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.