The things you find when packing.

T-minus 24 hours until moving day. Are we ready? Heck no. Our apartment is strewn with bags and boxes and assorted other things we probably haven't seen since we last moved.

I seriously hate packing. Everyone does. That’s what separates us from the animals. (Pack rats? Um, hello?) So while I’m trying to pack up all of the crap I’ve accumulated over the last 2 years/my entire life, I figure I should totally procrastinate and make a list. Because I love lists. Everyone does.

1. Gauchos. Hello, 21-year-old Brenna? I have your pants. And they still look ridiculous. It doesn’t help that this pair isn’t the standard sorority girl issue black; no, these gauchos are this weird periwinkle color. And yet I’ve been holding on to them for the past 5 years. Just waiting for them to make a comeback.

2. Softball t-shirts from the good ol’ days of the Tuesday Night Ad Agency Softball League. If they start up a Layoff League, man, I am ready.

3. All of my high school summer reading novels. When I moved out of my parents’ house, I pretty much took everything with me. The clothes, the furniture and the ninth grade Honors English required reading as dictated by school district U-46.

Sidebar: anyone want to start a book club where we re-read the books we read in high school. You know, now that we're a little more adept and aware and not a bunch of 14-year-olds trying to navigate the moral implications and social commentary of Frankenstein?

4. My last 3 cell phones. It’s like the evolution of the flip phone. The first one had a creepy green screen that actually served as a pretty good flashlight but didn't get service anywhere. The second one had a full-color screen with sweet animated icons, making it a serious upgrade. However, the fine people at LG failed to put a screen on the exterior of the phone. So when it rang, you couldn't see who it was until you opened the phone. Made screening phone calls damn near impossible, resulting in a host of awkward cell phone conversations. And lastly, there was the Krazr. It was like a Razr, only krazier.

5. A key that may or may not be for the Recruitment Closet in the Pi Beta Phi house. Sorry I was the irresponsible Recruitment Chair who forgot to return the key. Also sorry there's a closet chock full of glitter, wine and silver blue streamers and the words to that one rush song no one ever remembered that may or may not have been locked for the last 5 years.

6. A crazy amount of gift bags. Because, like your grandmother, I save these things thinking I’ll re-use them. And also like your grandmother, my heart's in the right place but I always forget I have those gift bags hoarded away in a closet somewhere and usually end up buying new ones anyway.

7. My college collection of mp3s. Okay, so I didn’t really “find” these. But amidst the packing (and procrastinating), you better believe I fired up the old PC, opened iTunes and put the college music on shuffle. Because what I really needed was another excuse to get all nostalgic (and procrastinate) and rummage through a box of college photos while listening to "The District Sleeps Alone Tonight" by the Postal Service.

8. Three bridesmaid dresses, one of which isn’t mine.

BTW, Kelly, I’m still holding on to your dress from Katie’s wedding. And why do you have me in a sleeper hold in this picture? Who knows.

9. A bottle of Ciclon. Remember tequila-spiked rum? Remember how awful it was? Welp, it doesn’t get better with age. Also, I feel like I should make it known that I’m packing up the entire apartment, not just my bedroom. It's not like I keep bottles of hard liquor in my room. Anymore.

10. Chumbawumba Tubthumping. Did I ask for that CD for Christmas ’97? Yes I did. Did my brother begrudgingly oblige? Yes he did. Did I make him forever regret that decision by playing that one song on repeat for the remainder of my seventh grade year? Possibly. Does Chumbawumba still have an active official website complete with photos from their 2010 summer tour? Shockingly, yes.

The most expensive underwear ever.

Please note: This is not a story about underwear. Yes, it involves underwear. But it’s not about underwear.


It’s Tuesday. A stressful day. A rainy day. Kind of a crap day all around. Somewhere between meetings, I get a little email letting me know Victoria’s Secret PINK is on sale on and I think yes, that is exactly what I need. A little (somewhat responsible?) retail therapy. I mean, underwear is kind of a necessity.

So after work, I hop in my car and head down to the North and Sheffield area. Certain that I’ll get a parking ticket if I park on a side street, I do the next logical thing. I park in the lot for the shopping center North and Sheffield and walked over to Victoria's Secret.

I’m not saying what I did wasn’t wrong. I practically skipped past the many posted signs that warned if I left this shopping center, even temporarily, I would be towed. But whatever. I had an underwear sale to hit.


So I walk the 115 feet from the parking lot (Point A) to Victoria’s Secret (Point B). I get in, get what I needed and get out in what could not have been longer than 17 minutes. I'm happy with my purchase and happier to be leaving before the impending storm. I leave the store (Point B) and head back to the parking lot (Point A).


Wait. Hold on. Stop. Where’s my car?

Do you know the feeling that fills your being when you realize your car isn’t where you left it? Panic. Absolute terror and sheer fucking panic. Your hands get clammy and your face gets hot and you start taking these short, stabby breaths. Your head feels like it's filling with sand. Your heart pounds in your ears. And, to quote Mean Girls, your stomach feels like it’s going to fall out your butt.

But there wasn’t any broken glass on the ground and, more importantly, I don’t drive a car worth stealing. Remember that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry's car develops this weird smell? Well, my car's got this weird smell that would prevent anyone from taking it. (Except my car's weird smell wasn't a mystery, it's the result of leaving a window cracked when it rained for a week followed by another week of 95-degree heat.) Anywho, once I got a grip, I manage to call the tow company listed on one of those aforementioned signs.

The very nice towing company man manages not to laugh too hard at my expense and lets me know the Nissan is safe and sound within the barbed wire confines of their impound lot just a few blocks away.

Thoughts that crossed my mind:
- The sky is about to open up and unleash a fury of rain.
- It’s going to take a miracle to hail a cab in near-thunderstorm conditions.
- North Avenue is so backed up, it’s going to take forever to get anywhere if I ever manage to catch a cab.
- If I start walking now, I can probably make it before the rain starts and faster than a cab anyway. I mean, North and Sheffield is only one block west and a few blocks north of the tow truck place at Division and Halsted.



Thoughts that failed to cross my mind:
- Know what else is at Division and Halsted? The projects.

But I start walking because I didn’t think of this. It’s windy as all get out, but at least the rain's holding off. Walking along North, there are a handful of other shoppers and pedestrians scrambling to get inside before the storm breaks. But once I turn south on Halsted, not so much.

It's just me. Walking.

Straight into what has to be 45 mph wind gusts. The sky is getting dark. Between the half-demolished Cabrini Green and the quickly darkening sky, I half expected to see the four horsemen of the apocalypse trotting down Halsted. So I pick up the pace.

I’ve never had my car towed before (at least not when it was actually in [arguably] perfect driving condition and I wasn’t standing next to it with a string of obscenities streaming from my mouth), so I’ve never had the pleasure of actually going to a towing company.


Turns out, they’re exactly how you imagine. Dingy. Poorly lit. Bars on all the windows and more padlocks than you've ever seen. (Oddly enough, the wood paneled walls inside were covered with every single iteration of those inspirational posters. And without a hint of irony.) I have a garbled and awkward conversation with the towing company man through what I'm assuming is bulletproof glass, sliding my driver’s license and my credit card under the window to him.

I’m standing on this dark corner, holding my wallet (hello! I'm an idiot!), certain the sky is going to let loose any sceond now. I anxiously wait for the nice tow truck man to finish the paperwork. He wants to chat about the genealogy of my name; I want to get home without getting soaked and, you know, alive. He finally slides me the receipt to sign and holy crap this is going to cost me $170. I was prepared to cough up about $50—maybe $75—to ransom my car from the tow truck company. But $170? Sucks, dude.

I scribble my signature. The man slides me my card and license and finally opens the gates. I sprint to my car as the first fat rain drops start to fall. I throw my bag on the passenger seat and tear out of that parking lot like a bat out of hell.

So that’s the story of how a little trip to the Victoria’s Secret PINK sale that was supposed to make up for a crappy day ended up costing me $297.44, two hours of my life and any chance of ending the day on a high note.

I’m embarrassed and you probably should be, too. For me.

That's right. Hang your fuzzy little head in shame there, buddy.

It started innocently enough. I wanted a cute picture of an animal eating something for that post for Nancy’s blog. So I Googled “nom nom” and stumbled upon that little gem of a hamster munching on a nectarine. It was perfect. I saved it to my desktop and went about my day.

Except that I kept going back to that picture. I’d be in the middle of something, then I'd drop what I was doing, look at that picture and giggle. I mean, yeah, it’s a really cute picture. That little guy is really going to town on that nectarine. But the next thing you know, I’m Googling “cute hamster pictures” and scrolling through page after page of adorableness. And now I want a hamster. Bad.

For those who didn’t have the pleasure of knowing me during the incredibly awkward ages of 9 to 13, I used to have pet hamsters. There was Holli, Rolli, Ollie and Molli. (But not all at the same time. Because that would be weird.) And here I am, over a decade later, and I want another one? Have I changed so little in the last 13 years? Did high school, college and early adulthood really have no effect on the person I am? That's how it would seem.

I mean, I always wanted a dog, but there was no way my mom was ever going to concede to that. And I still want a dog, but let’s not kid ourselves and think that I am anywhere near responsible enough for a dog. (Just when I can almost pass for a responsible adult, I do something stupid like shatter my iPhone and then opt to just “get used to the shattered screen” rather than going to the Apple store.) It troubles me to think what might happen to that poor dog.

But getting a hamster—a caged rodent you can pick up at the mall, mind you—would be really weird. Being a 26-year-old with a hamster would put me somewhere between crazy cat lady and creepy guy who owns a ferret. Territory I’m not quite ready for just yet.

So I guess until I’m ready for that dog (which will be a pug named Buddy. Or maybe Otis.), I’ll hold off on getting a hamster. I’ll just get a plant or something and stick to finding cute pet pictures on the internet. It’s really the less creepier of two options. And it results in things like this. Which is just awesome.

It's a HAMSTER in a SOMBRERO sitting on a table in front of a PLATTER OF BURRITOS. If this isn't what the internet is for, then I don't know why it exists.

If you like eating, you'll like this.

This photo isn't really all that relevant, but damn it's cute.

Okay, so I have two questions for you. Do you live in the Chicagoland area? Do you like to eat? If you’re reading this, you’re probably my friend and so there’s a pretty good chance that the answer to one or both of those questions is yes. And in that case, you should be reading Mega Bites.

Even if the answer to both of those questions is no (am I friends with anti-food out-of-towners?), you should be reading Mega Bites.

What is Mega Bites? you ask. It’s this great little food blog started by my friend Nancy. And I’m not just saying you should read this because Nancy and I have been friends since we were causing trouble in Professor Chamber’s Advertising History class back in ’04.

No sir. This is a quality food blog that just happens to be written by my friend. Nancy is as passionate about food as she is about writing, and for the visually oriented, her posts are almost always complemented by photographs. Not only does she try new restaurants and adventurous cuisine with reckless abandon, but she also pens meaningful reviews that go beyond, “it was good.” and “me want more.”

Nancy also manages to write about food in a way that isn’t creepy. (Not sure if you tune in for Top Chef, but the way Gail Simmons describes some dishes as “sensual” and “sexy” makes me really uncomfortable.) Each entry leaves you hungry and intrigued and ready to make a reservation at whatever restaurant she last visited.

And while she’s a foodie, Nancy is by no means a pretentious culinary jerk. Need proof? Check out her ode to the Schoolyard skillet cookie. Or challenge her to a wing eating contest. Either way, you won’t be sorry.

And you totally won’t be sorry if you try her pumpkin bar recipe. Holy crap. They. Are. Phenomenal.

Another sign?

In case we weren't 100% sure that we made the correct decision to move in 23 days (but who's counting?), the signs just keep coming.

Saturday afternoon, I'm in my room, leisurely watching some crappy marathon on MTV when all of a sudden I hear a loud pop and the electricity goes out. I walk out of my room, Jaclyn's having a minor panic attack and the entire apartment smells like a Whirlyball court.

Apparently as Jaclyn was plugging in her straightener, a bunch sparks shot out of the outlet and blew a fuse. That Whirlyball smell was probably ozone from the sparks (thanks, Wikipedia Reference desk/Archives/Miscellaneous). So we flip the circuit back on and go check out this outlet. Brett tries to get a closer look at the outlet in question and simply nudges it with his finger. More sparks. More fuses blown. Slightly more profanity.

TIME TO MOVE.

Oh, and then there's this. I mean, if we're moving into a new place and we're considering redecorating, we should totally make this the centerpiece of our new living room.

I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Ace of Base.

I’m not much for signs. Despite what any Swedish pop group tells you, I just don’t think I’ve seen a “sign” and had it “open up my eyes” “whoa oh-oh.”

I’m much more for making laundry lists of pros and cons and neurotically obsessing over every decision I have to make. And it seems like there have been a ton of decisions to make lately.

Big life decisions like apartment situations, what to do with my life and where to get lunch. And so lists were pored over and options were obsessively weighed and lo and behold, some decisions were actually made. For one, Jaclyn and I decided to move (six blocks away, thirty-six inches closer to sea level [we’ll be ground floor now, suckers] and twice as many bathrooms). And we came to this decision all on our own without relying on any signs.

But since we made the decision to relocate one brown line stop south, there have been nothing but signs that we made the right decision.

Sign number one: A present on our doorstep. But not like “flaming bag of dog poo” present. I mean, if I’d opened my front door and seen that, I would’ve figured we’d done something to deserve it.

But no. This was just another Sunday morning. Ready to head out for a jog, I open the front door and—hey, what’s that? Puke. The aforementioned ass hats next door have somehow managed to puke on our front stoop. And apparently they were eating Cheetos. TIME TO MOVE.

The following weekend, sign numero dos. It’s about 3:30 in the morning on Friday night and we hear the next door ass hats stumble home. They're loud and they're slurring and they're kicking the dozens of red Solo cups along the walkway between our apartments and I'll tell you what, that shit echoes. I mean, we lived on Addison for two years and put up with more than our fair share of belligerent Cubs fans screaming in our front yard. And nothing compares to these guys.

Then someone starts banging on the front door. BANGING. It was a sort of come-to-Jesus/I'm-going-to-get-you/your-effing-pizza-is-here-and-I’ll-be-damned-if-I-don’t-get-a-tip pounding that no one likes to hear at 3:34 a.m. It was scary. Have I mentioned how much I hate our neighbors? TIME TO MOVE.

The third sign? I roll home around 9 o’clock last night and step into our dark apartment. I hear water running. I’m confused because nobody's home and nobody's been home for hours. I walk through the apartment, turning on lights as I go, knowing whatever I find isn’t going to be pretty.

Turns out, it’s raining in the kitchen. Apparently the guys upstairs were doing laundry and a hose broke. Hello, dirty laundry water. Welcome to my kitchen pantry-type area. Where I keep all of my food and my artificial Chritsmas tree. At least the guys upstairs came down to help me clean up. But still. Water pouring from the ceiling and drenching everything in your kitchen, potentially ruining your most prized holiday decoration? TIME TO MOVE.

So my apologies to Ace of Base. You always knew what was up. There were signs all along, we just had to look for them. And you’re right, no one’s going to drag us up into the light where we belong. We’re hiring movers for that.

October 1st can’t come soon enough.

I can’t make decisions, but I can make a good list.

After seven years, one sorority house and three apartments, Jaclyn and I are still roommates. (Which may or may not qualify us for common law marriage in 10 states plus the District of Columbia.) And now it’s time for us to either resign our lease or find a new apartment.

Problem is, we’re both incredibly indecisive. We have no idea what to do. So while I’m dodging calls from my landlord like a weasel, we’re both trying to make a list of pros and cons about our current situation. Lists I can do. Coming to any sort of concrete decision after making said list, well that’s another story. So. Want to help us decide if we should stay or if we should go?

Pro: Proximity to the el.
It takes less than one song on the iPod to make it to the Wellington station. That’s close enough to hear the rumble of the train when the windows are open (ambient “city sounds” as I call them), but distance enough to not bring your life to a screeching halt every 5-7 minutes during peak times.

Pro: Proximity to a decent beer garden.
This was not why we picked the apartment, but it was an added bonus. It’s not even like we go there very often.* But I enjoy being able to call in an order of hot pretzels for pick-up by and enjoying them at home in about 7 minutes.

Pro: Laundry in unit.
It’s great to throw a load in the washing machine and go about your day without worrying that some stranger is manhandling your whites.

Con: Room size.
The living area’s decent and the kitchen isn’t bad, but the bedrooms leave a little to be desired. Mine's like a hallway lined with furniture and a bed at the end. But our bedrooms have sliding doors with frosted glass on them, so it kind of feels like you’re in a space ship. And I guess that’s kind of a pro.

Con: Our handyman.
I’m sure he’s a stand up guy and he can be surprisingly handy at some things (I once saw him disassemble, repair and put our washing machine back together in under an hour) but he’s incredibly inept at others (just snake the damn drain in the tub already). Also, his cell phone doesn’t really work and he’s a bit hard of hearing, so anytime you call him with a maintenance request, it’s like getting in a one-sided screaming match that no one will win.

Pro: Double sinks in the bathroom.
I’m sorry, but that’s just nice.

Con: Garden unit.
While I appreciate not having to truck up and down multiple flights of stairs, the garden unit is really just a nice way to say “basement.” As soon as the leaves start to fall, they all work their way into our living room. Drives me absolutely crazy. And the metal bars on the windows aren’t exactly homey, but you don’t notice them so much after a while. Oh, but when the blinds are open, anyone walking down the street can see straight into our living room. And you know what? Sometimes you just want to park it on the couch and watch all three Back to the Futures because they're on ABC Family and not be judged by passers-by.

Pro: Fireplace.
We haven’t used in about 18 months, but it was a classy little feature those four times we turned it on.

Pro: This place decorates well for Christmas.
The spot in front of the window is perfect for our tree. Granted, that spot is empty the other 11 months of the year, but it’s nice in December.

Con: Moving sucks.
The packing sucks. The cleaning sucks. The physical act of moving all your earthly possessions seven blocks away sucks. So why not put it off another 12 months?

Pro and/or con: Looking at other apartments.
For the first few places, it’s exciting. You get all giddy and imagine all the ways you’ll arrange your furniture and decorate your room. You make a mental list of people to invite to the housewarming party and you can’t wait to sign the lease. But then the harsh reality of no AC or outrageous rent or previous tenants who were boys sets in. And then the apartment hunting process becomes a tedious game of “will I be homeless in a month?”

Con: Other people looking at your apartment.
It’s inevitable that I’ll be sitting around in a homecoming t-shirt from sophomore year of high school watching some shameful television program elbow-deep in a box of Cheez-Its when our landlord saunters in with potential new tenants.

Con: The big post-move grocery trip.
You know when you’ve been packing for what feels like eons and you finally make your way to the kitchen and you get all crazy-eyed and just start throwing things away? And because you haven’t been grocery shopping in three weeks in preparation of the move and you’ve been eating nothing but borderline expired Rice-A-Roni, you just pitch everything that’s left in the fridge? You know how that always seems like such a great idea until you get to the new apartment and start unpacking and think, “damn it, I’m hungry,” but you have absolutely nothing to eat? You know when that happens? Yeah, I hate that.

Also, I hate grocery shopping in general, so having to buy everything down to the condiments that go on the refrigerator door is complete torture.

Con: Living in one place for too long.
With the exception of the house I grew up in, I haven’t lived anywhere for longer than two years. It’s just been our limit up until now. Two years in the college apartment because we graduated. Two years on Addison because that’s about as long as anyone can live that close to Wrigley without going batshit crazy. Two years in this place. Anything longer than two years just feels so permanent. I’m not sure I’m ready for a commitment like that.

Pro: Neighbors.
After living above a couple of relentlessly barking dogs and then below a family with a toddler, we kind of lucked out when three twenty-somethings moved into the apartment above us last year. They’re fun guys and they’re good neighbors. They came to our Halloween get together, we dropped by their New Years party. They shoveled us out of our apartment enough times last winter to earn a couple cases of beer (which I’m going to do, I swear) and one of them even helped me pick our lock when I locked myself out. And even when they run through their living room and it sounds like our light fixture is about to come crashing down, they’re still good neighbors.

Con: Neighbors.
The three flat next door is home to no less than 53 hipster kids. How, I have no idea, it’s like a commune or something. But they aren’t really a problem.

It’s the neighbors in the coach house behind the three flat. They’re just a bunch of ass hats. I’m sorry, but there’s no other way to describe them. This must be their first apartment post-college, and we’ve all been there, but at least we were there with a little dignity. They’re never not a sloppy, screaming mess. The walkway between our apartments is one orange construction fence away from being a frat party aftermath. They leave garbage in our front yard. They listen to crappy music loudly. And they seem incapable of going out without banging on our windows upon their return.


So what to do, what to do. I’m seriously not equipped to make a decision like this.

*Ask Brett about his last visit to Kirkwood. It’s a good story.

If Europe is ahead of us on the fashion curve, we have a lot to look forward to.

Now, I don’t claim to be a fashion expert. One look at my extensive collection of rubber flip-flops and you know that. And it’s not like we’re living in the fashion capital of the world. Heck, Chicago’s not even a fashion powerhouse in the States. Trends generally start on either coast and face a long, hard journey to make it to the doughy center of the country.

Case in point: Remember when legwarmers made a brief and ill-fated comeback in 2004? (Cue blank stares and confused silence from the five guys who read this thing.) Well, they did, generally paired with flip-flops and jean skirts. And while they may have gained popularity along the eastern and western seaboard, the trend kind of petered out by the time it reached the Midwest. There’s just a lot of middle America to cover.

That’s not to say you won’t see some of these trends around this great city. They’re starting to pop up on the fashion periphery—both that incredibly savvy girl on the el you really don’t want to stand next to given your current outfit and the ironically mustachioed hipster sipping his Colt 45. But these trends were everywhere in Italy. From the fashionable Florence native to the father of 3 on holiday from France. These are trends that have made it mainstream in Europe, and by all calculations, they’ll be working their way through the Midwest in another 12-18 months. So get excited.

Jorts.
A mere five years after everyone at Illinois joined that Facebook group pledging their undying and ironic love for jorts, jean shorts are back with a vengeance. And they seem to be targeting dudes. The jorts we saw weren’t just the carpenter-style jean shorts we all know and love from 1997. (Remind me why we needed need hammer loops on all of our shorts again? We’re like the least handy generation ever.) These were straight up hipster jeans chopped at the knee or—in some extreme cases of man thigh—above the knee. Some rivaled bike shorts in both length and snugness. It was a lot to see.

Mullets and their less overtly trashy counterpart, the rattail.
There was a lot of business in the front, party in the back walking around the other side of the pond. And yeah, you still see a lot of American mullets at NASCAR events and White Sox games (zing.), but over there, they were everywhere doing everything. Sipping Chianti on the town square. Admiring art in the Uffizi. Touring the Vatican. They weren’t driving around in an El Camino or guzzling cans of Busch at a monster truck rally. These mullets were cultured.

Rattails also appear to be making a strong comeback. You know, for when a mullet is just too obvious.

Genie pants.
They’re like gauchos, but they taper. I imagine they’re extremely comfortable (because seriously, gauchos were almost as comfortable as not wearing pants at all), but I also imagine they’re even less flattering. I mean, look at M.C. Hammer circa 1992. He could have had a great figure, but no one ever looked at him and said, "look at the legs on that guy." Those pants just didn't do him any favors.

They're also called harem pants. Now why in the world would you want to wear anything named after the room where polygynous women hang out?

The Summer of George: a progress report

Seeing as how it’s mid(ish)-July, I figured I’d take a moment to reflect on my Summer of George list of things to accomplish before fall. Like George, my summer hasn’t exactly gone as planned. For one, my freelance project hasn’t ended yet, which I am not complaining about because freelance is a very good thing. Paychecks don't suck, either.

But before we go any further, I have to say there's a cruise boat in Chicago named The Summer of George. I stumbled upon it while I was Googling pictures of Costanza. And though I don’t know who the owner is, sir (Captain?), I’d like to shake your hand.

Now back to it. My Summer of George: mid-summer check in.

I will decompress. Check.
That family vacation I mentioned? Nothing but winery tours and playing on the beach with a three-year-old. Heaven on earth in Michigan.

I will read a book, from beginning to end, in that order. Check.
I’m currently working my way through large stack of books courtesy of Amazon. And I’ve learned a lot. Mainly that I need to be more discerning when ordering books from Amazon. Also, if returning an online order is any more difficult than just dropping off the box at your nearest UPS location (thanks for facilitating my laziness, Zappos.), I probably won’t complete the return and will end up leaving a box of unwanted books on the floor of my car for what I'm guessing will be the rest of the Nissan's life.

I also said I’d write more. Check. I wrote one entry in May and two in June. Progress, people.

I will not, however, learn to play frolf. Check.
Not only have I actively avoided Frisbees, but I’ve also spared myself from watching much golf on tv, save for any Sunday afternoons spent in the presence of my father or my great uncle.

I will watch television programming. Check.
It may not be daytime tv, but you best believe I’ve set aside some time to watch crap tv. BTW, the season premiere of Teen Mom debuts at 9 pm on MTV. Tegan and I have a countdown.

I will take mid-morning naps. Sadly, no check.
This is where freelance really cramps my style.

I will get a bike. No check.
However, I’m still talking about getting a bike. And that’s half the battle.

I will get my brakes fixed. CHECK.
It’s nice to slow down for a stop sign without hearing that metal-on-metal scraping sound that makes every dog in the city whimper. It’s also nice to approach a red light without fear of smashing into anything.

I will go to Cubs games on days other than the weekend. No check.
I should probably get on that before Lou calls it quits. He's probably got at least one good base-throwing episode left in him. Right?

I will get a tan. Check.
By most people’s standards, maybe not, but for me, I’m pretty tan. Or, you know, freckled. It only took one awful sunburn (the kind that makes strangers point and stare in horror) and a full 10 days of walking around Italy.

I will act like my college self. Check.
Although I have to wonder: at what point do I have to accept that this isn’t my college self, this is just how I act?

I will go to Italy. Check.
I went, I saw, I somehow managed not to pack on 20 pounds during my 10-day holiday. And that wasn’t for lack of trying. It was a pretty steady diet of pizza, pasta and wine, complemented by gelato at least once a day. Yes, I said at least. Yes, that implies there were days where we had gelato twice. Yes, I said days as in more than one. If you judge me, then you also have to judge the guy who sat next to me on the train to Rome because he was up to three gelatos a day. I mean, sure, he was the 250 pound, 6’5” linebacker type. But whatever. The man had gelato three times in one day.

Oh, we saw a lot of culturally significant things, too. It wasn’t all about the gelato. Really.


So all in all, I'd say I'm doing pretty well. Just a few more things to knock-out before Labor Day. Like maybe figuring out how to nap at work. After all, this is a list inspired by George Costanza.

Let's reminisce about awful part-time jobs, shall we?

We all suffer through crappy part-time jobs at one time or another. It’s the American way. For me, there was my multi-summer tenure as a camp counselor. (Oh, the stories I could tell about that job.) And then there were the high school years and college breaks spent saving away at Suburban Video. (I could write an effing book about what went down at that job.) And last but not least, the six months I spent working at a lawn and garden boutique on the city’s northside.

While many of us experience the joys of minimum wage and mandated uniforms during our teenage years, I just couldn't get enough. I worked at the aforementioned lawn and garden boutique when I was 22.

Background: When we moved into the city in October 2006, I was jobless. (A recurring theme for me, apparently.) Why move to the city when you don’t have a job? you ask. I had to. My parents gave me the boot.

Bless their hearts. They were simply nudging me out of the nest so I could spread my wings and fly or something like that. I get that. Now. But at the time I was all, “Move out by October? You know I’m unemployed, right?”

So we found a quaint (read: cheap) four bedroom place near Wrigley and I went and did the next logical thing. I got an unpaid internship. (Who said communications majors weren’t smart?) And to complement my 40 weekly hours of indentured servitude, I decided to get a waitress job at a bar.

Turns out, most bars in Wrigleyville aren’t exactly staffing up at the end of baseball season. (Who said communications majors weren’t smart?) Surprisingly, this lawn and garden boutique was looking for seasonal help in October, which I thought was weird, but whatever. It was just up the street from our apartment and I was getting desperate. I applied to the Craigslist posting and got myself an interview the following Saturday at 9 am.

So I worked a 40+ hour week (as unpaid interns desperate to be hired are wont to do) before experiencing my first fishbowl on Friday night. Bright and early the next morning, I dragged my bedraggled self in for my interview.

The owner was a nice guy. He said they needed someone for the holiday season when the store transformed from an urban oasis of patio furniture to a wintry wonderland. I can’t imagine I was very charming (what with the screaming headache, my dire need for water and the vodka wafting out my pores), but I was offered the job and asked to start the following week.

Yeah, sure, sign me up.

Except I had no idea what I was signing up for. I was the newest employee at a high-class lawn and garden boutique. We specialized in high-end patio furniture that cost more than I made in a month and would last longer than my trusty Ford Escort. It was probably the finest lawn and garden boutique this side of the Lincoln Park divide

I learned the difference between quality wrought iron tables and the crap they sold at Walmart. Solid wood Adirondacks, no assembly required? Honey, please. We sold nothing but the best. (Although judging by my hourly wages, we weren’t selling enough of it.)

I also learned this job required heavy lifting. And setting my alarm for an ungodly hour every Saturday and Sunday. And because a chic Moroccan restaurant by the same name had just opened in the West Loop, it also required I spend a good portion of my days fielding calls from eager diners desperate to score a reservation.

This job also demanded I wear an oversized t-shirt that was literally the color of poo. Now I’m not above wearing a uniform to work--my Suburban Video polo hung down to my knees and the staff t-shirts supplied by the summer camp were all sorts of tie-dyed. But it seemed to me that hawking lawn chairs that cost hundreds of dollars each called for a little class. I was wrong. I was to wear my ugly t-shirt every time I worked (no matter how chilly it was in the warehouse-type store) and if it was dirty, I could simply have another.

By mid-October, I had accumulated like 4 ugly work shirts. I had also moved (read: dragged across the cold cement floor) all the furniture off the sales floor and started decorating for Christmas. And I decorated the crap out of that store. We’re talking dozens nine-foot fake Fraiser firs loaded with ornaments. I even gave each tree a theme. I was the best damn decorator that store had ever employed.

And come January, I was the worst damn un-decorator in the history of decorating.

Ever notice how depressing it is to take down your own holiday decorations? Try taking down an entire storeful. While wearing a crap-colored shirt. Hungover.

It was like every weekend was the saddest weekend ever. Until the spring furniture started arriving and I realized I would be the one tasked with assembling each piece. Wait, I thought the store only bought high-end lawn furniture that came assembled by skilled craftsmen? Yeah, not anymore. And I’m really sorry to any residents of Lakeview who may have overpaid for “quality” patio furniture assembled by me. You may as well have given a monkey an Allen wrench and set him lose in the store. At least that way there would’ve been less swearing. (I get that from my dad.) When the gliding porch swing was delivered in 4 separate boxes, I knew my days were numbered.

Thankfully, I got a full-time copywriting job shortly thereafter. One that didn’t require waking up at 7 am on Saturdays or lifting anything more than a pencil and actually offered health insurance. And I never wore that ugly uniform again.

And from the looks of it, I'll never have to. A friend of mine emailed me today to let me know the place went out of business. It’s nothing more than an empty storefront with a for rent sign in front. Apparently they just couldn’t do it without me.

That, or my shoddy craftsmanship and cranky customer relations were the beginning of the end.

The Summer of George.

Remember that episode of Seinfeld where George realizes his severance from the Yankees is enough to last him three months? And he declares it the Summer of George?

I’m kind of in a similar situation. Except instead of severance, I’m looking at a freelance gig that’s probably going to end soon.

Taking a cue from Mr. Costanza (and seriously, shouldn’t we all?), I’m making a list of to-dos for the summer. And as homage, I’m stealing a few items off his list (thank you, Wikipedia, for providing the exhaustive list) and adding a few of my own.

Welcome to my Summer of George.

I will decompress. Luckily, my family vacation in Michigan is coming up. It's a pretty low-key thing. Seriously, we're not even going during peak travel season. It won't even be warm enough to boat. The most strenuous thing we'll do is dote on my cousin’s three-year-old because she’s 1.) adorable and 2.) the first baby to be born into the family since the Reagan administration. Believe me, it won’t be a taxing week.

I will read a book, from beginning to end, in that order. Judging by my last order from Amazon (Stupid easy one-click ordering. Stupid lack of self-control.), I will be reading a lot of books from beginning to end, in that order.

I will also be writing more. Granted, I set the bar pretty low with that one fake letter to Conan post in May. But still. More writing.

I will not, however, learn how to play frolf. I lack the hand-eye coordination to throw a frisbee, let alone catch one. I also lack any and all desire to play a game modeled after one of the dullest sports I can imagine.

I will watch television programming. Daytime tv has no soul, but that’s not going to stop me. I will probably watch enough Food Network to accidentally learn how to cook. And maybe even find out of Barefoot Contessa has even an ounce of personality.

I will take mid-morning naps. This requires no further explanation.

I will get a bike. Or I will continue to talk about getting a bike (like I have since moving to the city in October of ’06), but let my fear of riding along city streets prevent me from actually buying one. One or the other.

I will get my brakes fixed. Yes, I have been complaining about my brakes since April. And no, I don’t have a death wish.

I will go to Cubs games during days other than the weekend. Because my brother splits season tickets with his buddies and there’s little demand for those 1:20 Tuesday games. Especially with the way they've been playing lately. Yeesh.

I will get a tan. Welcome to the shallow end of my to-do list. Despite being of Scottish and Irish decent, my dad tans pretty well. My mom, a fair-skinned red head, does not. For the last twenty-something summers, I’ve been trying to lure my dominant genes out of submission so that I, too, can develop a nice golden tan. Unfortunately, I’ll probably burn like a bastard before peeling, freckling and finally emerging with a slight, sun-kissed glow.

I will act like my college self. Because no to-do list is complete without at least a few gimmes. And there’s just something about summer that brings out the nineteen-year-old in me.

Stay out until the birds are chirping? Sure. Eat trashy pizza during the wee hours of the morning? Yep. Wonder what the heck I'm going to do with myself after graduation? More or less--just replace "graduation" with "freelance project."

The way I see it, College Brenna is only appropriate from now until Labor Day. Just like white pants.

I will go to Italy. I will drink wine and eat gelato and gorge myself on as much fresh pasta as I can get my grubby little American hands on.

Of course, George’s Summer of George didn’t turn out quite as he expected. So fingers crossed mine goes better than his.




* Let’s not get all technical and point out that summer doesn’t officially start until June 21. Because this is Chicago. We have to make the most of our summers. And if you’re following that logic, then come December 19, when you’re schlepping through knee-deep slush and breathing in air that's so cold it makes the inside of your nose burn, I’m going to remind you that winter doesn’t start until December 21 and what you’re experiencing is just a chilly day in late fall.

I let you down, Conan.

Dear Conan,

Hi. How are you? I hear you’re going to TBS soon. That’s awesome. Tough break about having to follow George Lopez though. I mean, I know how upset I was when TBS yanked the hour of syndicated Seinfeld and replaced it with his poor excuse for a late night show, and I didn’t even have to follow his act.

Sorry, that’s kind of old news now. If that were my only reason for writing, I probably should’ve done so sooner. But it’s not really, and they don’t make very many “Congratulations on your new show but sorry your timeslot has you following a complete hack” cards. At least not very many good ones.

Anyway, the real reason I’m writing is because I need to apologize. I let you down, Conan. When that whole late night fiasco unfolded, you really handled it with grace. You wrote that inspiring, heartfelt letter about not being cynical. Said we should work hard and be kind and that amazing things will happen.

The thing is, I’m still cynical. And I’m sorry.

It’s nothing new; I adopted sarcasm at an early age. Maybe it’s because I’m the youngest and the rest of my family was kind of over the whole “child-appropriate” talk by the time I was in first grade. Maybe it’s because I watched a lot of tv skewed toward an older television audience. Either way, I wrote a story about my hamster for a young author’s competition when I was nine and the entire thing was riddled with wit and sarcasm and hilarity. It beat the pants off that other kid's sappy happy story about a teddy bear or whatever. My story made the Top 100. I got a certificate.

In sixth grade, I used to babysit these twin two-year-olds who lived behind us. (As a heads up, the ripe age of twelve isn't old enough nor mature enough to handle twins in their Terrible Twos for any extended amount of time.) I remember being surprised that sarcasm didn't deter these kids from acting like, well, two-year-olds. "Oh, you're going to rewind the Air Bud so we can watch the exact same scene for the 147th time this evening? Good. I'm so glad. I didn't want to see the whole movie anyway." They just looked at me, squealed and clapped their hands in delight. Babies.

When I was in high school, the guy who sat next to me in U.S. History started calling me “Bitter.” Not as an adjective. As a nickname. Sure, you’d be hard-pressed to find a teenage girl who doesn’t have a bit of an attitude. And this is the same kid who told me I had wide hips which a.) probably didn’t help with my disposition and b.) goes to show that high school boys are assholes. But I was a smart ass. Definitely the most sarcastic one on the pom squad. (I was a cynic in cheerleader's clothing.) Maybe not “bitter” per se, but my cynicism was burgeoning at 16.

Then one year in college, when Lent rolled around, I decided to give up swearing, complaining and all negativity in general. It was a long, quiet 40 days. One of my friends commented about how boring I'd become. And it wasn’t like I’d even given up any of my really fun, really devious habits. I was just trying to cut back on the snark.

And here we are today. I’m as sarcastic as ever. My banter is peppered with sardonic wit. Smart ass comments fly out of my mouth before I even have a chance to stop them.

So Conan, I really am sorry. For my cynicism, my sarcasm and my sardonicism (oh yeah, that’s a word. Dictionary.com that bad boy.). I work my ass off and I'm a lot nicer than this letter would lead you to believe, but I just can't do it without a little snarky commentary.

Good luck with that midnight/11 p.m. Central timeslot. I’ll be rooting for you.
Brenna

p.s. Do you like the nickname Coco? Like when people say, “Hey Coco!” on the street, do you think, “hey man, that’s me!” or are you filled with fear that when you do turn around, you’ll see that someone was actually just calling to their chocolate colored poodle over in the park? Just wondering.

No apologies.

Start with some good, old-fashioned Catholic guilt, add in a little yuppy guilt (leftover from the days of full-time and 401ks) and top it off with a healthy dose of eco-guilt (or whatever it is we’re calling this nagging feeling that I'm single-handedly responsible for killing the earth any time some restaurant packages my leftovers in styrofoam). That’s the formula for one of the most guilt-stricken people you’ll ever meet.

I apologize for almost everything. Sorry I missed your call. Sorry Chicago is still chilly in April. Sorry I just stubbed my toe on an inanimate object.

Sorry I’m so sorry. I'm working on it.

But there are certain things I won’t be sorry for. Certain things that are usually met with an eye roll or a cynical, “Really?!” But I don’t care. These are the things I’m sorry I’m not sorry about.

I still really like Death Cab for Cutie. Does this liken me to 15-year-old emo kid more than I’d like to admit? Probably. Given that Death Cab has a single on one of the Twilight movie soundtracks, this probably makes me more like a tween vampire fanatic. But whatever. I don’t care. Ben Gibbard has a pretty voice. He also has a way with words that makes even the most complicated things seem achingly simple.

Plus, the guy’s married to Zooey Deschanel. He’s obviously doing something right.



I don’t watch Lost. At my very first, very short-lived job, I had a very obnoxious boss. He had a very grating personality and very little talent to make it tolerable. Before deciding I wasn’t worthy of his time, he dumped his entire workload on me. He then proceeded to gallivant about the office, stopping at any and every cube to discuss the latest developments on his favorite new show, Lost.

Then and there, buried under a pile of my boss's shirked responsibilities, I vowed never to watch a single episode.

For one, I feared that watching would make me susceptible to accidentally having something in common with this guy. Secondly, didn’t we already try this tv scenario in the ‘60s? Wasn’t it called Gilligan’s Island? And wasn’t it just as ridiculous then?



I’m wordy. But what I lack in brevity, I make up for in entertaining anecdotes.

I don’t really like Gwen Stefani. Being an 11-year-old girl in 1995, I think I’m like obliged to be a No Doubt fan. I should own at least one copy of Tragic Kingdom; ideally, I’d have one on cassette and one on CD. I’m just not and I don’t.


While we’re at it, I’m not a huge Madonna fan either.

I live in Lakeview, bro. Less than a mile south of Wrigley Field. Around the corner from a bar where the drinks are strong, brightly colored and served in fishbowls. And the epicenter of all things hated by most hipsters.

Working in an industry populated by the too-cool-for-school, I've seen the judgy looks I get when I mention where I live. Nope, my neighborhood is neither artsy nor up-and-coming; it's established and a little fratty but I’m generally not afraid of getting stabbed walking down the street. And if that makes me boring and predictable and a bit of a Trixie*, then fine.

Guess what else? I went to a Big Ten school, I was in a sorority and I honestly like the taste of Miller Lite. I’m a walking cliché and I’m not sorry.

Besides, I was doing that bored and ironic thing years ago. You know, back when all those cool hipster types thought PBR was just another crappy beer.

I get kind of elitist about proper grammar and punctuation. I sincerely doubt you’re so excited that every sentence you type warrants an exclamation point. Also, I'm a giant nerd.



I have an insanely good memory specializing in the most insignificant or inane details. I remember a lot. Like what I was wearing on a random night out in college. Or the details of sitcoms airing between 1988-1997. (Ask me a question about The Cosby Show. Test my knowledge of Boy Meets World. Try to stump me on anything Seinfeld-related.) I’m also really good at remembering commercials from my youth, but at least that comes in handy.

What’s even better, my memory is eerily accurate when it comes to people I’ve met. It can be a little creepy and I should really learn to keep it in check. But if there’s a chance we went to summer camp together, I probably remember. Think we had that one class together freshman year? I’ll let you know.

By chance, I met a girl I who was in my 5th grade class and before she could even introduce herself, I blurted out, “Are you from Elgin? Did you go to Century Oaks? Is your name Heidi?” I don’t think I even told her my name; I just weirded her out and then started talking to someone else. (In my defense, she looks exactly the same as she did when we were both in Mr. Barszo’s class. In her defense, who the heck was I?!?)

As creepy as it is, my Rain Man-esque memory does come in handy in the following situations: settling arguments between two parties as to whether or not the Winslow family had stairs in the living room as well as the back stairs in the kitchen (they did; every sitcom house did), Teen Jeopardy! and bar trivia.



*By definition, I am most definitely not a Trixie. I work in advertising and I live in Lakeview. Duh.

"Welcome aboard Red Line, run bat shit crazy."

In keeping with my “if you don’t have anything original to say, you may as well write about it” trend as of late, I figure I’d give the el its due diligence.


Over the past 5 months, my el ridership has gone way down, what with the unemployment and all. And then my freelance project in the meat packing district let me to drive to work for a few months. But now I’m back downtown, taking mass transit with the masses.

Good news: not much about the CTA has changed since November. Except my current freelance project requires I hop on the red line to get to the office, and I haven't really had to take that since we lived on Addison.

The thing about the red line is it smells bad and it goes underground and the passengers aboard are all sorts of crazy. Seriously, last week I'm coming home from my interview and we’ve already got one guy at the end of the car just shouting. Then this girl gets on at Lake, stands in the little doorway and starts belting out “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” She was nuts, but even over my iPod, it was obvious she had a decent voice. Thank goodness she got off at the next stop.

Anyway, today I get on at Fullerton with all my “please don’t talk to me” gear in place: sunglasses on, headphones in, arms crossed. I even stand by the door in hopes of keeping some personal space about myself. As the train descends from the elevated tracks to the underground subway, I take off my sunglasses. I have this thing where I feel ridiculous wearing sunglasses when it’s not sunny; I’m not Kanye West and I’m not fooling anyone.

But no sooner are my Ray Bans perched atop my head does one of the crazies start talking to me. How crazy, you ask? Scraggily hair. Denim on denim ensemble. Possible missing tooth. This guy made Keith Richards look like a kindergarten teacher.


He’s staggering around, holding a cigarillo and a bottle of root beer. The cigarillo doubles as a pointer as he follows the train's path along the map above the door.

“Where’s Randolph?” he slurs my way.

Why me? The two people behind you don’t have headphones in. They’re chatting amongst themselves. They look far more helpful than I do. But they’re still wearing sunglasses. Crap.

I pull out my headphone and respond to him, nod politely and put my headphone back in. He staggers away and lets me enjoy the rest of my commute in peace.

Oh, no wait. The train is pulling into Clark and Division and he’s back. “Where’s Clark?” he angrily thrusts his cigarillo at the map, apparently accusing it for lying to him.

I pull out my headphone again and tell him it’s the stop marked Clark/Division. He stumbles off the train when the doors open and looks up and down the platform, presumably for someone's face to wave his cigarillo in. Pretty sure he’s not getting himself down to Randolph, but who am I to argue?

Headphone back in, volume up a few more notches and sunglasses down. I no longer care if I’m underground. I’m guessing Kanye rocked the shades on the red line on more than one occasion. Just call me Mr. West. Except maybe not in that awful Milton Bradley, “I’m the Kanye of baseball!” sort of way.




Editor's note: Sorry for swearing in the title there. They say swearing is kind of a cheap way to get laughs in writing, but there aren’t many better ways to explain the clientele riding between Howard and 95th. Plus, I liked the cadence of the line. So I kept it, four-letter word and all. I'm such a damn rebel.

About that competitive thing...

I think Klosterman does a much better job of getting to the root of this competition-as-motivation thing with The Importance of Being Hated. You should probably read it, if not immediately, then at least pretty soon.

Is it competitive in here, or is it just me?

For someone who never really played competitive sports as a child, I’ve got a competitive streak like you wouldn’t believe.

I guess that’s not counting the countless years of dance team and all the Saturdays spent at high school pom competitions. Yes, they were competitions, but they were based on artistry and precision and sparkly costumes. There wasn’t a lot of head-to-head competition. No slide tackling. Not even dance offs, really.

But I dare you to find a more ruthless atmosphere than the behind-the-scenes of a high school pom competition. Seriously. There were mind games that would’ve made the KGB proud. Deep-seated hatreds that rivaled the Hatfields and McCoys*. Mean girl looks that could stop a pom-pon girl dead in her tracks.

(Do you want to mess with this? Didn't think so.)

Of course, we all went on to the same colleges and then joined the same sororities and laughed about the good old days of pom competitions. But the insatiable need to be first remained.

Or maybe my competitive side stems from years of trying to move up the ranks from second-favorite child. Yes, I know being the youngest and the only daughter, I should be a shoo-in for #1 offspring. But I’m not. It’s a pretty well-known fact that Andy clenched that title a long time ago. Ask him how many cars he’s been given and compare it to the ’97 Escort I drove for 7 years**. The guy went to Stanford for grad school (right around the same time I announced I wanted to be an art major), and when he came home, things got a little Prodigal Son at the Essary household.

“This is Andy, a LEED-certified structural engineer with a masters degree from Stanford. And this is the other one, sometimes we accidentally call her Jill, but her name’s Brenna. She’s unemployed right now, but when she does work, she works in advertising.”

(You’re welcome, Andy, for making this so easy for you.)

Coming in number two for the last 25 years, I’ve spent the majority of my life being scrappy and fighting my way up to first. Or at least a closer second. And I’m guessing that probably has a thing or two to do with my over-zealous need to win.

Okay, so I had a point here. This whole competitive thing. I didn’t really realize I had it in me until college (coincidentally around the same time I realized I was good at taps***), and nothing brings it out like meeting another writer.

Oh, you’re a copywriter? I’m Googling you asap to check out your portfolio. You’ve got a blog, too? Don’t worry, I plan on reading every entry. Oh, you’re creeped out that some one you don’t even really know will be hanging on your every blogged word? Sorry about that.

Maybe it’s my overwhelming need to be liked that’s morphed into the need to be liked the most. Maybe I’m still harboring all sorts of childhood resentments and feel like I have to come in first. Maybe I’m just a pain in the ass. I don’t know, whatever. But I really seem to thrive on this unspoken/imaginary competition.

So thanks. For writing things or for having an online portfolio or for putting up with me when I get all crazy competitive. And I’m sorry. For knowing way too much about your personal life because I stalk your blog or for having every campaign in your portfolio memorized and for being this crazy competitive in the first place.



*Everyone knows you hired a professional choreographer, St. Charles. The jig is up.
**Rest in peace, Scooter. You were the best car ever.
***Don’t you dare call it flippy cup.

Oh hey. Vegas was a ton of fun. Thanks for asking.

(I want to go to there. You know, again.)

So I guess if I went out of my way to post my hopes and dreams for our Vegas 2k10 trip, I should probably follow up on that. Here's what I hoped our recent trip to Vegas would have over our trip in 2006.

What I wished for: No weird smell.

What I got: A different weird smell.
Unlike the Tropicana, the Hard Rock didn’t smell like deep-fried grandmas. Some other flowery, yet not overly feminine scent perfumed the casino floor. It wasn’t bad. The pure oxygen they’re pumping through the casino probably didn’t hurt either.


What I wished for: Winning more than $26.82.

What I got: Winning $0.
I spent maybe $3 on slot machines the first day before I got bored. But we did make friends with a couple of guys who, after purchasing Gambling for Dummies, mastered craps and won a couple grand. Every night. Needless to say, drinks were on them.

(Apparently a must-read.)


What I wished for: A mini-fridge.

What I got: A mini-fridge stocked with plenty of snacks and beverages all carefully placed on top of motion sensors that will charge your room $8 if you so much as move that bottle of water.
So much for leftovers.


What I wished for: No one sleeping on the floor.

What I got: The softest, most comfortable bed I’ve ever seen.
Seriously, it was like sleeping on a cloud. You can’t blame us for not wanting to leave those beds, even for happy hour.

(Oh hey, Bud Light Lime in bed.)


What I wished for: No 5 a.m. lockouts.

What I got: No 5 a.m. lockouts.
Our key worked properly every time we used it. We did, however, take some issue with our very polite cleaning guy and his very bad timing. Without fail, he showed up at the most inconvenient times. Oh, you were out dancing until 5? I’ll come clean the room at 9.


Also of note: we did not recreate the picture with the knights at Excalibur. We did, however, take pictures with portraits of famous rock legends showcased on each floor of the Hard Rock hotel.

(Yeah, no that's not Kelly Clarkson.)
(Iggy Pop's got one heckuva back bend. But Katie's a close second, and she's wearing heels.)

And for the record, five days is a long time to spend in Vegas. Also for the record, a lot of people warned us about that. But there ain’t no party like a Bud Light-sponsored party because a Bud Light-sponsored party don’t stop.

A word to the reader.

The following entry (I guess it’s actually the previous, even though it’s below this one. Go figure.) is a long one. It’s the harrowing tale of my trek from Tucson to Chicago that took a whopping 25 hours.

It’s long and there are no pictures. (Sorry about that last part. Had I not been in the middle of a mental breakdown/the great state of Texas, I would’ve been taking photos left and right.) Reading it will certainly be an endeavor. And it may not even be that entertaining.

The thing is, I’m a pretty good self-editor. The post could be a lot longer, I took out some good stuff. Like how the guy sitting next to me on the plane tried to impart his ancient philosophic wisdom on me. (Aristotle could give us some tips about how to keep your cool when flying American Airlines, apparently.) Or how the old lady sitting across from me in the terminal felt the need to yell into her archaic cell phone in her Wisconsin accent. (Dontchaknow.) Or how the happy couple in the room 123 started going at it at 2:13 a.m. (Newsflash: the walls in any La Quinta Inn are paper thin. This shouldn't be news because, come on, it's a La Quinta. What did you expect?)

But anyway, I won’t fault you if you don’t make it through the whole thing. I don’t even blame you if you flat out don’t want to try. If you do, I assume it’s because you’re SUCH a good friend. That or you’re incredibly bored at work.

Hey! It's a rant about air travel!

I know ranting about flying is nothing new; it’s about as creative as saying, “I like puppies!” or “I hate bee stings.” And everyone’s got a horror story to tell. Lost luggage, teething babies, transatlantic flights seated next to a man with colostomy bag. (Seriously, I don’t think Kimberly reads this, but that story made me wary to ever set foot on an airplane ever again.)

But the experience I just underwent (read: barely survived with my sanity in tact) was more of a comedy of errors than anything else.

Allow me set the scene for you. It’s day 12 of my 12 day vacation. I’m worn out, dehydrated and tired of seeing people in cowboy boots. I want nothing more than to fall face first into my own bed and sleep for as long as my little heart desires. And I’m just a few hours and a connecting flight in Dallas away from sweet home Chicago.

We board the plane a little later than anticipated, they tell us there are some high winds in Dallas but it’s no big deal. No. Big. Deal. So I hoist my carryon into the overhead compartment, climb over my aisle-seated neighbor and settle in next to the window. I’m almost home.

Except we don’t move. Because it’s windy in Dallas, we’ve been ordered to stay at the gate (I think they called it a ground stop, but I’ll be damned if that flight attendant wasn’t breathing into the intercom like Darth Vader after running some wind sprints). Again, they assure us we’ll be fine. Because everyone and their mother has a connecting flight to catch in Dallas. Don’t worry.

I’ll just sleep. My marathon vacations have left me a little tired, so I hug my fleece jacket to my chest and snuggle in for a nap. Except I can’t. I’ve got a bad case of the jimmy legs*. And the jimmy arms. Pretty much any time I doze off, some part of my body twitches to the point that I’m jostled awake and the guy next to me just stares.

Welp, looks like I’m going to be awake for a while. Time to take in the sights. Inexplicably, everyone else on the flight seems to know each other. They’re up and out of their seats, laughing about how much fun they had this week. A surprising amount of them seem to be wearing sunglasses even though a.) we’re on a plane and b.) it’s no longer sunny out. The woman in front of me whips out her laptop to watch a movie. Her film of choice? Tootsie. I’ve never seen it, but even through the gap between the seats, there’s no mistaking Dustin Hoffman in drag. While I’m pondering why, of all the movies in the world to watch on a plane, this woman has picked one from 1982, someone behind me starts eating a Nutty Bar.

Now, I haven’t had a Nutty Bar since high school, but the aroma is unmistakable. Chocolate, peanut butter and crispy wafers? Shut up. I’m starving. It’s been hours since I had that veggie sandwich from Subway (my own fault, I know a veggie sandwich isn’t that substantial, but I’m weird about my lunch meat) and I seriously debate turning around and trying to bargain with this woman for the second bar in her Little Debbie snack pack.

But I’ve got nothing. I’m sitting in my window seat, watching Tootsie and smelling Nutty Bars. I’m bored and hungry and just want to get home. I welcome the sweet, ear-popping release of decent. Almost there.

All of a sudden, the guy to my right wants to strike up a conversation. This same man who seemed genuinely annoyed when I whispered, “Excuse me, did you happen to hear what our new arrival time is?” is now interested in some small talk. Now, as we’re descending and I’m becoming painfully aware of how congested I am (what, you mean you don’t spend 12 days in the arid desert and come down with a case of the sniffles?), he wants to discuss whether we’re looking out our window (my window) at Dallas or Ft. Worth. What the heck difference does it make? I feel like my head is about to explode.

We touch down and the conversation comes to an end. “Welcome to Dallas/Ft. Worth! Feel free to turn on your cell phones and see that your connecting flight to Chicago took off about an hour and a half ago. We know you have a choice when it comes to air travel, and we thank you for choosing American.”

Well, crap.

I find my way to the ticket counter and wait in a long line of angry Illinoisans who were supposed to be home by now. But I’m not one of them. I’m actually pretty proud of myself for just laughing the whole thing off. It happens. It’s cool. As long as I can get something to eat soon.

I get myself booked on a 9:35 a.m. flight and agree to the first hotel the airport guy suggests. Probably should’ve been listening closer, because it’s a Super 8. Now, I’m no hotel snob (see: previous entry, cramming 5 girls into one room at the Tropicana) but I can think of places I’d rather spend the night in a strange city than the airport Super 8. But the airport guy assures me the shuttle will be there shortly and the hotel is located within walking distance of plenty of restaurants.

Alrighty. I’ve got my ticket. I’ve got my hotel voucher. I've been promised restaurants within walking distance. I’m good to go. I work my way down to where the shuttles pick up (which is in the dark, desolate bowels of the airport) and wait for my Super 8 chariot.

At first I thought I’d be embarrassed to board the Super 8 shuttle as the shiny Hyatt bus pulled up. I was wrong. I would’ve gladly worn a Super 8 sandwich board for the next year if it would’ve gotten my shuttle there any faster. Every time I called my hotel, I was assured that my shuttle would be arriving momentarily. (Sounds like that “immediate follower” lie the CTA always tells, doesn’t it?)

So there I am. Standing in the dark. Listening to a high school senior try to hit on a girl who’s already done with college (what? I had a long time to wait and nothing better to do than eavesdrop). Counting the minutes until I can call Super 8 again. Wondering why this little Asian boy keeps inching away from his family and closer to me. Seriously, this kid went from a comfortable distance to crowding my personal space in about 15 seconds. And I’m getting a little freaked out. Maybe it’s because I’m paranoid. Maybe it’s because I haven’t slept much in the last week and a half. Maybe it’s because my blood sugar had dropped so low that I'm starting to imagine small children creeping around my carry on. I’m not sure, but at this point, I’m throwing in the towel.

“Screw it.”

It’s past 11. I need a cab. And we’re not at O’Hare anymore, so I can’t just hail one. Where the heck can I get a cab? Upstairs, apparently, and maybe a half mile down at the cab stand. Great.

I ask the woman for a cab and call a bunch of hotels in hopes of finding one that won’t charge $140 for the night. Because at this point, I’m only going to need a room for 8 hours.

Good news. The La Quinta won’t gauge me and they have continental breakfast. Sold.

A van cab pulls up, the guy throws my suitcase in the back, and I climb in. I thank him numerous times, so grateful to be leaving the airport behind. Cabbie doesn’t seem to appreciate my gratitude. Once we’re on the highway, he barks, “She told you it would be $22 flat rate from airport, right? $22 no matter where you go. Otherwise I don’t make any money and you get to go wherever you want. All night. I don’t make any money.”

Wait, is this guy yelling at me?

“No, she didn’t tell me.”

He hits the brakes. On the highway. “You have the money or not?”

ARE THESE HOSTAGE NEGOTIATIONS OR SOMETHING?!?!

“Yes,” I eek out.

“Good. You tell me you need a cab, you have to pay.”

My next response? I start to cry. I erupt into a mess of big, fat sloppy tears. The kind of tears usually reserved for toddlers and coeds cowering in the back corner of C.O.’s (or whatever your dirty college bar of choice may be). I hate crying, especially in front of strangers. One, I don’t like the overwhelming vulnerability of it all and two, no one wants to be the crazy crying girl in the back of a taxi, especially in a strange city. But there I was, bawling and Kleenex-less.

Now the cabbie tries to comfort me (I think), but it just comes off as belittling. “At least you’re not stuck in the air!”

Um, what?

I elect to stay quiet for the rest of the drive, save for the occasional sob that escapes. We pull up to the La Quinta and I shove the last of my cash in the cab driver’s hand as I avoid eye contact with the man. As the hotel’s automatic doors slide close, I hear him yell, “You work yourself up too much!”

A total basketcase, I walk up to the front desk and ask for a room. I’m still avoiding eye contact with everyone, like the fact that my gaze isn’t meeting theirs will somehow keep my secret that I was just bawling in the back of a cab. But bless her little heart, the girl at the front desk is efficient and polite and says she hopes the rest of my night goes better. How pitiful am I?

I take my carry on, my small personal item and my bedraggled self to my room and am pleasantly surprised by how well appointed it is. I scrounge up enough change to buy Cheez-Its from the vending machine (Psht. Like that’s the first time I’ve had Cheez-Its for dinner. And I can guarantee it won’t be the last.) I’m just so happy to be in a hotel room, I’m sure I’ll drift off in no time.

Again, wrong. I was so terrified I’d sleep through my alarm and miss my flight (and I did NOT want to spend any more time in Texas), I barely slept. My alarm goes off at 6, I'm ready in record time and it's off to the continental breakfast. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would’ve gotten my money’s worth (and everything Texas owed me) at that buffet. But my mind was clouded from lack of sleep, so I just grabbed a bagel and some coffee. I literally waited at the curb for the airport shuttle to make its 7 o’clock run.

The shuttle comes and the driver is kind and helpful and doesn’t yell at me. And I love him.

“They said you were crying pretty bad when you got in last night.” Yep, less than 12 hours here and I’ve already made a reputation for myself. Neat.

The shuttle drops me at the curb and I gratefully unload myself from the van as quickly as possible. I walk in the wrong direction, naturally, so I have to pull a U-ie in front of my favorite airport shuttle driver. He just laughs and waves. I sheepishly wave back. No offense, kind sir, but I hope I never have to see you again! And I’m on my way.

I finally make it through security, get myself a black cherry mocha (never have I ever been so happy to have a Starbucks in my hand) and settle in at my gate until boarding time.

I spot a girl in a Blackhawks t-shirt and it’s oddly comforting. There are a couple of Cubs hats scattered about the terminal, and I feel like I’m among friends. I’m no Wildcats fan, but when a woman sits across from me in a purple sweatshirt with “Northwestern” emblazoned across the front, I almost want to hug her. Yes! Chicagoans! Mayor Daley’s brethren! Let us all band together and get out of this God-forsaken state! It’s a strange sense of solidarity and I feel like the worst of the trip is behind me.

I am a fool.

They start boarding and, because I was a last minute addition to the flight, I’m part of boarding Group 1, seated in a middle seat in the waaaaay back of the plane. But if that means I can get on the plane in a timely manner, cozy up to my North Face quicker and drift off faster, then so be it.

The kind woman at the gate scans my boarding pass and eyes me up and down and informs me that my carry on is too large. I stop, mouth agape, and stare at her as though she just told me it's my ass that's too large, not my luggage. “There was no problem when I got in yesterday,” I manage to stammer. I’m genuinely confused. Because nothing has changed in that carry on in the last 16 hours. Nothing’s been added, nothing’s been taken away. Because I’m wearing the same thing I wore during yesterday's leg of my journey.

The. Exact. Same. Thing.

Because yes, I ran out of clothes while I was there. Or, more accurately, I only packed the number of t-shirts one would need for the duration of my 5-day stay. I didn’t account for a bonus day of vacation. I also ran out of toothpaste the morning before (brushed my teeth with nothing but hot water, which is how I imagine they did it on the Oregon Trail) and almost ran out of contact solution.

Exasperated, I throw up my hands (literally, I’m afraid) and say, “Fine. Check it.” I almost walk away from my suitcase before the guy at the gate hands me a tag. I’m pretty sure this would’ve pegged me for a terrorist or at the very least, cost me my over-stuffed suitcase.

But I’m almost there. I walk down the ramp and down the entire length of the plane to the second-to-last row. And I’m almost home. Looks like I’m sitting between a guy and a girl who are about my age and clearly don’t want to do anything but sleep on this flight. My heart soars.

And then it comes crashing back down. Because a woman with three small children is walking our way. And she doesn’t stop until the row behind us. My row-mates and I all exchange anxious glances with each other. Three kids under the age of 7? No good can come of this.

I mean, I understand that kids are kids. I can forgive the 19-month-old for pulling my hair as she fiddles with my headrest. I understand that a 7-year-old is going to have to use the bathroom right before take off and will probably whine about it until the fasten seat belt sign goes off. But the little boy kicking my seat for the entire flight? That is not okay.

“Noah honey, you can’t kick the seat in front of you when you’re on an airplane.” The sing-songy tone of the mom’s voice makes it clear that discipline is not her forte. “If you keep kicking, Noah honey, I’m going to give you one less dollar when we go to the dollar store.”

“It doesn’t say I can’t kick anywhere!” Kick. Kick. Kick.

I know it’s wrong to hate children, but wow, I hated this kid.

I endure his kidney shots for over two hours. Even over my iPod, I can hear him screech every so often. I want nothing more than to turn around and stick my gum in his bowl cut.

But I am almost home.

After all the wind delays and the nonexistent airport shuttles and miraculous growing carry ons that are all of a sudden too big and the tiny Lord of the Dance kicking me in the back for the entire flight.

I'm. Almost. Home.

When the guy in the window seat opens the window shade, I see nothing but flat, Midwestern farmland. And it's beautiful. Take that deserts and mountains! Soon the farms gave way to the cul de sacs of suburbia and gridded urban sprawl. And nothing I've ever seen before has every made me this happy.

Except maybe when I glanced over and saw the window seat guy scrolling through his iPod, and somewhere between 50 Cent and Snoop Dogg, Jewel popped up on shuffle. Well played, Mr. Window Seat. Well played.



*Seinfeld reference. Episode 146. Kramer can’t sleep in the same bed with his new girlfriend (played by Sarah Silverman) because she kicks in her sleep. She’s got “the jimmy legs.”