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.