is sometimes beat out by Omaha, Nebraska, which is only a tractor ride away?
b ) Do you know how unsafe Chicago is?
Oh, you mean the city that I've acquired more than one stalker, been slipped a date rape drug on TWO occasions, had my leg sliced open by a methhead, and my car broken into is the safest place to be? Newsflash, fools: every where is risky if you put yourself into stupid situations. I'm often referred to as Princess -- and I don't object to this as long as it's used in a loving and not condescending way. Actually I don't care how it's used... if the tiara fits, ya dig? But do you really think someone that is literally called Princess by many of her customers, friends and family, is going to go for an evening stroll in Jackson Park or Michigan Avenue? If you get this wrong please head to the nearest psych ward.
#4 : Do you realize how different Chicago is from Lincoln?
My reply:
THAT'S THE FUCKING POINT!!!!!!!!
Case closed. Save your negativity for someone that it will have an impact on. Or just get a better attitude, keep your unsolicited opinion to yourself, wish me good luck and then Facebook-stalk me and make fun of me to your friends like everyone else does.
Also, I have wrinkly hands and feet due to a skin condition. I own my grandma hands so leave me alone!
The next pessimistic, negative excuse for a friend that asks me if I am aware of how expensive, cold, dangerous, or different Chicago is from Lincoln will be getting a swift but powerful slap to the face from my wrinkly grandma hands. Thank you.
This was brought on by endless questions and statements by the idiots that surround me on a regular basis. Initially, I tried to fake interest and at least pretend to listen to the input on others about where to live, how much money I should expect to spend, blah blah blah. And then my give-a-shit broke and is too pricey to fix since I'm moving to suuuuuch a costly city. So, being the sarcastic asshole that I am, I've come up with some fabulously sassy responses to the negative fools that try to put me down.
#1 : Do you know that Chicago is so expensive to live in?
Americans are nosey and love to ask about money. Do I tell them that the apartments I'm looking at are upward of a grand? Sure don't! Do I take the time to explain that the money I'm saving by not having a car payment, car insurance, gas or maintenance, knocks the price of my future home down to that of any nice one bedroom in my college town? I don't care enough to take the time. My favorite replies include:
Thank goodness I'll be working the corner and getting paid more than the alleys here in Lincoln.
Oh really? I thought things were cheaper in bigger cities; prostitutes, booze and blow. Right?
Oh, you thought I worked 80 hour weeks all summer for funsies? No, I've been saving so I can escape.
#2 : Have you heard how cold Chicago is?
I live in the Midwest. I've had snow in October and snow until May. It's not the snow that gets me, it's the ice. I am a baaaaad driver in any poor weather condition...which is why I used to make my mom drive me to my college classes. I have no shame. Do I enjoy cold, snow, ice and wind? Not at all but I deal with it just like every other person that lives in the Northern third of the country. The best and only response I need for this is:
I'm so glad I'll be sharing a bed with a gay man and we'll keep warm with our body heat. Followed by a classy wink.
(Please note that I can't wink. I look like I'm missing a chromosome, making it ten times more awkward)
#3 :
a) Did you know Chicago is the murder capitol of the country?
Response:
Did you know I don't care?
Good. I'll blend right in with the rest of the serial killers.
I won't unpack too soon so that Often Annoyed Designer won't have to mail everything back to my mom before my funeral.
Did YOU know that Chicago is sometimes beat out by Omaha, Nebraska, which is only a tractor ride away?
b ) Do you know how unsafe Chicago is?
Oh, you mean the city that I've acquired more than one stalker, been slipped a date rape drug on TWO occasions, had my leg sliced open by a methhead, and my car broken into is the safest place to be? Newsflash, fools: every where is risky if you put yourself into stupid situations. I'm often referred to as Princess -- and I don't object to this as long as it's used in a loving and not condescending way. Actually I don't care how it's used... if the tiara fits, ya dig? But do you really think someone that is literally called Princess by many of her customers, friends and family, is going to go for an evening stroll in Jackson Park or Michigan Avenue? If you get this wrong please head to the nearest psych ward.
#4 : Do you realize how different Chicago is from Lincoln?
My reply:
THAT'S THE FUCKING POINT!!!!!!!!
Case closed. Save your negativity for someone that it will have an impact on. Or just get a better attitude, keep your unsolicited opinion to yourself, wish me good luck and then Facebook-stalk me and make fun of me to your friends like everyone else does.
Also, I have wrinkly hands and feet due to a skin condition. I own my grandma hands so leave me alone!
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