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.