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.
Friday, November 8, 2013
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).
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