Stejamoe Speaks

A Shady Situation

2010-04-15T10:21:00.004-05:00

Since when does the color white come in so many shades? I have realized that I have grown up in a generation that chooses to pick apart the basics with the goal to make them as complicated as possible. Not even black is safe. We now have charcoal, graphite and ebony, all of which have different twinges of blues and grays that play games with the eyes, driving even ROY. G. BIV himself crazy.

My first run-in with the complexities of basic colors was when I began shopping for my wedding dress. I realized that I would prefer to walk down the aisle in “soft white” opposed to stark white, opposed to ivory, opposed to cream, opposed to antique white, opposed to off white, opposed to pearl, opposed to just plain ole white itself. And the best was that one manufacturer’s antique white was another’s off white and ivory in one store was considered yellow in another. It’s like every shop I went to I had to learn a new language and embrace a new color spectrum just to get what I thought would be a simple white dress.

This shady dilemma has reared its ugly head once again, but this time on our home. Looking to add a kitchen island, the hubs and I wanted to match our already existing white cabinets. Trust me, they are white. Plain white. Standard white. Nothing fancy white.

Upon cabinet shopping we were blinded by the sample of what they called a “white” finish and opted to choose the more subtle, but still VERY white, “antique white” finish. Had enough “white” yet? Well, there is more.

We just got the delivery and in the box, the cabinets looked like the perfect shade of white, but when putting them in the kitchen, our new addition looked like a dirty gym sock. How in the heck can one white be so different from another? Our new cabinets look like they have a permanent shadow cast upon them… a shadow of stupidity that is, because we should have never have trusted our color instincts.

In all reality, and you know how I like to distort it, the cabinets aren’t THAT bad… its not like they are cream or off white… whatever that means. They will soon be dressed up with a new counter top and hardware, hopefully washing some brightness into the gym sock hue creating more of a “just bleached pair of tighty whiteys” shade.

Lesson of the day? Not all colors are created equal, not even the basics. What’s one person’s white, is another one’s ivory. And if life hands you an off shade, just embrace the differences AND your kitchen's dimmer switch.

We'll Always Have a Box of Cheerios.

2010-03-25T10:55:00.004-05:00

Breakfast for dinner. Sounds easy enough, right? Wrong.

Since getting married, I’ve been on this mission to be the best wife possible, which includes a new found dedication to preparing home cooked meals.

Before tying the knot, I refused to touch raw meat, relied on pre-washed and chopped lettuce and couldn’t tell cinnamon from cumin.

But now, I’m trimming and handling raw carnage, buying and chopping fresh veggies and have a cabinet FULL of spices that I can name by scent alone. Not to be cocky here or anything, but I’m even impressing myself as I toast sesame seeds to garnish homemade chicken teriyaki and whip up banana bread after seeing a few forgotten bananas ripening on the counter.

However, last night took the wind out of my culinary sails as I screwed up the most basic of meals: breakfast.

My husband takes great pride in his breakfast making abilities, but my wifely confidence got in the way as I shot down his offer to help me prepare the morning fare for our evening meal.

Long story short, dinner preparations turned into a comedy of errors as I over estimated the time it would take to scramble eggs and under estimated the time it would take to nuke the bacon. And not only can I not successfully flip a pancake, I apparently can’t judge when they are undercooked and prefer to serve them with goopy middles that you discover only when slice into them.

Dinner was served and so was I.

Refraining from saying, “I told you I could help,” the hubs tried to hide his disappointment as he sifted through the pancakes to find the least runny one. Embarrassed of my failure, I quickly made my plate and tried to eat around simple items that had gone horribly wrong.

After a few minutes of eating by myself, waiting for the hubs to join me, and thinking “this isn’t THAT bad,” I heard a familiar jingle of cereal filling a bowl and realized that sure, its not THAT bad… it’s REALLY bad.

I stepped into the kitchen to find the hubs stuffing his face quickly with Cheerios to avoid having me see him admit to my dinner defeat.

I learned two things from this ego-checking debacle – first, a good husband never lets you see him scrape his inedible dinner into the garbage and second, you should always have a box of Cheerios on hand just in case.

Real Men Wear Eyebrow Pencil

2010-03-09T15:39:00.003-06:00

I was in no way a needy or pushy bride-to-be. When comparing myself to the spectrum of brides, I would like to think I fell in the green hues, where I would freak out about missing wedding invitation envelopes, but didn’t demand that my bridesmaids all dye their hair the same color. I was emotional, but not irrational. I was picky, but not demanding. I had a vision, but I was open to suggestions. Basically, I was every wedding vendors dream.

It wasn’t until my then fiancé decided to buzz his eyebrows, shedding what use to be glorious strips of hair that framed his beautiful baby blues, that I FREAKED. OUT. It was my first irrational, bridal panic worthy of a reality show taping.

Before I go any further… yes, you heard me right. My husband buzzed off his eyebrows. 39 days before our wedding.

During a phone call at work, my hubby-to-be tells me that he “trimmed” his brows and thought they looked “a lot different than usual.” Apparently he “trims” them frequently and I thought nothing of it because his eyebrows have looked the same to me for the past five years. If trimming is his secret to being so handsome, please, trim away.

So I walk into our house later that evening and approach him from behind as he’s working in our office, staring at the computer. I go to hug him and recoil in horror as he turns around showing me remnants of what use to be his eyebrows.

They were gone. Well, practically gone. He looked like the lead character in that movie Powder, minus the bald head and freaky supernatural powers.

He didn’t think they were “THAT bad,” and got so defensive telling me they would grow back and scoffed when I noted we have a similar hair color and that my eye brow pencil would be a perfect shade for him.

I spent restless nights thinking about how washed out and odd he would look in our wedding pictures. I would love him no matter what, eyebrows or no eyebrows, but if you read my last post, the one thing I wanted to run smoothly were the wedding pictures and his tango with a trimmer jeopardized our chances of having perfect photos (little did I know my 103 degree fever the day of the wedding would be a far bigger concern than missing hair.)

It was one week after the “incident” and my hairless hubby still didn’t have eyebrows. I had time to get over the situation and realized there were bigger, hairier fish to fry. We were getting ready for our bridal shower and as I was putting my makeup on, the hubs paced nervously around me and finally said, “um… you know that eyebrow pencil you were talking about? Can I see it?”

It was then that I realized that real men make stupid mistakes with a trimmer and that real men will also wear eyebrow pencil under dire circumstances. And most importantly, I learned that real men will do anything to make their wife happy. I’m so happy I married myself a real man… who, by the way, had grown back a full set of REAL eyebrows by the time we walked down the aisle.

One "HOT" Bride

2010-03-01T17:02:00.005-06:00

Ahhhh… it’s good to be back. A lot has happened since I last posted. The most important thing to announce is that I’m officially hitched now – I bet after all my posts about the bridal madness I faced you didn’t think I’d make it down the aisle, right? Not only did I make it down the aisle, I made it down with nothing but grace, beauty and a 103 degree temperature. Yes, that’s right. I gave new meaning to the phrase “hot bride” and have come to realize that the survival potential of your marriage is promising if you truly don’t know if you’ll physically survive the wedding and question if you’ll literally come out alive.

During the madness leading up the wedding, late night seating arrangement planning coupled with a frantic work schedule and the spread of the swine flu, resulted in an illness that will put me in the bridal hall of fame.

And we’re not talking about a little “cough, cough, sniffle, sniffle.” We’re talking about a full fledged virus that put me into emergency care TWICE (the second time the day before the wedding) and equipped me with medicine that came with the warning, “if I were you, I wouldn’t take this pill and partake in any kind of champagne toast.” I was weak, I could barely speak because my throat was swollen shut and I was hotter than the serving dishes at the rehearsal dinner.

The days leading up to the wedding I realized there would be no way I’d feel physically well on the big day. I hoped that I would have a strong enough voice for my vows, I wished that my fever would go down just enough to be somewhat comfortable but I PRAYED that I would still look healthfully flawless because after all, memories will fade, but darnit, pictures get passed around for decades to come. I don’t want my great, great grandchildren asking, “why is Grandma Stejamoe so pale and sweaty in her wedding pictures? Is that what they looked like in the 2000s?”

So my main goal that day was nothing more than to turn my “fresh from the ER” look into “fresh from the spa that just happens to have on call nurses and doctors on staff” look. And may I give you a piece of advice? If you’re in a bind and need to get attention ASAP at a an emergency care center, just tell everyone that you’re “getting married tomorrow.” Not only will you be treated well before the guy who just lost a thumb or the lady who has a screw driver stuck in her eye, you’ll also get the nicest bunch of medical staff crowding your hospital bed sharing stories about their wedding and “oooh-ing’ and “ahh-ing” as you try to croak out what your flower colors are and what you’ll be serving your guests. Does it really take five nurses to get your blood pressure reading? Well, apparently when you’re talking about bridesmaid dresses, it does.

So with my new ER fan club, a hearty combination of medication and the fear of horrible wedding pictures, I sucked everything up and hoped for the best. Its now nearly 5 months later and looking back at it all, I just didn’t hope for the best, I got the best… the wedding was flawless, the groom didn’t faint, I looked HEALTHY in our pictures and we had hundreds of our friends and family surrounding us with love that day… but I made a point to make sure they weren’t surrounding us too much as I tried to tame my wedding crashing fever.

Oh, and did I mention that I was coughing so hard before I walked down the aisle in an effort to oust anything that would impede on my vows that I sprained my neck? Yeah, for the first two days of our honeymoon I couldn’t turn to look at my groom without turning my ENTIRE body. And I was in so much pain that I tried to convince the hubs that we should find a Mexican doctor to inject my neck with a muscle relaxer and that I was sure it would be safe. What a romantic honeymoon, right?!

I do get sad thinking back about how sick I felt on my wedding day, but I also think back and smile knowing that I have one heck of a story to tell. And you know how people will tell you that if it rains on your wedding day it means you’ll be rich? Well, I’d like to add another saying to the books… if you turn up in the ER the day before your wedding sick as a dog, it means you’ll have a healthy, happy marriage… or if nothing else, it means you’ll get some impeccable customer service from ER staff.

A glass half full.

2009-08-28T10:02:00.004-05:00

So I’ve been whining about bridal drama for more than a year now.

My dress is too big....

The flowers are too expensive...

My future in-laws are nuts...

My fiancé shaved off his eye-brows (yes, this is a true story, but best told in another post)...

For the past year, these troubles have trumped everything else and made me take absolute pity on myself.

However, last night I received news that a family member was diagnosed with terminal cancer and was given no more than three months to live.

This news came after my first dress fitting where the best seamstress in the area performed magic on my once baggy gown and has already managed to turn into it the dress of my dreams.

And this news came just before I got home and had three massive packages waiting for me that held fantastic and thoughtful wedding gifts from some unexpected sources.

I suddenly felt completely guilty for even thinking that I had problems when in reality, I don’t think my life could get any better.

As I unwrapped our new wedding gifts, which consisted of beautiful, new wine glasses, I began to pray for a wonderful man’s life and realized that its time for me see the glass as half full.

Well, I had a flat tire. So there.

2009-08-21T12:53:00.002-05:00

It’s official. I’m bitter.

I don’t know when it happened exactly, but I do know that the culmination of recent events have pushed me over the bitter ledge leaving this once sweet, sugar coated lady a burnt and salty wench.

I came to this harsh realization when I started to do something that I HATE other people do. My biggest pet peeve is when people try to trump your worries and pains with theirs. These are the kind of people who respond to your grandma dying with, “well, my dog passed away last year of old age and it was really hard of my family even though I’m allergic to dog hair and have had my eyes swollen shut with dander for the past 13 years that Fido was living.” Um. Thanks for the sympathy.

Can these kind of people ever let others grovel in defeat without making them feel like they truly don’t know what defeat is? And why is it that their flat tire on a highway story is SO much better and more dramatic than yours?

I have sadly started to try to trump people’s stress but only because I feel so overwhelmed with life that I sometimes am shocked I make it to work and don’t find myself detouring to the Mexican border.

I normally handle stress quite well and can smile my way through a lot of chaos. However, the stressful combination I’ve been dealing with lately has turned into a toxic mess forcing me to stock pile every little “bad” thing that happens so I can successfully shoot down whoever attempts to complain about their own troubles. And what’s worse, I take every bad situation and make it even more terrible… let me give you an example:

A few weeks ago I was driving through construction and surprise, surprise I got a flat tire. But the tire didn’t go flat until I was safely at home turning out of my driveway on my way to run an errand that wasn’t urgent or even necessary. Even more convenient, my dad was willing and able to take my car in the next day to get fixed and cordially offered me a ride to work the next morning.

My response to all of this? “God hates me.” And better yet, I took that flat tire incident (that was resolved completely the next day, by the way) and have carried it around with me for the past two weeks and finish most of my complaining with, “AND I got a flat tire [insert number] days ago.” My bitter mind thinks such a statement packs some extra punch to the story of my current misery.

Dramatic, right? Now that I think back to all of that I’m pretty sure if God didn’t like me, he’d strike me down with lightening. Plus if he gave flat tires to those he didn’t like, there would be a dramatic decrease in violence because a significant amount of criminals would be stuck on the side of the road with AAA instead of at potential crime scenes.

So here I am, frazzled with my wedding, tired of dealing with selfish people, burnt out with house work, overwhelmed with a job that pushes me to my professional limits… oh, and did I tell you I got a flat tire 16 days ago??

I take all of this and package it up when someone starts to groan about a single worry like lost car keys or a flat tire (and note that I can complain about MY flat tire because I have WAY more going on than you do.) And I realize I’m not being fair because no worry, no matter how small, should be deemed insignificant.

In fact, my pile of worries probably pales in comparison to people who have actual problems because even though my bitterness forces me to act like a nut at times, I DO know that a flat tire isn’t the end of the world and that planning a wedding, regardless of the bumps in the road, is a wonderful thing no matter what, more responsibility at work is a positive thing that shows you actually know what you're doing and having house work is great when you think that most people don't even have a house to call their own.

I miss the girl who used to politely listen to people’s woes, nod sympathetically and sometimes even throw in a “I can’t imagine” to make sure full out compassion was given.

Although I’m not going to minimize the importance of my own stress, I am going to work on accepting other people’s with more humility because I refuse to become that person I hate.

And today I made progress. Someone I work with went on for hours about her broken TiVo and how upset she was that she couldn’t watch her shows. My first instinct was to laugh her in face and go into my full spiel about what it truly means to be upset, giving her a true show to watch. But I held myself back, listened intently and didn’t even bring up the fact that, due to my hectic, stressful schedule, I haven’t watched TV in so that I still think Kelly Clarkson was the last American Idol.

Do I smell something sweet? Yes, sir… my sugar coating is slowly coming back… but maybe I’ll sneak out at lunch and put a construction nail in her tire just so she gets a little perspective of what stress really is... yep, still a little bitter underneath.

Bridal Realization: Don't Mess with My Friends... They'll Beat You Up.

2009-08-10T11:57:00.007-05:00

Hello, friends. Or should I say, “hello, mom and Megan” – aka – my only two fans.

I know, I’ve been MIA. I wish I could treat life like I treat this blog… when I don’t have the time or when I’m not in the mood to pour out my heart, I wish I could just put life on hold and come back to it when I’m ready. But I guess if life truly could work that way I would sadly only have two fans and let’s face it, I need more than just two fans in my life.

But I digress… at the end of the day, my blog has been neglected as wedding plans, mixed with a little bit of work, monopolize my day, my thoughts and my creativity.

However, today my morning cup of Splenda and cream with a splash of coffee and some delicious slices of raspberry kringle inspired me to capitalize on my sugar high and beckon Stejamoe out from her hiding spot.

So with wedding on the mind and artificial sweetner pumping through my veins, I proudly present yet another top ten list: the top ten things I learned about myself while planning my wedding.

10 – My health greatly benefits from my commitment to vanity. Before I got engaged I would ignore a strange looking mole and I would put off going to doctor for some aches and pains. Now I realize that a strange mole is not only dangerous to my health, but detrimental to the wedding pictures it may show up in. The dull pain in my side that I normally can suffer through could impact my ability to suck it my stomach all night in my wedding dress and impede on my bridal hotness. My solution? Go to the doctor and improve my health AND my look for the big day.

9 – I apparently make friends based on their willingness to kill for me. I have a wide variety of friends, with different personalities and from different parts of my life. During this entire planning process, one common thing has surfaced among them all: their willingness and eagerness to cause harm to those who harm me. Okay, would any of my gorgeous, proper, intelligent friends really risk jail time to ensure my happiness? Probably not. But they have given me an insane amount of support as I battle some difficult people who are forgetting that they aren’t the bride, and even my most passive friends respond with a “put em’ up” attitude. I never thought inappropriate aggression would touch my heart.

8 – I believe that the quicker you respond, the more you love me. I can’t help it. I’m organized and somehow believe everyone else should be too. As I wait for my wedding invitation responses I have taken on the mindset that each day you wait to let me know you “accept with pleasure,” you’re really just telling me that you “accept with disdain.” Harsh and irrational, I know, but if you don’t share your immediate excitement with me, I immediately think you don’t care. Love me, people!

7 – I think Chipotle burritos are part of a well balanced diet. I really want to look beautiful on my wedding day and by “beautiful,” I mean, I want people to marvel at how thin and skinny I look. But as I continue my mission to be as thin as I can be, I continue to indulge in my beloved fajita burrito. If you look up “Chipotle” in the thesaurus you’ll find “fat”… I guess I better start doing lunges and butt clenches in the office.

6 – I’m attached to my name. Who cares what your last name is? Apparently I do. Even though my fiancé doesn’t think this, my issue with changing my last name has NOTHING to do with him. It may seem irrational, but I connect my maiden name to everything that I am and I’m having a bit of a hard time knowing that I’ll be officially “someone else” come October. I’ll get over it and I’ll eventually come to terms with the fact that I went from having the easiest last name possible to having a last name that can be mispronounced and misspelled 50 different ways.

5 – I will never stop worrying. I’m sensitive. It’s a fact. I’ve gotten tougher over the years, but I will never be able to “get over” things easily when I’m hurt. And nothing is more personal than a wedding, so the slightest jab turns into a blow. The same issue that surfaced when I got engaged almost a year and a half ago is the same issue that keeps me up at night.

4 – I’m strangely good at “counting down.” Once we hit 100 days until the wedding, I have been able to keep track of the amount of days left before the big day regardless of distractions. A week could go by without anyone asking or me even thinking about the exact amount of time left before I walk down the aisle, but if a colleague randomly inquires, I can tell them the exact amount of time until the hour without skipping a beat. 54 days to go, by the way.

3 – Home improvement projects keep me sane. Unlike other brides, I prefer to have a lot going on outside wedding planning to keep me grounded. For example, while making appointments with wedding vendors, I thought it only made sense to consider replacing our aging windows and get a few at-home estimates sprinkled into our already hectic schedules. The outcome will result in us having all of our windows replaced a month before the wedding and the thought of having a major renovation done is as soothing to me as a day at the spa.

2 – I am obsessed with kitchen gadgets that I’ll never use. It wasn’t until we registered did I discover my love for really unnecessary kitchen tools. Why use your fingers when you can pull toast from a toaster with hand crafted toast tongs? I also can spend hours caressing our new, over priced mix master and there is not one darn thing I can think of that would need mixing any time soon – it DOES make my kitchen counter look legit, like someone actually cooks in there.

1 – I love my fiancé more than I ever thought I could. Of course I love the boy. I’m not the kind of girl who settles just so I can get hitched and I was madly in love with him before we got engaged. But wedding planning drama has brought out a side of my soon-to-be hubby that tells me he’s in to win it. Random cry fests over botched wedding envelopes haven’t scared him away and family drama has resulted in him showing me that at the end of the day, I’m the family that comes first. You can have perfect invitations and cooperative family members, but having a man you love is a lot more important.

I’ve learned a lot about myself during this whole process and I’m more ready than ever to get married. If you’ve learned anything, you would learn to just back off and let me be happy and if you can’t seem to do that, I will be forced to connect you with you one of my friends… trust me, it’s not going to be pretty.

Top Ten Reasons My Mom is the Bomb

2009-05-08T13:07:00.005-05:00

Mother’s Day is this weekend so I thought it would only be right to pay homage to my own Mamasita. As you know from past posts, I’m pretty darn lucky when it comes to the parent department. My mom in particular always has my back and as I grow older I’ve decided that the term “mom” should have to be earned. Just because you give birth doesn’t make you a “mother” it should make you a “birther” or something.

Why do I say this? It seems unfair that a mom like mine who puts her children first is put in the same title category of a mom who could less about her offspring. But that’s neither here nor there; time to move on give my mom the credit she deserves in what I like to call, “The Top Ten Reasons My Mom is the Bomb.”

1. She’s real.

My mom is honest and sticks to her guns. She believes what she believes and never waivers. And yes, the truth hurts sometimes, but with my mom you know what you’re getting and she doesn’t play games… how refreshing.

2. She is a master negotiator.

This woman gets what she wants by being informed and fair. She does her research, knows the best deal and gets it by remaining calm. I took her with me to buy my first car and she left the greasy finance guy in pure shock. Once I agreed to buy the car all I heard for the next three hours was “waa waa waa waaaa.” As the finance guy saw an opportunity to take advantage of young girl and who he thought was a naïve mother, I’ll never forget when my mom leaned across the table, smiled politely and said, “I know how all this works, I’ve done this before… now stop offering my daughter crap she doesn’t need and get to the point.” Right then and there I just sat back and let her save me money while the finance guy sat dumbfounded [insert standing ovation].

3. Her parenting mantra has always been, “You don’t need another friend, you need a mom.”

Hospitals should put that statement on a bumper sticker and give it to new moms as part of a “don’t screw this up” welcome basket. Even though when I was growing up and wishing my mom could be “cool” like some of the hip moms that let their kids walk over them, I’m so glad she wasn’t. Yes, my mom is a friend in the sense that I like to hang out with her, but at the same time she was never looking for my approval and could care less if I pouted when she wouldn’t extend my curfew. I knew moms who would not only let their kids break curfew, but were with them when they did and buying them alcohol. Do you know where those kids are now?

Jail.

4. She easily could be a contestant on Top Chef.

Her cooking savvy amazes me. She can take a bottle of mustard and a handful of spices that no one has ever heard of and make a full meal that rivals fine dining cuisine. And the best part is that she garnishes everything with fresh herbs. If she makes rosemary chicken, you better believe she has a sprig of rosemary on the plate. There is no shortage of class at our nightly dinner table.

5. Birthdays are special to her.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that people start to resent their birthdays, but my mom has always embraced them as a day to celebrate YOU. Forget how old you are, you were born on this day and that makes it special. When it’s your birthday in my family, my mom does everything short of dressing up like a clown and riding a unicycle. I think those who can celebrate aging are those people who understand that life is more about numbers and more about memories.

6. “Smart” is her middle name.

I think all my mom’s good qualities circle back to her being smart. Yes, she’s educated, but I’m talking about the kind of smart that is a result of constant exploration. She reads and absorbs everything, while never fearing the unknown. She’ll try new things and over the years she’s shared her wealth of knowledge with her children, making us smart by association… shhh… don’t tell anyone that I actually have NO idea what I’m talking about…

7. She’s a solution seeker.

There are always options and alternatives with my mom. Just because something seems impossible doesn’t mean you should give up. She has taught me what compromise is and because her attitude has always been, “If something doesn’t work, lets figure out how to make it work,” I’ve gone into life with confidence knowing that “no” isn’t the end of the world because you’ll eventually come up with a way to hear “yes.” She’s the opposite of a “Debbie Downer,” she’s like an “Ursula Upper.”

8. She’s a great partner in crime.

My mom just goes with the flow and if she has time, she’ll join you on whatever adventure you’re embarking on. So many people burn out or selfishly don’t want to invest time in things that don’t directly involve them, but my mom is the best support system and will find ways to make every outing, every errand, every trip… fun. To this day she’ll come with me to not-so-fun doctor’s appointments and then arrange for us to have a great lunch at a local restaurant. She makes a memory out of every experience and I’ll hold onto those memories for the rest of my life.

9. She can’t argue with reason.

Although my mom has strong opinions, she is probably the most rational person I know. If you present a valid argument, she won’t deny it and this helped me hone my own negotiation and presentation skills. When I was growing up and if I wanted the new “it” item, I wouldn’t go whining to my mom like so many kids do. I would sit down and formulate my argument. Sometimes I’d win, sometimes I wouldn’t (to this day she never bought the “a gerbil would make a great pet” argument), but I’d learn something every time.

10. No one ever puts her babies in the corner.

Everyone’s mom is their biggest cheerleader, but I like to think of my mom as my own cheering crowd complete with foam fingers. She doesn’t pretend her kids are something their not, but she never stops supporting them… and based on past experience, I’m pretty sure she’d deck someone for me if they did me wrong.

So that’s why my mom is the bomb. She not only gave birth to her kids, she then followed up and became a great mom. Per list item #10, I’m sure you’re the only person reading this post so, so Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!

A Cyst on My Face, A Feather for my Cap

2009-05-06T09:52:00.002-05:00

GIRL GETS STRUCK WITH YET ANOTHER MEDICAL MYSTERY.

That’s what my life’s headline read Friday morning. I have been sidetracked by yet another health issue – “issue” in this case means gross flesh eating disease on a bride’s most prized possession… her FACE.

Early last week I noticed a rather odd looking bump pop up on my cheek. I didn’t think it was a blemish… and trust me, this chocolate eating, combination skinned, stressed gal knows a zit when she sees one. This was different.

If you know me, I’m a “doer.” I don’t sit around and wait for something to happen… I get up and MAKE it happen. So naturally I decided to investigate this painful mystery bump, which was unobtrusively flesh toned at this point. A minor poke and prod resulted in a MAJOR problem…

The once camouflaged bump turned black and stood out like a hunter in an orange vest. What’s worse is that a stark white rim started to surround the site and it looked like I went to the carnival and had a bulls eye painted on my cheek by a drunk PTA volunteer.

Absolute panic sunk in. Start crying ……. NOW.

Yes, I cried. If you have read my past medical entries, you know I’m one tough cookie. Lose a finger? Argh. Break a toe? Boo. Maul my face? WAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!! There is just something about my face that you don’t want to mess with… it has been the only part of my body that hasn’t jumped on the “freaky disease” bandwagon with the rest of my body parts.

So here I am. Eyes puffy, mascara running and flesh eating disease flaring. With my strong reaction you would have thought I was walking down the aisle that next day, but even knowing that my big day is 5 months down the road, I couldn’t stop picturing myself in my gorgeous wedding gown accessorized with this massive tumor-like sore on my face. In my dreams, the sore comes with its own neon sign to emphasize its hideousness.

I naturally have all my doctors on speed dial and immediately scored an emergency appointment that following day.

The verdict? A ruptured cyst. But not just any ruptured cyst, an infected, ruptured cyst. [Insert vomiting noises now.]

How does one develop a cyst? Who knows? Who cares? I heard the doctor mumble something about cysts being potentially stressed induced, but I was too worried thinking about the future of my face that I didn’t really hear what she said.

Even though my face looked just as hideous walking out of the doctor’s office as it did on the way in, I felt a sense of relief once I was prescribed medication that will treat me from the inside out. And after a few weeks of major healing, my cyst will fade away and take its neon sign with it.

Moral of the story? There really isn’t one, but let me have a go at it.... when something doesn't seem right, don't try to fix it right away, investigate it first... gently. I often times jump the gun with my "go get 'em" attitude and if I had only thought before I popped, I wouldn't have a gross scab on my face. [Again, insert vomiting noises.]

But alternatively, this little experience has equipped me with yet more knowledge, so I'll just consider this another feather for my medical mystery cap... which looks like a Indian headdress at this point...

Expensive shoes, overpriced lattes and real estate.

2009-04-17T11:01:00.006-05:00

What if you bought a pair of heels for $85 in Chicago and then you went on vacation to LA and those SAME shoes were $285… and THEN you went to your cousin’s wedding in Podunk, Indiana and those SAME snazzy kicks that were $85 in Chicago and $285 dollars in LA were only 5 bucks in the state that is considered the “armpit of Illinois?”

This kind of situation would NEVER happen, right? Why would the SAME product differ so drastically in price just based on where you are in the U.S.? Sure, prices fluctuate with taxes and some big cities can get away with charging an extra buck or two for a latte, but no product would have THAT big of a price difference.

However, if you insert a few extra zeros to those shoe prices and replace “shoe” with “house” it is not as surprising. And THAT boggles my mind.

Remember my rants last summer on starting my house hunt? Well, now the soon-to-be hubs and I have had our home for going on eight months and we’ve proudly gone from naïve property virgins to… naïve property owners. Somehow the mysteries of home ownership will never work themselves out in my mind.

So me the man were walking around our neighborhood the other night, two 60 somethings trapped in the bodies of 24 year olds, and decided to pull the flyers attached to the “for sale” signs we passed. First, the language these realtors use cracks me up… “stunning property with spacious patio and beautifully updated kitchen.” Translation? The backyard is pretty small because the previous owners decided to build a deck that was way too big for the property and out of all the rooms in the house, the kitchen is definitely not the worst part. As a PR professional and spin doctor, I tip my hat to you, realtors.

As we perused the listings and squinted at the thumbnail size pictures of the showcased rooms, I became baffled by the range of prices for what is a very small range of houses. We live in a “cookie cutter” neighborhood where all the homes were built by the same builder. Every 10th house you’ll find a home that resembles your own with a different paint color and/or a better car on the driveway. Unless a home has been dramatically upgraded or has a dead body in the basement, the prices should be pretty consistent among similar sized homes.

So what makes one home more valuable than the other? I have become addicted to home renovation shows and one of my favorite shows on HGTV has three realtors come in to put a value on a home after it has been flipped. Without fail you’ll always have one realtor who prices a home $50K to $100K more than their counterparts. That just shows that home value sometimes has nothing to do with the market and everything to do with perception.

Don’t get me wrong, adding upgraded appliances and installing hardwood floors in your home should rack in more money compared to a house that has a fridge from 1972 and shag carpet. But that aside, there is no other consumer product in this country that has such a loose basis for value.

As we begin to put the final touches on our own home, I started to think, what makes OUR home valuable? When we’re ready to move on from his humble abode why will someone pay more money for our place than the one down the street?

So here is my stab at writing a realtor-inspired description of our house:

Single family home spruced up by multiple family help. High grade paint throughout mixed with sweat and tears for that extra shine. Current owners pride themselves on being anal – male owner specifically licks his finger to pick up loose crumbs after the floors have been washed by hand. Open floor plan designed with an open mind. Although the love put into the home does not come with the purchase of the house, current owners anticipate that they’ll leave some remnants behind.

Now THAT is the kind of home that inspires you to buy expensive shoes and dance around with an overpriced latte - PRICELESS.

Next time, I'm bringing my cousin, Vinny.

2009-04-08T15:52:00.004-05:00

It’s official. I’m a criminal. Although I won’t be making a cameo on Locked Up, I was forced to plead guilty to speeding to be granted court supervision and to have the FAULTY ticket wiped from my record. My other option was to speak the truth, plead not guilty and have to somehow convince the judge that a law enforcement official was wrong. I didn’t technically have real evidence, every one BUT me seemed to have some kind of legal representation speaking on their behalf and the judge reminded me of the “Judy’ variety, so I swallowed my pride, took the guilty verdict and ran…

Well, actually, I was forced to run and then stand in a line for an hour to pay for my court costs. Hopefully that money will be put towards a green initiative so at least this horrid experience contributed to the planting of a tree. And if I ever find out what tree that is, I’m going to saw it down and spit on it… the innocent never rest!

So to ensure that this traumatic experience wasn’t a TOTAL waste of my time, I thought I would outline a few interesting observations about the Cook County court system for your reading pleasure:

-- Apparently only men have to take off their belts in a security line, not women… I would think that everyone should just keep their belts on to avoid gang whippings and pants droppings.

-- They have bars of soap in the bathroom… bars. Nothing says cesspool like a used piece of soap that has been manhandled by criminals… after seeing the dingy bar of soap lying on the counter, I decided that I rather get a bladder infection than use the restroom.

-- Alleged criminals also come in all shapes and sizes… AND outfits. I saw everything from ripped jeans to hooded sweatshirts to pleather. I was probably the best dressed “civilian” and could have passed for a lawyer... if only I thought to approach the bench as “Stejamoe’s Legal Counsel.” Hindsight is always 20/20.

-- The court system takes cash, check AND credit – I charged my court fees… I wonder if the Discover Network will ever have a “criminal month” where they give you extra cash back for all legal-related purchases.

-- Vinny Gambini's character is based solely on FACT.

I hope to never step foot in that court house again and I plan on going 2 mph UNDER the speed limit moving forward. After this experience, I’m now completely okay with people passing me as I inch towards my destination. I’m willing to do anything to avoid another unjust confrontation with Officer Nasty, but if I’m ever forced to fight for my innocence again, I’m calling Joe Pesci to see if he's available to represent me.

Stejamoe Locked Up

2009-04-02T12:08:00.003-05:00

I have to admit that I’m a little weird when it comes to what kind of TV shows I like to watch. I’m definitely not the kind of gal who gets into series or sitcoms. I don’t watch the Hills religiously like so many other 20 something females do nor do I set aside time every week for Gossip Girl. I don’t even have a “regular” show I watch every week and am perfectly happy to catch up on the Real World during a weekend marathon.

However, the one show that I do try to catch is MSNBC’s Locked Up. For those of you not well versed in cable news shows, Locked Up is a documentary series that profiles different state prisons and prisoners.

Before we go any further, yes, I HATE scary movies, I close my eyes during the Sarah McLaughlin’s “save the animals” commercial because the images are too painful and I also jump at any and all loud noises. But there is something about Locked Up that I love. I find it fascinating. Maybe it’s because the show is more about the human mind than violence. You’ll rarely see anything graphic; it’s all about getting to know what goes through the mind of a sociopathic killer or how prison guards learn to deal with complex workings of gang rituals. You can’t make this kind of stuff up, people!

Perhaps I feel protected by the barrier of my TV screen as I get reeled in by an interview with a crazy convict who burned off his left hand during a meth lab debacle and can’t be confined by traditional handcuffs anymore… I know, disgusting, but for some reason I rather watch one hand Willy talk about his motivation to sell drugs than hear the constant whining of Meredith on Grey’s Anatomy.

But now the distant stories of Locked Up aren’t so distant. I find myself facing the law and will be going to court tomorrow. In less than 24 hours, I could very likely be on the other side of the TV screen being interviewed by MSNBC, wearing an orange jump suit, black colored pencil for eyeliner and coffee grounds mixed with toothpaste for mascara (women do that in prison, you know… at least the knowledge I’ve garnered from Locked Up will make me look like I have some street cred).

No, I didn’t murder my mom’s ex-husband’s girlfriend. I didn’t get caught cookin’ up meth in the basement of my grandma’s house. I also didn’t shank anyone in my office, although the confines of this cubicle could get to me one day. I was allegedly caught speeding and received my FIRST citation. Take that, one handed meth man!!!

I use the word “allegedly” because like all good criminals, you never confess to your charges… however, this criminal was actually NOT speeding and was the unlucky car to get plucked away from a group of speeding SUVs late at night.

Long story short, I was given a ticket that wasn’t meant for me and my once perfectly clean driving record was put at risk and still remains in limbo. I have never even been pulled over before and my right leg is still trembling with fear from the experience that happened more than a month and a half ago.

The officer who issued me a ticket was a bitter female and until this experience I actually gave credit to those who serve our streets, but this lady has forever made me skeptical of the law. She was out for blood that night and she preyed of me and my adorable SUV stuffed with my adorable fiancé and adorable best friend on way to get pizza for a night in… how adorable. I have a feeling this adorable factor only made the officer angrier as she was plagued with a mild case of acne and wearing a not so cute uniform that did nothing for her figure.

Knowing for a fact that I was NOT speeding, I couldn’t help but to fight for my freedom and now will face the court tomorrow. I will have evidence, witnesses and my cunning to guide me through the process and only hope I come out to see the light of day. If not, I will use my Locked Up know how to survive the slammer.

And yes, while I may not be guilty of speeding, I AM guilty of being dramatic. But that’s why you love me.

I have a "fat" personality.

2009-03-23T16:34:00.003-05:00

So I’m feeling pretty good since my last “Richard Simmons” post and hoping that as I begin to see friends and family for wedding related activities, they’ll notice my svelte new figure.

However, I’m reminded that people always remember me as “fat” so no matter how much weight I lose, I’ll always look thinner to those who don’t see me often. And when I say “those who don’t see me often” I’m not referring to my great aunt in Arizona who last saw me when I was 12 and definitely an unfortunately chubby pre-teen. I’m talking about those friends that you maybe don’t see for a month at a time… hardly a time lapse and hardly enough time to lose or gain so much weight that’s its immediately noticeable unless you greet your friends naked every time you see them.

So I’m convinced that I have a “fat personality.” And when I say “fat” I’m not referring to the 900 pound man who regularly gets featured on TLC specials. In this case, “fat” simply refers to any size larger than I actually am.

This whole phenomenon started with I returned from freshman year of college for Thanksgiving break. First, I’m shocked that I did NOT gain weight that first year of college… I sat on my butt almost all day eating Teddy Grahams and watching daytime TV. Neither my brain nor my body got much exercise that year.

Anywho, when I saw my old high school buddies for the first time in a few months everyone commented on how “great” I looked and that I must have lost weight. Knowing that I truly didn’t lose a pound, I figured I must have looked so good because so many other people looked so bad. Apparently Teddy Grahams and daytime TV took a toll on some.

But then I would come back to college after a week long break and my college mates would comment that I looked thinner. Hmmm… these are the same people I practically drank ranch dressing with on daily basis, so they were far more familiar with my size and body, but without fail, they said I looked “better” when I came back from long breaks.

This cycle continued all four years of my college experience and it follows me to this day. If someone doesn’t see me for a few weeks, I guess I shouldn’t question why they say I look thinner because what girl doesn’t like to be told she looks slim?! I’ll take what I can get.

But flattery aside, this is truly a confusing phenomenon. Then I finally figured it out – I have a “fat personality.” I’m constantly smiling, joking and laughing… I’m jovial, if you will. Santa is also jovial. The Pillsbury Dough Boy also tends to giggle a lot. Ironic? I think not.

I think I just happen to possess certain traits that leave a “hefty” memory of me in peoples’ minds. There is no other explanation. And if I had to choose what size people remember me being, I guess I’d go with a chubbier version of myself because I equate a few extra pounds to the robustness of my personality. People don’t want to mess with the strength of a full bodied woman that they remember me being even when they are reminded later in-person that I’m actually a half-full bodied woman.

So as I prepare to meet and greet people for all my upcoming wedding shenanigans, I guess I’ll have to be prepared to accept my “fat personality” and instead of saying, “no, I haven’t really lost any weight” in response to the “you look thinner” remark, I’m going to say, “why yes, I’ve been training with Romanian body builders and climbing mountains in my spare time – thanks for noticing.”

At the end of the day, it is all about how you act, not how you look. I’m going to strive to keep putting quality pounds onto my personality and embrace my larger self because that version of me is who people love to remember and who they love to see regardless of what the scale says.

What size does your personality leave on someone’s mind?

I'm Like a Bridal Version of Richard Simmons

2009-03-18T16:28:00.003-05:00

Need to go on a diet? Get engaged.

If one word could describe the concept of marriage it would be “weight.” Once a man proposes, he is warned about his impending “ball and chain” of a wife. His social life will now be weighed down by trips to Home Depot and Bed, Bath & Beyond. Another single man sinks to the bottom of the domestic sea.

An engagement ring is also an example of the weight of marriage – a diamond is referred to as a “rock.” The bigger and heavier the rock, the happier and more envied the bride.

I was looking at wedding invitations the other day and was asked what kind of paper weight I wanted. The heavier the paper, the heavier the price tag. I didn’t even know the terms “heavy” and “paper” could be used in the same sentence.

And then there are the bodies of the bride and groom. I had heard before I got engaged that weight just “melts” off a bride when they are feverishly planning a wedding, and then ironically enough, the weight packs itself back on after commitments have been made securely and you’re back into your usual, comfortable routine.

Weight. It is lurking around every corner as I plan my own wedding, but I was certain when I got engaged it would have nothing to do with my body.

First let me say that I’m a pretty solid girl… not heavy, solid. In fact, if I visit a doctor’s office, I leave the nurses confused wondering how I could look fairly thin, but then weigh like I'm holding my purse on the scale with me… a purse filled with dumbbells.

Keeping with the wedding theme of this post, I like to describe my appearance in correlation with my actual weight through a wedding band metaphor. You see two silver rings – one is white gold and one is platinum. They LOOK exactly the same. They are the same size and width, but then when you hold them, the platinum band is considerably heavier… in this example quality weighs more, so I like to think that I carry around at least 10 extra pounds of pure QUALITY.

And my size rarely changes no matter how much I exercise or eat. I still wear some of my clothes from high school for God’s sake. Now don’t get me wrong, since high school, a lot more bumps and lumps have shown up, but nothing that I can’t tuck away easily and give the illusion of stunted fat growth.

So you get the point - I’ve been a solid, unchanging girl for the past 24 years of my life. Until recently. In the midst of fretting over the weight of paper paired with the weight of some other oh-so-fun stresses associated with wedding plans, I managed to knock off six pounds. Most of you probably turn up your nose at single digit weight loss, but for this hunk of meat, that means a lot.

It seems that as I weigh out the pros and cons of various wedding decisions, I’ve managed to go from a Big Mac to a Quarter Pounder (with cheese… if I lose another a couple pounds I’ll knock off the dairy.)

Food metaphors aside (its 4:30 pm, I’m due for a snack), I think I can personally now vouch that if nothing else, engagement definitely forces you to gain and lose weight both figuratively and literally … you take on new projects, new families and new responsibilities which are like those weights that you strap to your ankles for an intense workout. Then you’re forced to pick up the pace and not only move through the chaos of your every day routine, but also work on pulling together the single most important day of your life. And during all of this, you don’t have time for that midday munchie you’re so used to.

I'm going to embrace this heavy time and enjoy every moment of it, even if I don't lose another literal pound. Like a bridal version of Richard Simmons, I’m going to move forward upbeat and sweatin’ to the songs of marriage...

Happy Birthday, Happy Daughter

2009-03-12T17:17:00.002-05:00

It is my dad’s birthday this weekend. We’ll be celebrating his 45th… again. Actually, my dad isn’t the kind of person to hide his age, although I’m pretty sure he’d have to think long and hard how old he actually is.

So here we are again, another year, another birthday, same wonderful dad. As my dad adds another candle to the cake of life, I can’t help but to think about how much he has contributed to my own life and I would like to take this moment to salute all the fathers out there that have dedicated themselves to be the best fathers they can be to their daughters.

First, allow me to insert some academia… I believe it’s a studied fact that fathers greatly impact how their daughters look at men and handle relationships. Okay, so I can’t site a research book or social scientist, but you know what I’m talking about. Everyone is familiar with the well accepted concept that women tend to marry someone like their father, so as a female, if your father is dog kickin’, no carin’ kind of guy, you can pretty much bet your money that your future hubs is bound to have some similar traits. If nothing else, chances are you won’t have any money to bet in the future because your deadbeat husband took it all on spent it on beer and the “Happy Days” DVD collection.

So that’s an extreme instance and probably not very fair.

Let’s take the example of the uninvolved, but super successful father. And before I go any further let me say this – for a father to be successful professionally it does not automatically mean he has to be uninvolved in his child’s life. And if a man is only capable of putting all his attention toward his million dollar paying job, then I wouldn’t consider him successful in the first place. Anyway, many dads in today’s world are the kind of dad who just brings home the paycheck and leaves the childrearing to the wife. The sad part of it all is that the dad thinks he’s providing for his family, but little does he know what a disservice he’s doing to the emotional health of whatever daughters he may have.

If a dad doesn’t make a conscience effort to pay a part in his daughter’s life, you better believe that daughter will grow up and misconstrue abusive behaviors from potential mates as “love.”

It’s true. If a young woman doesn’t get love and respect from the first man in her life, how will she be able to recognize it from the other ones? Standards are set at home, and that is why so many women “become like their mother” and marry someone like their father – it is what’s comfortable and it is what us girls know. So a daughter’s relationship destiny is ultimately in the hands of her father and boy, am I glad I have the dad that I do.

My dad is by far the hardest worker I know and successful to boot. But no matter how busy he was, he always took time to be a part of my life. He treated all women with respect and from day one, that’s all I knew, so if I saw an angry, bullheaded, chauvinistic dad in public, I’d literally get scared. And I’m sure you can picture it now: a little Stephanie with big blue eyes and an even bigger head sees a burly man yelling at his wife in Toy R Us and runs to her mom not knowing what to think of the mean man wearing what I’m sure what a tacky flannel.

As I grew older, my dad really let my mom take the driver’s seat with me, after all, what sane father wants to navigate the roads of puberty with a teenage daughter?! But he was always there both literally and figuratively. If I wasn’t in my teenage angst mode, he’d be there to listen and laugh (if I WAS in that mode, he was still there to listen, but then would run away and take cover). He also came to every school play, to every game, every special event. I’ve learned to start being a good dad, you can simply start by just being “there.”

Since my dad raised the bar for all dads, he then in turn raised the bar for every guy I would come to date. Short story long, the man I’m going to marry is a hard worker, respects woman, gives in to my every wish, only really like to eat meant and potatoes and actually LIKES to clean. The first two qualities are obviously the most important and the other three are just ironic, but hey, I’ll take a man who moves well with a broom ANY DAY.

The one thing that IS debatable is if my soon-to-be hubby will ever love me AS MUCH as my dad. Don’t get me wrong, my fiancé ADORES me – I mean, I wouldn’t marry a man who didn’t love me with every fiber of his being, because that’s how much I adore him. But there is some kind love that my dad has for me that I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand and is something truly only a great father feels for his daughter.

Oh man. I’m getting all teary over here.

Let’s wipe our eyes and get back to the whole point of this post… to pay homage to good dads, including mine. I guess you could say that it doesn’t take much to be a good dad because I feel like it simply takes some good old fashioned quality time, but for some men, time is money and spending a little time with a daughter isn’t worth the catch up they might have to do later. I do know that if “time is money” was MY dad’s philosophy, he’d be the poorest man in the world and I’d still be the happiest and most loved daughter.

Happy birthday, Dad!

My life is like a kabuki brush in a toilet.

2009-03-09T14:11:00.004-05:00

So yesterday I’m standing at my bathroom vanity preparing myself for a day of errands. Let me first say that even casual Sunday errand running requires “preparation.” My mom always told me that it doesn’t take a lot of time to slap on some blush and mascara before heading out even for the most mundane of trips because you never know who you’re going to run into and you don’t want to be caught looking like death when you’re out in public, flaunting that you’re alive and well.

Anyway, I digress…

So here I am, digging through my makeup bag trying to find my kabuki brush. For those of you not well versed in makeup jargon, a “kabuki” is a fat little brush with only a little nub for a handle – nice for full coverage and high on the adorable makeup tool scale. So I’m digging and like a slippery fish fighting for its life, the brush goes flying out of my hand, across the bathroom and into the only water supply available… the toilet.

Two things went through my head – first, “I did flush the last time I was on that thing, right?” And second, “of course I flushed – go save your adorable kabuki before it goes kaput!”

I bravely grabbed the bobbing brush and ran in circles panicking over the fact that a brush that is consistently rubbed all over my face, just took a dip in a pool that consistently has a view of my butt. After the minor meltdown, I’m reminded that toilet water is very much like a dog’s mouth, probably the most sanitary place in the joint, so I calmly wash it down with cleanser and leave it out to dry – crisis averted. Plus, it needed a good scrub anyway; the brush still had remnants of my darker glow from last summer, so it was time for a refreshing overhaul.

(And if you know me, spare me the humor, and please don’t ask me if that’s “toilet glow” on my face the next time you see me. Just watch, toilet water may be the next fountain of youth and people will be dunking kabuki brushes in toilets across the country.)

Why do I tell you this story? For giggles? Perhaps. But more importantly, this little incident comes with a life lesson…

I’ve had a tough past couple of weeks – just the typical growing pains of a young adult mixed with the stresses of wedding planning. I like to think of myself as the cute little kabuki brush; always giving full coverage to friends and family and ensuring that every issue is taken care of. But every now and again, I get thrown in the toilet – sometimes intentionally, sometimes by accident.

Either way, we’ve all felt at some point in our lives like things were going down the proverbial “toilet.” It stinks. No pun intended. Okay, okay, pun intended.

But here is what you have to keep in mind – toilet water is pretty sanitary and all you need is a quick cleanse to bring you back to life… in fact, a swim in the toilet may force you to rinse off some of your past so you can start embarking on a sparkling future.

If I hadn’t dropped my kabuki in the toilet, it would still have remnants of old powder, germs and other pore clogging wee-beasties. After this bathroom incident, although traumatizing for a moment, my brush is now cleaner than ever and I’m sure my zit-free skin will thank me.

So my life lesson for today, although inspired by a makeup brush and toilet, is something to take to heart:

Know that sometimes it takes a stressful, "thrown in the toilet" situation to really cleanse you and bring you back to your original form, because you don’t realize how much dirt and grime you’ve picked up along the way.

Go forth. Be strong. And don't forget to flush.

Take Two Doses of "Good" Daily with Water.

2009-03-03T12:15:00.005-06:00

Hello, readers. I’m not sure if you’re still out there. My apologies for the lack of blog posts, but my latest career move and my upcoming wedding has forced me to put my mindless ramblings on hold.

Since I last posted, you’ll be happy to know that I haven’t mailed anything that shouldn’t find its way through the US postal service and I now think twice before opening any mail slot. Ah, life’s important lessons.

Onto a new post! But before we proceed, allow me to warn you that its not going to be all giggles…

Over the past few months I’ve come to the realization that some times no matter how hard you try to make someone happy, it will never be enough. The combination of selfishness and insecurity is lethal and if you cross a person who holds this toxic brew, you’re dead… or at least that’s what I initially thought, but I’m slowly coming back to life.

The interesting part of dealing with someone who does not have your best interests in mind is that to remedy the ailments they bring, you need a dose of good. Plain, old fashioned GOODNESS.

Now “good” comes in many forms. For those less serious run-ins with selfishness and insecurity, “good” could be a soothing can of Diet Coke. It can be slow drive down a peaceful street. Heck, it could be a manager from Chipotle calling you to inform you that your business card was plucked from their fishbowl and you won 10 free burritos (take it from this TWO time winner).

But in serious situations, the Big Kahuna issues, goodness is in the form of a person, a supportive person. (And no, the Chipotle manager, god bless his soul, is not the kind of supportive person I’m talking about although my veggie fajita burrito never lets me down.)

After recently experiencing the effects of selfishness and insecurity, I was prescribed two healthy doses of “good” – I believe the technical name for the prescription was “mom and dad.”

Awww… makes you want to vomit a little, right? Daughter runs to parents for comfort. How typical. How nauseating.

Puke all you want, but as an adult, I turned to the two adults that are by far the most secure and selfless people I know. And yeah, they happen to be my parents. You do realize that it’s not required for parents to care about you, right?

I wasn’t even fully aware of the extent of my parents’ healing powers until I was faced with a situation that made me feel helpless and utterly confused. And it wasn’t the advice or the comfort they gave me that helped wrap my wounds, it was their underlying goodness that has made me remember that people do care about me and care about others in general. To be honest, I’m sick of talking about issues and trying to figure out solutions, so hearing my mom gush about my latest home renovation or having my dad give me a random, funny, flying high five, is that kind of goodness that heals someone’s heart when it’s in the process of breaking.

Another dose of goodness I received was an email that radiated excitement about my upcoming wedding. Even through her emails, my best friend has a way to type seemingly flat words that are read with so much enthusiasm. Her support, her goodness, came in the form of “enough about THEM, lets talk about YOU.” For a moment, my world lacked positive punctuation, and then she appeared in my inbox referring to something about my life with so much “!!!!!!”, that I couldn’t help but to get excited too. Pure goodness.

Everyone is either going through a hard time or knows that someone is going through a hard time. My advice for those who are going through something difficult is to find the “good” and seek the “goodness” in others. However, remember that goodness is not buried under insecurity or guilt, pure goodness, the “real good stuff” is right on the surface, you can’t miss it.

I would also ask for people to become someone’s “good” and give them the support they need in the form they need it. If you’re like my parents or like my best friend, you’re probably most likely giving someone the remedy they need without even knowing it.

So as I heal, I’ll continue to pop as much goodness as I can, and I encourage everyone to get their hands on a dose because you never know when you’ll catch someone else’s nasty case of selfishness and insecurity. Because remember, no matter how often you wash your hands, an irrational person is a viral problem that will always get you down.

"CAN YOU HERE ME NOW?" No. Because My Phone is in a Mailbox.

2008-12-11T16:40:00.005-06:00

So I was mailing Christmas cards the other night and accidentally mailed my cell phone along with them as I dropped my phone in the post office mail box in the lobby of my building. Take this as a lesson - when mailing something, make sure you put your keys, phone or anything else personal in your pockets because you never know when you may accidentally let go of the wrong thing and lose it in a federally protected fortress – thank goodness I wasn’t holding a baby.

Apparently, a mailroom is more secure than an airport because not even my office building’s security was allowed to access the room to retrieve my phone. I was told to leave a note on the mailroom door with my name and number in hopes that the mail carrier would just put it aside for me when picking up the mail – well, either the note wasn’t big enough or the mail carrier was bitter because the mail was picked up with my phone sadly sandwiched among Christmas cards, random bills and postcards.

So off went my phone and on went my panic. After feverishly calling every post office in the area, I was directed to a local “sorting plant” and was told that if my phone was lost among the mail, it would end up on their conveyer belt and hopefully (key word “hopefully”) it wouldn’t be destroyed.

First, I started to feel bad for my poor little phone. I started to think that if and when I found it, it would be dirty with soot and covered in stamps from across the globe, being forced to travel to foreign places with no charger in sight. Second, I realized that I didn’t have a phone and like most young Generation Y adults, I really don’t know anyone’s number by heart. My life suddenly became very dull.

My parents graciously alternated lending me their cell phones for the next two days to ensure I had some means of communication should I get into a car accident that leaves me stranded in a cornfield all by myself (at this point anything is impossible with me), but I still didn’t know anyone’s number, so my normal trip home from work that is spent on my cell phone and filled with gossip and laughter, turned out to be just me, my thoughts and Christmas music blasting from the radio.

And you know what? It was kind of nice.

I found myself not worrying as much because I wasn’t in an animated discussion that included, “did you hear what she said about her?!”, “do you know what you’re doing for New Years Eve?!”, “have you called so-so yet about getting together next weekend?!” The only exclamation marks I came across on my way home were those in “Jingle Bells” as I happily sang along with holiday every tune that night…

And once I was home, for the first time I didn’t worry about work because there was no way for anyone to get a hold of me to tell me about a time-sensitive project I had to tackle first thing in the morning. Ignorance is truly bliss and I found bliss without a cell phone.

However, ignorance can only last a girl of my ambition for so long and as my phone remained lost within the USPS system, I began to get antsy about my literal disconnection from the life I once knew. What if I needed to get a new number? Would people bother to reset it in their own phones? Whose number would I forget to get and never call again? What important text am I missing right now? These questions ran through my head and then finally I heard something more beautiful than the first time I heard my cell phone’s ring… “we found your phone.”

So now I’m on my way to pick up my phone and worry that I won’t recognize it after its many travels, but I can’t wait to dust it off and get back to the life we once shared together. And although I’m so grateful for the reunion I’m glad I had this little experience as it taught me some valuable lessons beyond keeping everything personal away from a mail slot. It taught me that every now again I need to be okay with being disconnected with my social network so I can reconnect with myself.

Feed it Forward

2008-11-26T11:22:00.002-06:00

You know the old saying "its better to give than to receive"? Well, go to www.restaurant.com/feeditforward and feel the love...

There will be NO tricks for this new home owner on Halloween...

2008-10-29T17:08:00.003-05:00

This will be my first Halloween as a home owner, thus my first Halloween encountering my very own trick-or-treaters, and to be honest, I’m a bit nervous. Being relatively young myself, I’m surprised at how cynical I am when it comes to teenagers as I’m 99% sure that a twerpy 17 year old will attempt to TP my house or smash one of my pumpkins on October 31st. Little jerks.

Oh, but don’t you worry about me… I’ve been known to chase punks down on foot and scare the crap out them when they think I’m just an innocent girl waiting to be terrorized… but that’s another story for another time…

Anyway, something that I’ve always hated about Halloween is how people, from twerpy teenagers to dirty old men to ditzy girls, feel like they can do anything when they are hiding behind a mask (or in the ditzy girls’ case, when they are wearing a slutty school girl outfit). I think it’s actually a studied phenomenon that humans get a false sense of protection and security when in disguise inspiring us to do asinine things that we normally wouldn’t do if we took off the clown wig, the scary face paint or the plaid skirt.

I’ll admit that when I was in college celebrating Halloween, I did feel a bit invincible in my costume and thought that I could take an extra shot or win an arm wrestling match against an overweight frat boy. But this false sense of power only left me with a killer hangover and sore arm the next morning, and I’m actually still looking for some of the pride I lost. I learned quickly that you must wear a Halloween costume with caution, but I don’t think the rest of the nation has caught on just quite yet and I have a feeling that I’m going to confront some of those delusional morons who think a Bill Clinton mask means they can get in my face and demand two handfuls of candy… first, aren’t you too old to be trick-or-treating? And I’m a Republican, so you get a toothbrush and floss.

Plus, I HATE being scared. And when I say, “I HATE being scared”, I mean, “I detest any feeling of panic or alarm to the point that I’ll scream if you merely come up to me in a non-sneak up kind of way”. I’m a pansy and I’m not afraid to admit it, so Halloween is my worst nightmare. I was at a pumpkin farm a few weeks ago and refused to go into the Haunted House even though the sign said it was “appropriate for ages 5 and up”… unless I had a 5 year old leading the way, there was no way I was going in there. So as I wait for my trick-or-treaters, I know without a doubt I’ll scream at least a few times when the doorbell rings and jump if someone growls at me even if it’s the little boy dressed like a puppy who’s mom tells him to “bark for the nice lady”… if you played that bark backwards, I bet you’d hear some satanic messages… I’m just saying.

I have toiled over the idea to just jump ship and turn off all my lights in hopes that trick-or-treaters will just move onto the next house, but if I did that, I’d be missing out on one of the privileges I get from being a home owner. I’m not paying a mortgage for nothing, you know. I want to have the full experience even if that means I have to prepare myself for mischievous twerps and I think I have an advantage that other homes in my area don’t have… Am I an actual home owning adult or just a young chick home from college? Dun... dun... DUN.

You see, I’m still young enough to actually be mistaken as a peer to one of these twerpy, terrorizing jerks and that, my friends, may just terrorize THEM. Adolescent boys fear embarrassing themselves in front of young woman more than I fear a 5 years and older haunted house, so I’m going to confidently open my door, stare those kids right into their masked eyes and dare them to get in my face, because I’m not a mom, I’m a mysterious “older girl” who could ruin their reputations.

So to all you boys preparing to scare or punk me this Halloween, be afraid, be very afraid because I just might have the power to spread rumors about you to the hot young things in school girl outfits that go to your high school… or if nothing else I’ll just chase you down until you pee your pants or cry, whichever comes first.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

All I Need to Know I Learned At My First Job

2008-09-23T11:40:00.003-05:00

After two and half years, I’m moving on from my first job out of college and embarking on a new career adventure. GULP. As easy or as exciting as a job change sounds, this transition has been quite overwhelming, as for the first time, I’m EXPECTED to know what I’m doing.

When I started my first job as a kid out of college, I was just that – a kid fresh out of college. I don’t think expectations can be any lower for college graduates. Your employer knows that you just spent the last four years sharpening your drinking game skills and perfecting your school’s fight song, so whatever job you get has the bar set so low that a limbo champ couldn’t even get under it. And as long as you show up on time and don’t burn the place down your first week, you can really only raise that bar. And even though you’re getting paid peanuts, no one expects you to save lives when you’re making less money than a bus driver – you’re under paid, but that keeps you under the radar.

But there comes a time in your life when you’re ready to move on, ready to take on a new challenge. Fear aside, it is MY time to grab the bull by the horns (although I’m REALLY hoping my new job will be more like a rabbit than a bull ... I’d personally rather grab cute, soft bunny ears), take what I’ve learned over the past couple years and dust off the “college kid” title and start fresh as a smart, savvy professional who knows what she’s doing... ha, like I know what I’m doing.

Surprisingly though, moving on has been far more emotional than I ever thought it would be. I never realized until I gave my two weeks notice how personally attached I had become to my office. It’s like waking up at home the morning you are planning to move into the Freshmen dorms and realizing how much you’re going to miss the comfort of your childhood room, your comfy bed that your mom always kept fresh with great smelling sheets and the familiarity of the things you’ve grown accustomed to. Although you’re ready to move on and annoyed with constantly having your parents yell at you for not picking up your clothes from your bedroom floor, you still have thoughts of fear and sadness. Maybe you’re not ready to start college. Maybe you rather have your parents scold you instead of living on your own where yes, there is no one to tell you what to do, but at the same time, there is no one to comfort you either.

Luckily, I’ve already experienced major moves and life changes, so I know that the outcome is generally positive, but those initial feelings of uncertainty never cease to creep up on me.

So as I spend my final days reflecting on the great impact my first job has had on my life, I would like to share what I’ve learned along the way:

Humor is an important, if not vital, part of maintaining composure and getting through a difficult time. If you lighten up, your stress will go down.
You shouldn’t hold your breath waiting on someone to change because you’ll most likely pass out. You can’t change the way someone acts, but you can change the way you handle them.
If a door is locked, check the window, if the window isn’t open, go to the next door neighbor and charm your way into getting the spare key. There is no such thing as a locked door.
Often times people say “no” because they are not smart enough to say “yes”. All those people who didn’t understand your value just weren’t ready for your forward thinking and talent. Their loss, not yours.
Never underestimate the power of being nice. You never know who will be your next client, your next boss, your next lifesaver; respect is invaluable.
Using “per”, “bandwidth” and “in regards to” in your casual, social conversations doesn’t make you a major loser, it makes you a professional badass.
Everyone loves a good story and everyone has one – let people tell you their story and be open to tell yours. Allowing yourself to get personal enhances all the senses you need to be a professional.
Anything important can be reduced to three letters, and three letters only - ERP, TBC, PLM, EOM, CAD, RFP, SOW, EOD, WIP, SOS, TBD...
Always carry a granola bar with you because you never know when your next meal will be and you can’t run on empty while running around in pumps.
When in doubt, don’t “assume” - If you aren’t sure if someone got a memo, if you don’t remember whether your client wanted that report by today or tomorrow, check.
It’s important to know just enough to be dangerous, but pretending to know more than you do IS dangerous.
Being exposed to the best and the brightest is humbling and often times intimidating, but welcome the intimidation, because spending time with talented people only makes YOU better and brighter.
Your first instinct is almost always right. If you question a decision, remember that your initial response is most likely the right decision for you... new job, here I come!

Do you really want to go where "everyone knows your name"?

2008-08-28T12:56:00.003-05:00

You know how if you went to Cheers, everyone knows your name? I’ve personally always wanted to find a place where I could walk in and have people light up with joy after recognizing my face, knowing that I’m a “regular”. Well, it’s happened... finally. It may have taken a good two and half years of seeing the same overworked Starbucks baristas at the same tired location, but I’m now reaping the benefits of becoming a recognizable regular; however, I think it comes with a hefty price tag... and when I say “hefty”, I mean, this desired stardom is going to make me fat.

I’ve gone to the Starbucks in my office building regularly for over two years. The staff at that location has remained fairly consistent, but they also seem consistently annoyed with the early morning coffee rush. Starbucks is notorious for its chipper employees who brew your latte with a smile, but this specific coffee crew is kind of like the black sheep of the Starbucks enterprise as they avoid casual conversation and conveniently forget that you like room in your coffee for cream. This unfriendly vibe instantly crushed my dreams of ever being recognized and treated like a cast member of Cheers, but then about a month ago, my years of smiling and good consumer behavior paid off as one of the baristas asked, “hey, you’re in here a lot, what’s your name?” SCORE. Ever since then, the Cheers theme song plays as soon as I enter the store, and I’ve already started to reap the major benefits of being a preferred customer.

However, I’m not only counting those benefits in money, but also in calories. Now when I order my “usual” grande, raspberry, nonfat, no whip mocha, I’m instantly upgraded to a venti. For you Starbucks novices out there – a “grande” equals a medium sized drink and a “venti” equals a BIG GULP. Although I’m grateful for the free perk, I find myself finishing the entire bucket of liquid calories even if I’m full to the brim with espresso. At least its non-fat, right?

And this morning... oh boy... where do I begin? I ordered a regular cup of joe and splurged on their low fat blueberry coffee cake (I just have to note its “low fat” because you’ll start to think that wedding dress sizes may be more reasonable than I made them out to be considering I drink venti mochas and chow down on coffee cake – I swear, I’m a healthy eater and those dresses are sized way too small!!) Anyway, when I was handed the bag with the LOW fat pastry, I noticed it was heavier than usual and with a wink the barista said, “just take it”. What did I “just take”? A FREE piece of extra coffee cake, that’s what.

Although that’s an incredibly kind gesture and something I should start getting used to as a recognizable, loved, respected regular, its just starting to become overwhelming... and fattening. And it’s not only the freebies, it’s the attention I’m getting – the other day, I walked in to the store to get my afternoon coffee and was immediately greeted by a high five... I’m not even joking. Again, a very nice gesture, but I realized that when it comes to being at work and wanting to get away to my coffee escape, I really DON'T want everyone to know my name.

What’s a girl to do? My new found celebrity will stay with me until I start sporting a wig and sunglasses or decide to boycott my mochas... both of which won’t happen. So as I adjust to a life where “everyone knows my name”, I’ll just have to remember to appreciate the recognition and promise myself that I won’t let this attention go to my head... or to my butt.

Too many high fives, mochas and pieces of coffee cake will that to you, you know.

To be a 10, You Must Wear a 10...

2008-08-05T10:23:00.003-05:00

With wedding plans in full swing, I can’t help but to have “bridal brain” as I continue to meet with various vendors, thumb through stacks of wedding magazines and shape up the ever-growing guest list. Up until this point, everything has made sense to me. I get the importance of “mood lighting”. I understand you’ll need to cough up a hefty down payment for flowers without a petal or blossom in sight. I know that you have to send “courtesy invites” to those crazy relatives who never go to any event, but get offended when they don’t receive an invitation that ends up costing more than the cheap gift they’ll end up sending you months after the big day.

But there is one thing that I don’t get and never will. I don’t even think there is a logical explanation for this one bridal phenomenon as it’s so illogical that I dare someone to make rational sense of it. What I don’t get is why wedding dresses are always 2 to 3 sizes larger than the bride’s actual size, causing an already manic, stressed woman to obsess over weight that she truly does not have. Who came up with this cruel concept? Probably a man, that’s who.

I just recently started searching for my dress and I eagerly anticipated the experience up until I was locked in dressing room with my mom, wearing only my unmentionables, trying to squeeze into a dress that was a whole two sizes bigger than my normal pant size. I felt like a stuffed turkey as my mom kneaded down my buns and told me to “suck it in”. Suck what in?!?! I couldn’t even breathe!

Prior to this traumatic experience, I always assumed “sample” sizes were supposed to be these huge potato sacks that you’re forced to pin back with huge clamps to give you some kind of idea of what the shape of the dress could really be. Alas, I needed the jaws of life to remove myself from the darn dresses I tried on, and the best was that there was a beautiful dress that came in a sample size of 2... T-W-O. Ha. The dress would fit me if I put one on each thigh.

Luckily, I’m the kind of bride who can get over the size of my dress (eventually... perhaps after this post) and understand it’s not the number on the tag, its how you look in it. But what about those girls who can’t look past sizes? You put a self conscious bride-to-be in a dressing room with a 360 degree mirror and a dress that would fit an American Girl Doll, she goes from Betty Bridal to Ann O. Rexic.

And don’t get me started on 360 degree mirrors in dressing rooms. I recently saw angles of myself that I never knew existed and wish I was never introduced to, and then as I scramble to cover up, I get a 360 degree view of myself struggling to fit a dress over my hips. If I were to open a bridal shop, I would replace dress sizes with compliments, like “size HOTTIE” or “size WOW, YOU’RE THIN”, and curtain off all mirrors in the 360 degree house of horrors and only unveil them once the bride is fully in her dress and ready to see the total package without being forced to view that unsightly birthmark on her left butt cheek.

But let me tell you once you find a dress that fits over your curvy hips and hugs you just right, it’s the best moment... ever. And so what if you can’t sit down in your dress because it will cut off your air supply? You look goooood, girl.

So short story LONG, wedding dress shopping has left me a bit discouraged, but more importantly has left me bewildered as I don’t understand why dress manufacturers willingly add to a bride’s stress with their wacky notions of size. I know I'll personally move on from this disturbing phenomenon and accept that if I have to wear a 10 to look like a 10, then so be it!

(I swear I don't have to wear a 10, it was a just a play on words to make my point... but I wouldn't be embarrassed if I had to wear that size, which I actually just might... but I'm not officially confirming that... SEE... this is what dress shopping does to you!!)

Buying a House is Like Riding a Bike... Ding Ding!

2008-07-23T10:58:00.004-05:00

“If you can survive buying a home together, you can survive anything together.”

That’s a quote from our realtor who sensed that my fiancé and I were at our wits end with one another as we were debating “to bid or not to bid”. (If you’re dying to know... we bid)

Buying a house is so much more than just buying something with a roof that you can live under. When you buy a house you’re buying responsibility, you’re buying a new chapter to your life and you’re buying some uncertainty. I bet you didn’t know that uncertainty can come with such a huge price tag.

I was talking with one of my closest friends the other day who is also embarking on her first time house hunt and we were commiserating over how much you need to know when buying real estate and that no one ever really prepares you for what you’re about to go through. I’m a smart gal, but during this process, I’ve never felt so stupid... if I had a dollar for every sentence I started with “I know this may be a dumb question, but...” when talking to our realtor and broker, I would have already paid off our mortgage. It’s almost like the industry wants to haze first time buyers and once you’ve made it through, you’re officially in the cool club and have figured out all the insider secrets – I hope there is a secret handshake we find out about at closing.

So my fiancé and I are embarking on our last leg of the home buying process, which for me, has been kind of like riding a bike – its really tough and confusing at first, and you may be left with some scars (my scar is the memory forever etched in my mind of hearing how much closing costs would be – ouch!), but when you finally get it all down, you cruise to the finish. Now, unlike bike riding, I have no intention to hop up on the real estate bike seat again for at least another 5 years because this was all one wild ride that I don’t have the stamina to do again any time soon, but when I’m ready to kick up the kickstand, it will be easy to pick back up again.

My real estate bike was a tandem one as I ventured into this experience with my soon-to-be husband, and if you’re riding solo, I must give you major kudos because it can get pretty scary out on the road alone. However, riding tandem isn’t always that easy especially when you and your partner aren’t always equally matched – I remember trying to rent a tandem bike with my dad while we were on vacation on Mackinac Island... I was about 8 years old and he was about 150 pounds heavier than me. Let’s just say the bike ride didn’t work out because the weight difference caused my part of the bike to be stuck at a 45 degree angle, unable to be pedaled by my 4 foot-something frame.

So now that you know this about tandem bikes, my fiancé and I rode through my home buying experience rather smoothly, but then the weight difference would set in – whoever thought I’d be so turned off by a banister? And who knew my soon-to-be husband had a burning hate for certain kinds of shrubs? What’s important to you isn’t always important to your partner – what you see as fixable, could be unbearable for someone else.

Okay, so enough with the bike metaphors (but aren't metaphors just so darn fun?). The important takeaway from all of this is that buying a home is an interesting, stressful, exciting, scary and overwhelming experience. It’s an experience that has really opened my eyes and one that I’m happy I’ve had the opportunity to have, but if you’re a first time home owner, you better be ready to take people’s opinions, disregard those same people’s OTHER opinions, and know that NO question is stupid.

As my fiancé and I approach the closing of our home, we can reflect on the bumps in the road, the bruises we got along the way and the times when we were just not thinking at the same speed, but with those moments behind us, we can now plan on just cruising to the finish... ding ding!

My Sticky Situation

2008-07-15T16:08:00.004-05:00

Gum. I stepped in gum.

Today I was enjoying a break from work and taking a walk around my office building when I suddenly felt like someone was stepping on the back of my shoe. Turning around to glare at the rude person who was walking WAY to close to me, I saw no one and smelled a familiar minty fresh scent – it was then I realized I had put my foot smack dab on top a clump of sticky, germ infused gum.

Who just spits it out like that? I guess I wouldn’t be surprised about all of this if I were sauntering through a truck stop, but a high end office building? Please. Get some class, people! Are you too busy being a high powered lawyer that when you’re done with your gum you choose to let it stumble out of your mouth and hope your assistant is close enough behind to catch it? I don’t care who you are, gum is like the devil’s glue and is such a pain to clean off... I should know... my right foot is currently plastered to the floor beneath my desk because not even all the scraping in the world can remove this piece of rudeness from my sole.

As you can tell, I don’t just have an issue with the gum. I have an issue with the people who just spit it out. These are the same people who leave public restrooms filthy. Who raised these rodents? And I’m sure if these guilty gum spitters found themselves in a similar sticky situation, they would throw a fit.

I myself learned a valuable lesson and had karma bite me in the butt when I selfishly disposed of my gum in a careless way. I was at a beach with my dubble bubble practically melting in my mouth from the heat. Wanting to get rid of it and seeing that the trash can was a distant 10 feet away, my laziness got the best of me and I decided to toss it in the sand. Later that day, forgetting about my careless action, I was frolicking in the sand and stepped in MY OWN GUM. I was barefoot, it was sticky and the situation wasn’t pretty.

Have you ever stepped in melting gum barefoot? No? Well hot gum on a heel is like super glue on fingers (I’ve superglued my fingers together before too, that’s another post all together). Even when I thought I had scrubbed it off, I could still smell the dubble bubble and had residual gumminess on my foot for weeks. I made myself two promises after that: 1) never chew dubble bubble again (the smell alone sends chills down my spine and my heel starts to throb) and 2) never spit out your gum on the ground, Rudy McRudster – throw it away!!!

If it weren’t for the fact that it was MY gum, I would have flipped out even more because if it wasn’t, it would have been like having a creepy old man licking my foot... assuming that whatever random gum I come across has been chewed by a creepy old man and for comedy’s sake, lets say it is. I realized how disgusted a fellow beach bum would have felt if they stumbled about my dubble bubble trouble – ew.

So the next time you’re thinking, “this gum sucks, I don’t want it anymore”, either find a trash can or be a champ and swallow it – it only takes 7 years to “pass”, right? Because for every person who steps on a stranger’s gum, an angel loses its wings... no, wait, that’s a bit dramatic, but just remember that public places aren’t yours, they are everyone’s and when you disrespect a public space by spitting your gum on the ground, you’re spitting on your fellow man.

Disrespect. What a sticky subject.

I'll have my "usual", please.

2008-07-14T13:20:00.003-05:00

The other day I went to Starbucks for my mid-day java jolt and ordered “my drink” – a grande, raspberry, non-fat, no-whip mocha. That’s right, I like my drinks how I like my men: sweet and complicated.

So I ordered, handed over the obscenely unnecessary amount of 4 bucks, and then elbowed my way into the huddled mass of other afternoon coffee lovers waiting for their overpriced cup of stress relief. So I’m standing there, waiting. And waiting some more. I then get waved over by the barista, who I’m thinking wants to reward my loyalty by giving me a free gift card under the table or something, but who instead admits that they are out of raspberry syrup.

Two questions:

WHAT?? [Insert big eyed, blinking stare]
And why didn’t you know this before I gave up my money and waited patiently, anticipating the unforgettable taste of my beloved brew??

It’s not the fact that they ran out of the raspberry syrup that makes me upset– I understand that disasters can and will happen. It’s the fact that they led me to believe that my addiction would be satiated and then suddenly took it all away... and then what’s worse, with my fellow Starbucks cult members looking on, is that they asked me what other drink I wanted, and I had NO idea. I was put on the spot, expecting my raspberry mocha, and couldn’t even read the menu for other options as my vision was blurred by the sudden surprise of not getting what I ALWAYS order and ALWAYS expect.

So I just kind of stared at the remorseful-less Barista and said nothing... it was almost like I was waiting for him to say, “JUST KIDDING! You’ve been Punk’d” and then be presented with the best raspberry mocha I’ve ever had by Ashton Kutcher himself. Well, that didn’t happen.

I collected myself and managed to order a latte instead, but I wasn’t happy about it. I then realized how much I rely on my “usuals” – I think we all have some kind “usual” we depend on. Be it a favorite dish you always order at a specific restaurant or a specific TV show you watch every week without fail. “Usuals” most likely control some facet of your life and I was embarrassed that my “usual” left me tongue tied and inflexible (and in front of a gaping, judging Starbucks crowd no less).

The more I think about my “usuals”, the more disappointed I become in myself. Let’s face it, most of us aren’t sky diving instructors or out of work artists trying to make a buck on Hollywood boulevard by playing the drums on empty buckets -- we’re working at a typical 9-5 job and without even trying, we are living very mundane, “usual” lifestyles, which is something I often complain about when I’m not playing drums on the corner to make an extra buck (okay, that’s a lie, but not a bad idea).

So here I am, whining about my unusual life, as usual, and have a mini panic attack when Starbucks forces me to think outside my raspberry mocha and settle for something different. Was it really that painful? Of course not. But should I take this as a lesson that I need to drop my “usuals” and spice things up? You bet ya. Stepping outside your comfort zone, even if it’s merely ordering a new kind of drink, can only enhance your boring life and introduce you to wonderful new things; however, having tried this before, these new things soon become your new “usuals”, thus the vicious cycle continues, but either way, you’re embracing change and change is good.

So go forth, change things up and instead of ordering your usual, go for your UNusual.

Shaved Eyebrows & Red Pumps

2008-06-11T16:49:00.004-05:00

“Everything happens for a reason.”

Has anyone ever said that to you when things weren’t going your way? Or when something doesn’t quite work out like you had hoped? You’ll often hear this phrase when you didn’t get that job you wanted or when you’re faced with an illness or basically anytime when something pretty negative happens. When you and friend go to a shoe store and they don’t have those adorable red pumps in a size 8.5, you don’t turn to each other and say this phrase because situations like that are far too trivial... you say this to someone when you know that whatever just happened will leave them questioning their life’s happiness... and although I LOVE shoes, I wouldn’t lose sleep over red pumps... but they would have looked so cute with that new dress I bought... damn.

Someone told me, “everything happens for a reason” in response to a recent letdown I experienced and although it seems like such a standard response to anything discouraging that comes our way, there is a lot of truth in that statement and it really made me get all philosophical (don’t worry, I’m not getting all soft on you, this philosophical thinking only lasted only for a moment and then I was back to thinking about where I could find red pumps in a size 8.5).

So why does everything happen for a reason?

One of the earliest “everything happens for a reason” comments I received was when I was applying to colleges my junior year of high school. I wanted to go to Notre Dame so badly. Maybe I had just watched Rudy too many times, but I so desperately wanted to get accepted there. I remember when my “thanks, but no thanks” letter came in the mail from Notre Dame - it was like a postcard you get from the dentist reminding you about your teeth cleaning – simple, straightforward and bearing bad news. That’s when my mom told me, “everything happens for a reason”. At that time, I was just bummed that I would have to go to my second choice school and never be able to have a football stadium chant my name in unison when the coach put me in the final moments of the game. Wait. Wrong person.

Anyway, what was the “reason” for me not to get accepted to Notre Dame? Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I was meant to cheer for a football team that actually wins games, live in one of the greatest, family-friendly cities in the country, meet my husband and learn what cheese curd should TRULY taste like.

Okay, okay, I realize that I would have liked any college I went to, because its college for the love of God - four beautiful years of bliss pretending that you’re independent, when in reality, you’re just relying on your parents long distance - but I would really like to think that my life is better because something I wanted to happen didn’t actually work out.

Another example for you - I would LOVE to not have random illnesses. If you remember correctly from a past blog post, I’m the queen of mysterious diseases and medical issues, and these maladies have impaired me throughout my life. Trust me, I would much rather be shopping for shoes instead of sitting in the fetal position nursing a side pain that feels like I just swallowed a spork. But let’s say “everything happens for a reason” in response to my health.

[Word of caution: do NOT say this phrase to me when I’m experiencing the actual pain... if I’m in pain and you say this, I’ll punch you in the face and say “everything happens for a reason, like I punched you in the face because you’re a moron”. You just can’t be philosophical with someone who is immediate pain or distress – so if your friend accidentally shaves off her eyebrows, don’t say this in the moment because at that time, your now expressionless friend will chase with a razor to make you her hairless twin - let it lie for a moment and when her eyebrows grow back with the perfect arch she never had before, you can then say, “see, everything happens for a reason”.]

But enough about eyebrows and back to my pain. When I sit and reflect on my ailments I realize that I’m stronger and smarter for having them. My physical pain has beefed up my brain and I can handle stressful social and professional situations a lot better than some of my pain-free counterparts. And since I know what its like to hurt, I appreciate life that much more when I don’t. I sometimes don’t think people realize how great life is when you don’t have to worry about your body betraying you.

But don't cry for me Argentina; my pain could be A LOT worse. And if nothing else, I’ll be a better mother as I think I’ve experienced every possible weird thing that could happen to my kids and know how to intelligently address it.

My kid: “Mommy, I feel like I’m stuck in a snow globe and someone is shaking it.”

Me: “Oh, don’t sweat it – you probably caught the vertigo virus, so I’ll take you the doctor where he’ll knock your head around to dislodge the crystals formed on your inner ear from the virus and they’ll prescribe a high doze of motion sickness medication. Now scoot."

My poor kids will receive no sympathy from this mom.

Okay, so you may find that my examples aren’t deep nor are they philosophical, but you get my point. I guess I’m trying to say that if you’re going through a rough time, just remember that this time has a purpose in your life. And if you can’t think of why you should be living with a mysterious pain or why you didn’t get the job of your dreams or why not having eyebrows for a few months will actually benefit you, just remember that some of the best things that can happen to you are those things that actually didn’t. (now ponder THAT philosophical statement for a while...)

Two Dozen is Better Than One

2008-05-20T09:11:00.002-05:00

This week I’ll be turning 24 and I’m totally jazzed about it. What a great age. Why? Let me tell you –

24 happens to be a super cool show, which I have never seen a minute of, but rumor has it that its totally hip, and anything that has rumors surrounding it is totally cool.
7-11 is open 24 hours a day – who doesn’t love a good slurpee at 4 am??
Jeff Gordon’s car number is 24 – I could care less about NASCAR, but in some circles, this number represents a religion.
24 equals two dozen and things that are counted by “dozen” usually are tasty, so two dozen of anything tasty is way better than one.

I can’t really think of anything else great about the number 24, but you catch my drift – I’m excited for my birthday. But ever since I turned 21 I noticed that my peers react to birthdays, beyond the one that granted them legal access to bars for the first time, with so much despair. Most of my friends fall in the under 30 category and when they complain about how “old” they are when their birthday arrives, I just know that people in their 30s and 40s want to give them a swift kick to their STILL YOUNG butts.

Okay, okay, I get it. I understand that some of these despairing 20 somethings expected to maybe be somewhere in their lives by the time they hit 21 and they aren’t quite there yet. My lord are these people an ambitious group!Just because you don’t have a corner office or a husband/wife in your 20s doesn’t mean you aren’t successful – heck, if you don’t have these things by your 30s, its fine... but when you get your 40s and you’re still an intern and living with your parents, then we might have problem.

I wish people, young people in particular, would embrace birthdays and not dread them. This is YOUR day to celebrate YOU. When else do you get to do that?! Well, actually, I remember asking my mom when I was little why there was a mother’s day and father’s day, but not a kid’s day – her response? EVERY day is kid’s day. Point taken. But seriously, birthdays are meant to celebrate everything wonderful about your life and if things aren’t THAT wonderful, at least take this day to celebrate with the wonderful people in your life. I know that’s why I love my birthday – I get to spend time with people that I don’t always get to see but love dearly.

(Sidenote – if I don’t see you this week, its not that I don’t love you dearly or consider you to be not wonderful, because I do and you are – I think that covers all my bases, right?)

And what’s with age anyway? We aren’t living in the era when you get hitched at 20 and pop out your first kid at 22 – it’s just not like that anymore. In reality, there has never been a better time to age and embrace each birthday even if you’re turning 24 or 34 or 44....

So go forth and celebrate each birthday with excitement, and if you still can indulge in birthday cake with great people, consider yourself young (and that counts even if you have dentures and need to sip your birthday cake through a straw). Remember age is in your actions, not your wrinkles. I know a lot of old, stuffy 20 somethings and I also know a 91 year old who has the youngest person I’ve ever met. So as I begin to celebrate my two dozen years of life, I won’t moan or groan, I'll remember that two dozen is better than one and each year will be better than the last.

The "Train Wave"

2008-05-08T16:47:00.006-05:00

What? ANOTHER post about riding the train you say? Get over it. I’m a commuter and will spend half of my adult life sitting in the last car of the Metra, right side, 4th seat up, and it’s only natural to write about what you know... and I know trains.

So, the “Train Wave”. What the heck is the "Train Wave" or better yet, my burning question is why does it even exist to begin with??

The next time you ride a train, look out the window and you’ll slowly begin to notice that the most random people wave as your train passes by. Now, I’m NOT talking about the cute little kids, who wave their adorable chubby hands as they wait for daddy to get off the train or the lame heartbroken boyfriend who waves farewell to his probably not-gonna-last for another week girlfriend who gets on the train to go to summer camp... “Buddy, she’s coming back eventually, but probably with a new boyfriend, so stop lamely waving”.

I’m talking about grown adults, who are taking a morning jog through their neighborhood or walking to the end of their driveway to pick up the paper who WAVE AS THE TRAIN PASSES BY – thus the term, “Train Wave”. (Note that although this behavior exists, I made up that term, so use it with caution to avoid embarrassment when you suddenly realize that it’s not a universally embraced term.)

So back to these adult, able minded train wavers. Why do they wave to a train in the distance when they know that the hundreds of people who are riding it will just end up staring at them thinking that they look ridiculous in their tight running shorts or funny in their fluffy bath robe? Do they know someone on the train and just hope that their drive by waving will catch the eye of their loved one? Probably not. These train wavers are waving at complete strangers, for what reason, I don’t know.

If you think I’m being tough on these nut bars, I would ask you to then walk outside and wave to someone you don’t know - and accidentally waving to a person who looked like your best friend in a crowded bar doesn’t count. I’m talking about stretching out your hand muscles, going into the Chicago loop, standing on the street and waving... to anyone and everyone... you’ll soon be the best dressed homeless, crazy person anyone has ever seen.

This morning, my train passed a construction site and a few of the sweaty guys started waving at it – note that you can’t see through the windows very well and most of these “Train Waves” happen from pretty far away, so its not like they saw a hot young dish and wanted to live up to the dirty construction worker stereotype and ogle her. And then we passed through another town and some landscapers literally put down their rakes and starting waving as we went by. It was like the Metra transformed into the Pope-Mobile or something and all its riders were his holiness. It just doesn’t make sense to me.

The best one is this lady who jogs every morning alongside the street that follows the tracks. She will do the “no eye contact Train Wave” as she keeps her eyes straight ahead with determination as she runs, yet will raise her right and wave like crazy not even breaking her stare. It’s like she was told that if she doesn’t wave like a moron to the trains that pass by she’ll be struck down by lightening. This is truly perplexing to me because when I’m not riding the train and see one pass, I don’t instinctively start convulsing with happiness and try to get the attention of the strangers within the mysterious locomotive.

Since I experienced so many “Train Waves” this morning, I’ve been trying to think of instances in which you’d publically wave at a stranger. Like during one of the parades at Disney. In that instance, you wave like crazy to Minnie Mouse who is probably an out of luck dude looking for extra money, but that doesn’t even come close to “Train Wave” because you are in a setting that permits and expects it.

But, if Minnie Mouse were to pop up randomly on the street of your home town, I bet that you wouldn’t start waving at her (or in some cases, under the costume, him), you’d probably think, “who’s the jerk who stole that costume?” See, there is a time and a place for random acts of waveness, so I don’t get how trains constitute as that appropriate time and place.

So as I wait for the answers to address this phenomenon, I’ll continue to ride the train, looking out at my “fans” who wave at me like Minnie Mouse on parade. Yeah, it still creeps me out.

My Big, Fat, Chicago Wedding

2008-05-02T12:48:00.003-05:00

It’s official. I’m getting hitched. And it seems that finding the man was the easy part.

The cost of a kidney on the black market is cheaper than the cost of a nice wedding. And I’m not even talking about “Hollywood” nice. I’m talking about “beautiful, but not over the top because I’m not a celebrity making millions” nice. I’m no Beverly Hills princess; I’m just a nice girl from the Chicago suburbs and all I want is a tasteful reception that isn’t held in a tacky banquet hall that looks like it came straight out of “My Big, Fat Greek Wedding” – is that too much to ask for? Apparently.

So here I am. Just at the start of my wedding planning and I’ve already had bridal induced heartburn.

I recently read an article about how although the economy continues to decline, the wedding business continues to increase and the amount of money spent on receptions rises quicker than prices at the gas pump. Some couples are going broke just so they can host an event where they will most likely not be able to eat or drink what they are paying for, be forced to slow dance with creepy Uncle Lester and crazy Aunt Marge and then be left with a collection of useless kitchen gadgets. On top of that, the planning for this blessed event probably consumed 12+ months of their lives, caused numerous arguments and was the source of frequent tears. Well, when you think about it, I guess that’s actually a lot of bang for your buck.

You may start to wonder... why would I even bother planning a traditional wedding? Why waste money, tears and antacids when I can just hop on a plane to Vegas? Or better yet, why not just make a toast with tequila and do a beach wedding in Mexico? Yes, the thought has crossed my mind and it may cross my mind again when I’m battling over who gets cut from the guest list... but at the end of the day, I’m THAT girl who dreamt about her wedding since she was little and I didn’t envision getting married by Elvis or having a mariachi band as the entertainment. Plus, I don’t have a creepy Uncle Lester, so I can rest assured that my tushy won’t be squeezed by any drunk, twice removed relatives.

So, my childhood dreams have put me in a wedding vendor headlock – I will have to succumb to extra fees and upgraded linens... so I’ll just skip my daily Starbucks run to save more money, I’ll try to leave my sensitivity at the door and realize that I can’t please EVERYONE (this will be the HARDEST thing for me to do)... oh wait, there is one thing that I have to deal with that can’t be avoided: competition.

My sister got married 1.5 years ago and she had a lovely wedding. The venue was great, the food was great, the music was great, the speeches were great (ahem, one of them being my own, ahem), and it all happened for a great price (or at least “great” in comparison of what I’m looking at). Grrrreeeeeaaatttt.

The pros of having gone through my sister’s wedding planning is that we know what won’t work... but I’m more concerned about what WILL work. And will my wedding be as great? Okay, okay... I hear you... I shouldn’t compare my day to anyone else’s, but if you were in my shoes you’d feel the same way... its like telling someone the mountain size zit on their forehead doesn’t look “that bad” when you damn well that they look like they have a mini Mt. St. Helen’s on their face.

But enough whining – where do I go from here? Sell one of my kidneys on the black market? Eh, I probably shouldn’t. Snap out of pity party mode and plan the big, fat Chicago wedding of my dreams? Most definitely. As I try to stay level headed, I’ll run into tears, heartburn and bouts of “let’s forget about all of this and go to Vegas”, but in the end it will all be worth it because I'm THAT girl who has dreamt about her wedding since she was little and my dream come true will be waiting for me at the end of the aisle... and THAT is what matters. (oh, and good reception food matters because no one likes a hard potato and tasteless chicken)

No Offense, You Know?

2008-04-24T09:29:00.002-05:00

No offense, but I really don’t like when people preface sentences with “no offense”. If you start a statement with that phrase, what you’re really saying to whoever you’re talking to is that what you’re about to spit out will greatly offend them, but because you said “no offense”, they really can’t get mad at you. It’s the proverbial “not it” of the language world.

People who use that phrase almost seem to leverage it to lessen the pain of a rude remark, kind of like mixing medicine into apple sauce to make it go down easier. But for those people who have ever had “no offense, but...” directed at them actually consider the phrase to be the antiseptic wipe right before you feel the pain of a needle – sure, the wipe is nice and cool, but you know what’s coming shortly after and its not going to be fun.

If you’re telling me not be offended, chances are I probably will be, so why insult me with your irony when you should just cut to the chase?

So those are my thoughts on that random, futile “pre” sentence phrase... how about we talk about “post” sentence nonsense like, “you know?” Now that’s another pointless utterance that drives me up a wall because it usually proceeds a confusing/nonsensical statement to signal that the confusing speaker no longer wants to discuss the topic and wants you to ponder the confusing message they just shared.

You will normally hear “you know?” when a person either:

a) doesn’t want to elaborate any further in fear of insulting you – example? “I just really don’t want your ex-girlfriend there, you know?” Translation? “I really don’t want your ex-girlfriend there because she’s annoying and makes me uncomfortable and I’m angry that you would even suggest she be there”. In this case, the “you know” is understood and I suppose it has eliminated many dramatic confrontations, but I’m all about being honest and if you abuse “you know” in those sensitive situations, you are really just hiding your feelings and you’ll soon be saying, “LISTEN JERK, I HATE YOUR DAMN EX, YOU KNOW???”.
Or b) doesn’t quite know what to say or do and is confused and hopes you’ll just let it go and figure it out yourself – example? “How about you just do some research, compile it in that report thingy, you know?” Translation? "All I know is that we need to do some research and I'm not sure how to even start it, and I don't even know if we have a report you could repurpose. In fact, I hope you understand it better than I do or just figure it out on your own so I can just walk away now and not feel so dumb." Ugh. That’s the worst use of “you know?” in my book.

And speaking of my book, let me tell you about my own experience with these ineffective phrases. Now don’t get scared, but I had someone use BOTH phrases in ONE sentence... this tale is better left for a late night campfire accompanied with a flashlight held up to my chin, but since I doubt I’ll be roasting marsh mellows with you all around a bond fire anytime soon, I shall divulge the details now...

Someone recently said to me, “No offense, but I just think you’re too serious, you know?” Wow. That’s like mixing medicine in my applesauce, right before you give me a shot, followed by a kick in the stomach. Ouch. This statement drove me crazy because this person assumed I would be offended by being told I was “serious”. Since when is being “serious” a really bad thing? And on top of that, I don’t think I’m serious (this person obviously doesn’t read my blog), so the “you know?” really left me confused because guess what? I DON’T know what you’re talking about and if I asked this person to explain themselves, they would be tongue tied and probably wet themselves.

So, I took this terribly ineffectual comment with a grain of salt and decided it was a compliment because let’s face it, those people who purposely offend you and then can’t explain themselves are most likely just threatened by you or stupid or a combination of both.

So no offense, but how about we all just say what we mean and mean what we say, you know?

Uncomfortable Fridays

2008-04-14T11:14:00.003-05:00

I think whoever it was in Corporate America who decided that wearing jeans on Friday would be some kind of privilege must have been wearing sweat pants at the time. Let’s get real, people - if you’re a woman who appreciates good, trendy denim, than you KNOW wearing jeans is not a blessing, it’s a curse.

Jeans are hands down the one clothing item that everyone hates, but yet why are they embraced at work as a symbol of relaxation? Today my company allowed us to wear jeans (I know, I know its Monday... how scandalous!) and let me tell you, I’m everything BUT relaxed. My “work” pants consist of wide legged, high wasted trousers that are far more comfortable than my tight butted, low rise jeans. As I sit here typing, I can feel my jeans digging into the stomach fat that I normally can tuck away in my normal work garb.

You ask, “if you are so confined by your trendy jeans, why don’t you buy more comfortable ones, Stejamoe?” Sure, I’ll wear comfortable Lee jeans with a high waste, wide butt and tapered leg and then you can call me “mom”. No thanks.

So here’s my dilemma - wear your corporate pants which are ultimately more comfortable five days a week and get seen as uptight, but wear jeans on casual Friday and truly be uptight because your pants are well... TIGHT.

When I think casual and comfortable, I think sweat pants – so what about making casual Fridays into sweat/stretch pant Friday? No? Then tell me what’s the difference between wearing something to work you’d normally wear to bed or for lounging and wearing an uncomfortable fabric that you’ll find in every hick bar across America? Personally, I think the former is not only more comfortable, but less tacky.

So sit on that casual thought for a while... and while you sit on it, I’ll be sitting at work pretending that I’m comfortable.

Never Underestimate a Tuesday

2008-04-07T12:51:00.002-05:00

If you were to be any day of the week, what would you be? At first thought, I bet you’d NEVER be Tuesday. Think about it... everyone hates Monday because it’s the start of the week, but at least it’s a powerful day regardless of its negative connotation. Wednesday is “hump day” – how fun is that? This day has its own nickname, thus a beloved addition to the calendar and represents the light at the end of the work week tunnel. Thursday is the “cool kid” on the block as it’s known by many as “Thirsty Thursday” and the preliminary start of the weekend... once you hit Thursday, you know Friday is right around the corner. And Friday. God bless Friday. What a day. You may still have a job to do but you can hear the weekend knocking and if you work, you know that Friday is always a slow, mellow day in the office (not my office per say, but I’ve heard rumors that low-key Fridays do exist). Saturday is Saturday. Enough said. And Sunday is not only holy, but also is the quintessential “school night”.

So what’s Tuesday other than boring? What a random day. It’s not bad or good. It just sits there after the most hated day of the week and waits to introduce hump day. Talk about being a red headed step child.

However, if I have learned anything over the years, it’s to never take a single day for granted and to never underestimate the importance of a Tuesday. Heck, I would even venture to say that I would willingly identify with a Tuesday because the red headed step child day of the week has changed my life.

It was a Tuesday night during the April of my sophomore year at college and I was living every young man’s dream – I was calling a house packed with sorority girls my home, participating in occasional pillow fights and gossiping all night long, scantily clad in boy shorts and a tank top (only some of that is true, and to avoid crushing teenage boys dreams everywhere, I won’t divulge which parts).

I remember this specific Tuesday night so well. Earlier that evening I took a run through campus listening to my Discman – yes, this was the PRE-iPod era – and I remember later that night I wore cropped jeans with one of those ponchos that were so popular at the time – the ones that went over your head and ultimately looked like you were trying to hide a good 50 lbs of weight. That night our house cook made spaghetti for dinner paired with a terrible Oreo cheesecake for dessert. I remember this specific Tuesday night so well.

This specific Tuesday night, my sorority was hosting a dinner for a fraternity that just established itself on campus. Like any good sorority girls, we needed to be cordial and invite these young men to our house to make a good impression, which would consequently lead them to believe that our house was THE best house with THE best girls and maintain our competitive advantage in the Greek system – ah, those were some good, shallow times. And on this specific Tuesday night, I met someone very special.

Fast forward four years.

It was a Tuesday night during the April of my sophomore year of life (aka, two years out of college) and I remember this specific Tuesday night so well. Just like that Tuesday night four year ago, I remember what I wore, what I ate and what I did that day. The special someone who I met just four years prior, was with me this Tuesday night, but instead of sitting across from me at a sorority dinner, he was on one knee asking me to spend the rest of my life with him. I'll remember this specific Tuesday forever.

As I begin to plan my life with this person, I look forward to EVERY single day, because I know that each day can bring something exciting. Based on my experience, I’ve promised myself to not fear Mondays and wish for Saturdays, but to embrace the entire week because you never know what life changing moment can happen on a boring Tuesday night.

Generation Y Not?

2008-03-31T12:02:00.005-05:00

Generation Y includes those people born between 1980 and 1995. They are the generation that grew up with successful baby boomer parents, who didn’t make them walk to school up hill both ways, but gave them a car to drive. They are the generation that learned to use a computer before learning how to speak. They are the generation that was given more opportunities than the generations before them could ever dream of. There are a little under 80 million of these pampered, tech savvy youngins’ and they’re taking over the workplace and driving employers insane as they do it.

Recently, a SmartMoney.com columnist wrote an interesting article for employers who have to manage this new breed of adults, because Generation Y is not like any workforce companies have seen. According to this journalist, this new generation tends to "be a little high maintenance," as these young professionals demand more benefits and freedom. Generation Y typically didn’t have to worry about going without as their parents were part of the most successful generation to date, and with that security, Generation Y was able to study abroad, take on risky endeavors and not stress as much about the future and instead was able to live in the now.

What a lucky group. Well, a lucky and stuck up group according to most critics. You’ll find a lot of articles about this generation and the debate is over whether all this opportunity has gone to their heads making them entitled little brats or whether this opportunity has given them the confidence to create a better, more ambitious workplace.

The SmartMoney.com columnist recommends four things that employers should keep in mind to make sure they appease this growing workforce of young twenty somethings, because after all, we really are an untapped resource that potentially could revolutionize business as we know it, and if nothing else, we’ll be taking over the workplace in the next twenty years anyway, so you better get used to us. Since the columnist isn’t part of Generation Y, let’s see how well she captured what “we” really want.

First , the columnist encourages employers to “fully engage young workers”. I would say that I prefer to have a few things to juggle – I don’t stress multitasking, I embrace it. According to the article, since Generation Y grew up an era of technology revolution, we should be given the opportunity to leverage what we know recreationally and apply it to our jobs. So yes, I want a job that allows me to flex my creative muscle and demonstrate how my age is one of my strengths and not my weakness.

The second piece of advice is to “improve retention through incentives” – DUH. I’m pretty sure this advice applies not only to a young college graduate, but also to a 40 something with a high profile job, to a toddler being potty trained and to a dog learning to sit. No matter what generation, incentives are something we all respond to and want; however, I do think that Generation Y is more inclined to actually ASK for the incentives instead of patiently waiting for them. There is that whole Generation Y “entitlement” thing that critics complain about. But I personally think employers should appreciate such forwardness because unlike our 40 something counterpart who may leave a company because they weren’t compensated enough, at least you can try to salvage a position if you know ahead a time what your employee wants.

The columnist also recommends that employers should meet regularly with their Generation Y employees. This is something I completely agree with. Generation Y was raised to be social and growing up we had access to a crazy amount of social activities and have really come to depend on constant communication. So to all employers – the more you meet with your Generation Y employees the better off you’ll be because with each meeting you are creating a social bond that turns into loyalty, which is something that employers complain that their Generation Y employees do not have. Talk to us more and you’ll get a lot more bang for your buck.

Finally, it is recommended to “be true to your culture”. If you’re a formal, buttoned-up bank, don’t put a pool table in the break room just show how “hip” and Generation Y friendly you are. Generation Y is smart bunch of kids and we see right through those kind of things and resent it. Don’t insult us and think that “casual Fridays” makes up for an uptight office – we’re onto you – be real and we’ll do the same.

So overall, I think the columnist gave some pretty good recommendations to manage Generation Y, but there are a few others I’d like to add. Employers – are you listening?! These are pearls of wisdom...

Embrace the ambitious, ditch the lazy – Our generation is part of the most competitive entry-level workforces in history, so we see the good, the bad and the ugly. Don’t be fooled by Generation Y – we’re not all creative, hard working and innovative. Some of us are disguised as ambitious and end up being useless, so please recognize that because those of us who are really the keepers get frustrated when a lazy kid gets a job just because he/she has a blog – no amount of tech savvyness will dig you out of the holes that these sketchy, young morons can create for you.

Don’t remind us how young we are – I think my biggest pet peeve is when I’m reminded that I’m “so young”. I’m not denying I’m young and fairly inexperienced, because I’m both. But I found that generations before us, specifically those people who fall just outside Generation Y, really like to emphasize our youth and I’m thinking it might have to do with a small bit of jealousy – we may have been give a lot of opportunity, but a lot of us have worked hard in our short lifetimes.

We may have nontraditional work styles, but we still have traditions – Although Generation Y has introduced unconventional ideas to the business world and opened up unique and innovative doors for employers, it doesn’t mean we don’t value conventional lifestyles. Forget about Samantha Jones, you’d be surprised by how many of us want to get married before 30. We go to family birthday parties. We want to have dinner at a decent time. We value our time outside of work. Yes, we’re definitely an ambitious bunch, but that ambition applies to our personal lives as well so don’t think that adding a high-tech espresso machine to the office is going to make us happy as we work late, letting us have a life outside work is the best energy boost of all.

So, to all those employers fearing the Generation Y workforce invasion: don’t sweat it. Don’t think you have to bend over backwards for us because at the end of the day, we need you just as much as you need us. However, taking advice on how to manage us better may just benefit you in more ways than one because everyone could gain from some extra communication and a more relaxed work environment.

The next time you are faced with making a change to appease this young group, give it a try and don’t ask yourself “why”, ask yourself “Y not?”

How do you spell Chipotle? L-O-V-E

2008-03-07T13:42:00.003-06:00

Why do I LOVE Chipotle? First, let me state the obvious. Who doesn’t love a full, delicious meal wrapped in a convenient tortilla shell? I mean, come on. Its not only mouthwatering, it’s portable. And recently, I was granted 10 of these foil covered morsels for FREE after my business card was pulled from a raffle. Could a girl get any luckier?! Well actually, as I ate my free burrito, I was keeping my eye open for a hidden diamond ring, but my luck had apparently run out. Next burrito.

So why am I gushing over these burritos? Two reasons: one, they were free and I mean, how cool is that? The cost of 10 burritos probably totals a little under 70 bucks and if you ask me, that’s one nice giveaway. Leave it to Chipotle to be generous to the common man. And two, I ordered all the food through their “DSL” website, which stands for “Don’t Stand in Line”, and I was very impressed.

I’ll admit that at first I was a bit confused with the whole online ordering process. In fact, I accidently processed a “practice order” of mine and had to call the restaurant at 8 am to cancel my mistake. My bad. Once I finally got it down, I had a laundry list of complicated orders and a few special requests; one of my colleagues didn’t want cilantro in his rice and I assumed asking Chipotle to make a cilantro-less burrito is like ordering Oreo cookie ice cream without the Oreo – pretty much impossible. But I made the request anyway and I also asked that they label each burrito with a name of the person they would go to – a shot in the dark request, but wouldn’t that just make life so much easier? I then specified the time I would be in and hoped for the best.

Now, I have never been one to have much luck with to-go orders. Something always seems to be missing and someone always ends up getting upset. In this case with the burritos, the pressure was really on because what if the boss’s burrito missing?!

When I arrived to pick up my order, I happily bypassed the hungry lunchtime crowd standing in line. After identifying myself and handing over my credentials (i.e. the “Congratulations, you’re a winner!” certificate), I was handed two full bags and immediately was astonished to see that the burritos had a name associated with each one; if they were the correct name, I wasn’t sure and didn't even care... I was just amazed that they did it.

So I come barreling back into the office like a Mexican Santa with sacks full of Chipotle and lo and behold the right names are on the right order. [insert wiping of brow]. Now the final test would be when my boss bit into his burrito – would he find cilantro and fire me? Or would he be greeted by plain rice and realize what an asset I am to the team? Well, let’s just say that I’m a burrito bearing asset. I didn’t even know that Chipotle would honor cilantro-less requests. What a place. This is why I L-O-V-E Chipotle.

Yours, Mine and Ours.

2008-03-03T14:32:00.003-06:00

Marriage is on my mind, I can’t help it. It seems that where ever I turn there is something relating to holy matrimony – either someone I know is getting engaged or there is a marathon of a Wedding Story on TLC or I look up in the sky and see clouds that resemble a 5 tiered wedding cake. Recently, even random one off conversations result in a mention of marriage as the other day, a friend of mine asked me if I thought it was weird that a couple would share the same email address once they tied the knot. So for example, if John marries Jane, then their one and only email address would be something like, john&jane@gmail.com.

This random question arose when this friend of mine received an email from a newly married couple announcing that they would be ditching their separate email accounts and creating one joint account that they both could access. Good bye are the days of e-solidarity for this twosome, through the vow of marriage, they have meshed their lives, their homes, their families and the random “You know you’re a redneck when...” forwards they receive from friends bored at work.

So what do you think about sharing your personal email account with your significant other? Personally, I would never do it. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing to hide electronically from the love of my life, because what fills my personal inbox are emails about the latest products from Coach and e-cards from my mom; however, when I’m married, I plan on sharing pretty much everything and having a personal email account will be one of the last solo ventures I keep.

So beyond the personal email account, I’m pretty much an advocate meshing everything with your spouse – if you listen carefully you can hear the screams and expletives of feminists from around the globe, cursing my decision to “lose” my identity to a man. Say what you will, hairy feminists, my decision has nothing to do with gender power, it has to do with the power found in numbers.

Did your mom ever tell you not to walk alone at night? Or that you could go to the mall as long as you were with a group? For me, I feel that when you get married you have a permanent clique comprising of you and your spouse. If the person you say “I Do” to is the right one, they will back you up, protect you and take half of all your stresses (give or take a few).

For example, I believe that finances should be shared when you get hitched; none of this, “funny money” bank accounts that you each hide from one another, never knowing exactly how much the other has, thinking that it may be enough to fund that air conditioner repair that supposedly you don’t have the shared moolah for.

When the day comes for me to me tie the knot, I want my husband to share half of our financial burdens if for no other reason to spread out the stress. And yes, I’ll be able to buy my designer handbag every now again and he can splurge on season tickets to the Brewers, its just that the funds for both will come out of the same pot of gold. And please don’t start to argue with me, I KNOW that this technique doesn’t work for everyone and thank goodness, because I’m NOT everyone. You do what you want and I’ll have a joint bank account.

So how could someone like me who is so for sharing money with her spouse not be into sharing an email address? The last time I checked, my bank statement doesn’t let me send invitations for a surprise party and doesn’t forward funny sayings about how stupid men can be. Email is trivial, finances are not, and I personally think major things need to be faced head on with your partner in crime. So when it comes to a marital relationship, I say share what makes you comfortable, even if that includes an email address, and keep those things separate that will help prevent confrontations ... bathroom towels, closet space, toothbrushes, etc., because “what mine is yours” is not always the case.

I've Gone Bananas Over You.

2008-02-08T13:22:00.000-06:00

Valentine’s Day is quickly approaching and if you listen carefully you can hear the sarcastic sighs and pessimistic groans of those who do not have a special someone to spend the holiday with. To them, Valentine’s Day is consumerism’s way of shoving their singlehood in their face. With every heart shaped candy and every mushy card on display, these anti V-day warriors point and shoot their cynical guns, while all I want to do is put a daisy in the barrel and give them a lame Hallmark card with a monkey saying, “I’ve gone bananas over you”.

I personally love, dare I say “heart”, Valentine’s Day. Always have and always will. It has been my favorite holiday, even trumping Christmas, since I was chubby, snaggle toothed kid and if I remember correctly, I wasn’t in a serious relationship during my elementary school days, and the only man in my life that tugged at my heart strings was Big Bird... and did Big Bird even have a sex? I mean, the bird didn’t even wear pants for God’s sake.

So why should you embrace Valentine’s Day with or without a romantic rendezvous?

As a child, Valentine’s Day was just another reason to celebrate and get hopped up on sugar, and unlike the anticipation of Christmas that causes young kids to lose sleep over a fat man with a cookie addiction, Valentine’s day has a quick and simple arrival with limited stress, and instead of reindeer with lethal antlers, you get a cute little cherub flying around with a painless bow and arrow. You would share cards with your entire class and for once, everyone felt included... even if that meant you gave all the boys and that girl who smelled like cheese the “ugly” Valentines with the non-chocolate candy.

As an adult, Valentine’s Day is a great excuse to get in touch with friends and remind those around you how much you love them – and I’m not talking about the romantic, mushy love, I’m talking about the relationships you have with your friends and coworkers. Who doesn’t like a little card every now and again? And that’s all you need to give – something small and sweet that does NOT force you to take a hammer to the good ol’ piggy bank. And when Valentine’s Day comes to an end, you aren’t left with two months of leftovers, two months of debt and post-holiday depression.

All of this goodness aside, there are still people out there, primarily women, who when they start seeing the red of Valentine’s Day immediately get the blues. Some people feel that if they don’t have someone special to share the romantic time of year with, then the holiday is a complete bust. Yes, Valentine’s Day is obviously a very couple oriented holiday; however, you need to look beyond the dinners for two and make time for a dinner for 6 and get together your close friends and family and celebrate.

So this year, don’t decide to sulk on February 14th, don’t stay in and rent sappy love movies and don’t sit around with equally bitter people and moan about the woes of love. Go out, be happy, send a friend a funny card and enjoy the stressful, cheap holiday. You may even be pleasantly surprised to learn that someone has “gone bananas over you”.

Hello, Lent. Good Bye, Coffee.

2008-02-06T09:28:00.000-06:00

Yesterday was Fat Tuesday. Did you eat enough? I, myself, indulged in a Chipotle burrito that I later regretted as I laid in bed cuddling with a nasty case of heart burn. My queen size bed was definitely not big enough for the two of us as my hyper indigestion demanded attention from my exhausted burrito stuffed body. Let’s just say that I truly put the Fat in Fat Tuesday.

Now it’s Ash Wednesday, my burrito has been digested and it’s the start of Lent. Traditionally, Christians “give up” something enjoyable over the next 40 days to represent the sacrifice JC made, and for me, my annual Lenten sacrifice is a way of making up for all the 325 unholy days in my year. I take this Lent thing seriously and have decided that I will put my mug down, say good bye to my Starbucks barista and give up.... wait for it... COFFEE... dun dun DUN.

If you know me, you know I love me a good cup o’ joe. And I’m not just a Starbucks snob, no sir. I enjoy my java any way I can get it; Folger’s at home, a good old fashion brew at a diner, and yes, even a cup of capitalism at a ubiquitous coffeehouse. By hanging up my coffee mug for the next 40 days, I’m giving up something that has become a daily comfort and by saying farewell to my beloved drink of choice, I’m presenting myself with a challenge and that’s what a Lenten sacrifice is all about.

For you cheaters out there, giving up TV when you barely turn on the tube or deciding to drink less cocktails when you’re averaging only one glass of wine per week, will send you straight to Hell. Okay, that was a bit dramatic, but giving up something that isn’t truly a physical and mental sacrifice doesn’t really count – why even bother then?

But the more I think about, it does seem a bit ridiculous that modern society has determined that if you truly enjoy and depend on something like candy, smoking, coffee or all of the above, giving up your guilty pleasure is a fair trade for a holy figure’s life. Well, wait. Did they even have coffee when Jesus around?! If Jesus had access to a Jerusalem Starbucks, I think he’d agree that us modern folk who give up espresso is his honor are truly dedicated to faith. But seriously, how can giving up a truly trivial habit represent the ultimate sacrifice? Although, in our current day and age, it’s not very realistic for me to pack up and tromp through the desert for 40 days and 40 nights. I don’t have 40 days vacation built up yet.

However, I don’t think trudging through sand or giving up something that could drastically impact your life in negative way is what JC would have wanted from us. No matter how small your Lenten sacrifice, it’s still a sacrifice... but, remember... if you don’t like chocolate and decide that you’re giving it up, you’re just lame and I hope you choke on a piece of non-chocolate candy.

Chocolate and Starbucks aside, times have changed and no matter what religion you are, how you decide to express your faith is up to you as long as you know you aren’t cheating yourself or what you believe in. I have a very good friend who just left for Israel to really experience her Jewish roots first hand and she the epitome of faithful dedication. For me, I think I’ll stick with my 40 day coffee hiatus to show my own religious commitment. Baby steps... baby steps.

Feeling Funky? Blame Mercury Retrograde!

2008-01-29T17:12:00.000-06:00

Have you been having computer problems? Was your flight majorly delayed? Did you miss an appointment when you're normally consisently on time?

Well, you may not be just having a bad day and your funk may be result of astrological influence, more specifically, your funk may be caused by Mecury retrograde.

What in the heck is Mercury retrograde?! Mercury goes retrograde 3 times a year and it lasts for about 3 weeks. If you watch carefully, Mercury appears to turn around and go backwards for those three weeks. Now, Mercury really isn't going backwards. It's just an optical illusion based on the relative speeds and orbits of the Earth and Mercury around the Sun. And why should you care?! Well, from January 28 to February 19, 2008, Mercury will be going retrograde causing anything involving communications, verbal activity, technology, short trips and journeys, primary education, and siblings to be negatively affected.

(Impressive knowledge, eh? Yeah, I'm THAT good. No, actually, check out where I got my impressive information at http://www.karmastrology.com/mercrx.shtml).

Astrologers refer to Mercury retrograde as an astrological signature for Murphy's Law and warn us common folk to avoid making large decisions or starting new projects. Not to get all voodoo on you, but supposedly Mercury rules over the mind's processes, studying, communication, businesses, travels and the like, so when Mercury reverses its direction, all these areas are affected and you should proceed with caution. Those who are true Mercury retrograde believers recommend finishing old projects or work on things that you haven't been able to finalize and advise you to steer clear of starting anything from scratch as during this time, those new projects will only fail... damn you, Mercury!

To prevent any of the negative consequences of the retrograde, its recommended to double-check your agenda, communicate with colleagues regularly to confirm that everything goes as planned, have everything ready before the deadline and leave some extra time for unexpected events. Additionally, if you don't normally save documents regularly as you are working on them, SAVE THEM. According to experts, Mercury retrograde has a tendency to crash computers and shove all your important work down the cyber drain so even if you don't buy this astrology babble, SAVE, SAVE, SAVE - just to be safe :)

Why do I bring all of this retrograde mumbo jumbo up? A colleague of mine brought it to my attention as we're currently organizing a major event for one of clients and logistically, its just not going as smoothly as expected. Individuals planning to attend the event are magically dropping off registration lists, travel arrangements are falling through the cracks and no matter how hard we try to stay organized, it just seems like a "greater power" is working against us. Is this the work of Mercury retrograde? Perhaps. Should we be prepared to deal with looming mishaps and technological meltdowns? Always. (Retrograde or not.)

So as you face the next 3 weeks, just remember to proceed with caution. No need to cancel plans or change your day to day activities just because a group of astrology warlocks decided to wave their magic wands and concur that Mercury is to blame for things that normally happen on a regular basis anyway, but it never hurts to go with the new age flow and pay homage to the unknown... although I don't really buy it.

Ahem, now, if you will excuse me, this Gemini is going to burn some incense, play the bongos and pray to the Mercury Gods that the upcoming event we're planning is free any retrograde mishaps...

The Diet Dr. Pepper that Broke the Camel's Back

2008-01-18T16:43:00.000-06:00

You know that old saying, “The straw that broke the camel’s back” – well, why is it that the smallest things can just put us over the edge when we’re down?

Earlier this week, I was having a rough day with a multitude of things overwhelming me, leaving me with a knot of stress in the pit of my stomach. I knew that I was stressing out, but it wasn’t until I went to a get a Diet Dr. Pepper from the vending machine that it all hit me.

I wanted to get away from my desk and to soothe my anxious digestive system, so I thought I would indulge in a carbonated treat; a Diet Dr. Pepper to be exact. Much to my dismay, the machine is completely out. I didn’t want a Diet Coke. I didn’t want a Sprite. I wanted my damn DDP! This one small pop machine malfunction set me over the edge – I was furious and I suddenly realized how stressed and overwhelmed I truly was.

The steady flow of action item emails I was receiving all day didn’t do it. The non-stop phone calls didn’t do it. Even the constant deadline reminders didn’t do it. It was a 12 oz. aluminum can, or lack thereof, that left me in a panicked fury. I was the camel and the can was THAT piece of straw.

I find it interesting that, for most people, we can withstand massive amounts of pressure and exhibit extraordinary strength and courage, but then it can take something as insignificant as an empty pop machine to have that strength come falling apart. It’s almost like we try to fight fear, sadness and anger to the extreme, not allowing ourselves to feel what we’re entitled to. As we exhaust ourselves trying to do this, we aren’t prepared to take the little bumps in the road because we’re just anticipating the catastrophic mountains and then suddenly, the little bump turns into a big surprise that you just can’t take.

Why do I share this random thought with you? As I get older, I find that straw continues to pile itself on my back (no, I don’t have a hump nor do I like to spit at people) and as I face new life challenges, I can’t help but to want to avoid Diet Dr. Pepper meltdowns as they are a ridiculous waste of time and energy. When you get to the point where the smallest set back forces you to crumble, it means you’ve let far more important issues go too far without addressing them.

Maybe if I pushed back on some requests, I wouldn’t have been pushed to my limit. Maybe if I took a moment to step back, breath and evaluate my situation, I wouldn’t have been so overwhelmed. And maybe if I had just told someone I was stressed to just put it out there and vent, I would have maybe settled for a Diet Coke.

Life is Short, Butts Don't Stay Cute Forever and Your 20s Fade Fast.

2008-01-16T11:23:00.000-06:00

Being a young twenty-something is arguably one of the best times in one’s life. You are the envy of those around you as you strut through life with no real commitments – no kids, no spouse, no mortgage, all while still being able to fit into that hot pair of jeans you wore in college. Life is great as a young twenty-something, isn’t it? Well, you may have very little commitment and a hot butt, but something that I have personally experienced as a young adult is the incredible prejudice people have towards those more youthful than them.

Age discrimination, also know as ageism, is something that truly has impacted me since graduating from college. A college student comes with their share of stereotypes and I accepted those because lets face it, college students are livin’ the easy life unaware of the harsh realities that await them in the real world. But here I am, two years out, and I’m still judged and mistreated like a 15 year old girl in a high-end department store assumed to have sticky fingers.

I experience ageism the most when I’m by myself making a face-to-face transaction of any kind. This blows my mind because I am not a slob and if I’m out shopping for nice things, chances are is that I’m wearing something nice and at the very least, LOOK like I can afford the items around me. If I were wearing Sponge Bob flannel pajama pants with an oversized sweat shirt while perusing the Gucci handbags at Nordstrom’s, then sure, discriminate all you want, but I’m one pulled together chick, if I may say so myself, and since our society is pretty superficial, you’d think I would at least be given the benefit of the doubt and not get dished the youthful biases that are so often thrown my way.

The worst experience I ever had that displayed ageism at its horrendous finest, was when I tried to return a designer bag at the store formally known as Marshall Field’s. Now before you go any further, please know that this is a TRUE story.

I was given a beautiful bag for my new job as a graduation gift, which then began to fall apart after one month, and call me picky, but I think a $700 tote bag should be able to withstand at least 30 days in Chicago. Long story short, when I tried to return the bag with the receipt, original tags and all, I was humiliated as the manager claimed that I obviously was “abusing” the bag and was way “too young” to have such a designer perched on my shoulder to begin with. I felt like she was going to call social services for accessories and have my purse rights taken away. I couldn’t believe it.

I stood at the register completely tongue tied as shoppers began to stare at me as this manager, with terrible roots may I add, used my youth against me. And keep in mind that I was returning this bag during a break from work, so I was wearing a very polished, business casual outfit and even tried to flash my security badge for my building to reinforce to this store manager that I working WOMAN. In fact, I KNEW that my salary as a junior level employee most likely exceeded what she was currently earning as a haughty-taughty manager for a store that should have never been bought out in the first place. What’s worse is that I naturally look “more mature” and even my voice and the way I speak is often mistaken as belonging to someone 10 years my senior, so she must have seen my cute butt and determined that I HAD to be a young twenty-something.

This experience scarred me for life, but it did prepare me for the winding road of ageism ahead both in my personal and professional life, and while I have decided to boycott this particular store, I have figured out that if you can’t beat ‘em, trick ‘em – my secret weapon is to hide behind a phone or email at first, to allow my talents be noticed before my youthful glow.

I determined that this mysterious "woman behind the curtain" approach works well well for me as in my career, I have spent a lot of time behind a desk either emailing or making phone calls. In fact, I have a state-of-the-art headset that allows me to talk on the phone, type an email and eat Cheez-its all at the same time. I have worked with some people consistently for almost two years and have never met with them face-to-face, which has greatly helped my youthful battle, because our faceless interaction leads them to believe that I should have children in college when in all actuality, they would be shocked to learn that just two years ago, I was just a kid in college myself. When I do finally meet with those I work closely with, they are often taken back by my apparent age, but I hope they think to themselves, “DAMN. This girl is young, but is she professional and able to deliver me good results! She obviously won’t be retiring soon, so she’ll be making my life easier for a loooong time.”

So if you’re a young twenty-something experiencing random, unfair bouts of ageism, I recommend you find your secret weapon, whatever that may be and use it to your advantage. But never try to diminish your youthful spunk just to appease those around you who may underestimate your worth. I’m mature, I’m capable and yes, I happen to be young, but I don’t think my age should be used against me. Life is short, butts don't stay cute forever and your twenties fade fast -so, no matter how old you are, stand tall, appreciate your age and conquer the world one ageist at a time.

Hello, My Name is Stephanie. And I'm Addicted to Diet Coke."

2008-01-04T09:56:00.000-06:00

“What’s your vice?”

My dad asked me this question the other night because he had just watched a morning show that asked each of the presidential candidates what their vices were. This interview question was obviously an attempt to thin out the thick political tensions that are normally associated with presidential candidates and add a “feel good” human interest element to an otherwise anxiety ridden animal-like competition. Enough about healthcare and the war in Iraq! I want to hear about Obama’s obsession with chocolate and Giuliani’s love of cigars! Hey, those guys eat junk and harm their bodies too? They are just like me and it makes me wanna vote!

It was no surprise that a majority of the presidential candidates admitted that their vices include sugar addictions, which is the easy way out to mask their probable alcohol habits, and the closest thing to controversy that came out of the discussion was Fred Thompson’s confessed fondness for Cuban cigars... that’s right, a potential president likes to indulge in ILLEGAL rolled tobacco. If Thompson claims victory we all know what his first presidential decision will be – “Bienvenido to America, Cuban cigar makers!”

When my dad had me thinking about my own vice, I thought it was an interesting question because everyone, including seemingly moral, respectable presidential candidates, have their bad habits and in the end, our vices are something we all have in common.

Not to get all cheesy and 4th grade class speech on you, but according to the dictionary, a “vice is a practice or habit that is considered immoral, depraved, and/or degrading in the associated society.” Whoa. I didn’t realize eating chocolate was such a sin. But then again, a weight loss clinic would consider the presence of a Hershey’s bar the equivalent of a bottle of Jack Daniels in an AA meeting, so I guess the severity of the vice depends on the severity of the situation. But when it’s all said and done, a vice is merely a bad habit... how bad you let that habit become is up to you, and if your vice forces you to attend a group support session of any kind, then I recommend you talk with Fred Thompson and figure out how you can turn your vice into a legal, acceptable practice.

So what would I consider my vice? That’s easy. Diet Coke.

“Hello, my name is Stephanie and I’m addicted to DC.”
“Hello Stephanie.”

I crack open a can of Diet Coke like a middle aged man opens a can of beer after a long day. There is something just so soothing to me about the bubbly, artificial goodness and if it wouldn’t be looked down upon, I would fill a camel back water bottle with Diet Coke and sip on it all day long as the sugary substance sits perched on my shoulders. This specific addiction is ultimately a harmful vice because God knows that one day I will drop dead of a NutraSweet overdose leaving only my brittle, Diet Coke infused bones behind. Oh well. I’m over it.

Why is it that society must turn to habits and indulgences to stay calm and sane? I personally think a vice is a grown up version of a “binkie” or a pacifier, representing a place for us to escape if only for a moment. No matter how stressed I am, there are those few brief moments as I pop open my can of DC where all I can think about is enjoying my favorite drink... I’m NOT thinking about work and I’m NOT thinking about errands and my to-do list... I’m thinking about how much I’m going to enjoy those first few sips. And then about a second later, I’m back to being stressed, but instead of doing it alone, I have my beloved Diet Coke to keep me company. And although I should be hydrating my body with pure H20 and not harmful toxins, there are far worse vices in life and I like to think of mine as a relatively healthy one.

If it’s chocolate, cigars or Diet Coke, vices are something that interns have in common with CEOs, they are something that children and parents share and something that enemies and friends alike admit to. Even presidential candidates confess to their vices, even though they all ironically happen to be fairly PC, because having a vice somehow makes you more human and more relatable. No matter what, you should embrace your seemingly bad habits because I think they allow us to de-stress and help us face each day, but you must evaluate your vices to determine if they cause more harm than good – my rule? If your vice is either banned in public places – e.g. streaking or smoking – or if your vice forces you to attend special classes – e.g. AA – then find a new habit... may I suggest carbonated soda?

So what is your vice? What do you indulge in regularly and you just can’t live without? Now remember, you’re most likely not running for office if you’re reading this, so be honest. Unless, Fred Thompson, if you’re reading this, I’m all for spicing up the US with some Cuban flava! More power to you, man.

Stejamoe is Signing Off for the Holidays...

2007-12-21T09:16:00.000-06:00

May your stockings be full, your fruit cakes fruity and your time off enjoyed!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!

A Puff of Smoke...

2007-12-19T11:24:00.000-06:00

Legend has it that when I was born, I popped out accompanied with a puff of smoke, top hat, magician’s cape and cane – well, the hat, cape and cane are an exaggeration, but the smoke is NOT. To this day, my mom will gladly share this story with whoever will listen, and I personally can never hear it enough – according to her, immediately after a little Stephanie tapped danced into the world, the resident physician in the delivery room suddenly had a wide, gaping stare. Not knowing whether to be offended or scared, my mom demanded to know what was going on “down there” and the physician, who continued to stare in awe, kept asking the nurses around him, “did you see that?! Did you see that?! There was a puff of smoke!” Everyone just laughed it off and assumed that perhaps this delusional doctor has accidentally received some of the delivery pain medication, but he looked my mom straight in the eye and said directly, “I swear, I saw it.”

Since then, my life, however short it has been, has been chock full of medical mysteries with the puff smoking representing my eventual need to be my own magician to make pain and physical illness disappear. It has become an ongoing joke among my friends, family and colleagues how I seem to get hit with the most random, sometimes unknown, illnesses and medical issues. Most recently this week, I was diagnosed with a very cute (note the sarcasm) case of eczema that planted itself on the back of my neck and crept its way up into my scalp. Never before have I had any type of skin condition, let alone one that will require a lifetime of attention as eczema does, but lo and behold, I will forever have to worry about “flare-ups” of this malady on the nape of neck which looks like a deranged hickey. All I can say is thank God I’ve bagged myself a man, because the continued onset of my strange ailments is definitely not an attractive mating call.

Not too long before this eczema incident, I was perched on the exact same examining table because I had the most random, gruesome looking rash on my right hand. It was this isolated patch of skin that looked far more painful that it actually was and the strangest part is that my doctor couldn’t conclude what it was or what could have caused it – and now I’m left with a permanent scar of what could potentially have been a flesh eating disease transported from an African monkey who got loose in the plant where my hand lotion is manufactured. Alas, I have been unable to confirm this theory.

And who can forget my vertigo incident during college? I woke up one morning unable to stand straight and felt like I was trapped in a snow globe that was being violently shaken with no relief in sight. I soon found myself in the ER and it was determined that I caught the “vertigo virus”, which caused crystallized masses to form on my inner ear causing my balance to be thrown off. To remedy it, I was given a horse sized shot directly into my butt check, which to this day, I can still feel the burn from, and then the ER doc proceeded to shake my head to apparently dislodge these so called “crystals”. I then half excepted him to break out incense and a voodoo dance, but unfortunately, after another minute of jostling my noggin, he then only prescribed me ultra strength motion sickness medicine and told me I would feel like I was at sea for the next week or so. Ahoy.

And then there is my sleeping disorder and this is a fun one. Ever since I was a wee one, my mom would come to wake me up for the morning to find a G-rated crime scene... pillow cases would be off pillows, sheets would be wrapped around a bed post, beloved stuffed animals were catapulted across the room and there I would lay, distorted into a pretzel position, one sock on and the other being grasped in my little hand. At first, my parents assumed I was an “active sleeper” and would jokingly ask me who I “fought” in my sleep that night; however, this was the only the beginning of what become a diagnosed condition called “parasomnia”.

After years and years of being painfully exhausted and being granted my own king size bed on vacations because my entire family was too scared to share a bed with me knowing they would endure a night of violent kicking, my parents sent me to sleep clinic where it was found that my brain doesn’t emit the proper brain waves for deep, REM sleep. Basically, my mind is always awake even when my body is not, thus I physically act out dreams which result in extreme sleep walking and talking. And here’s a fun fact: In 1981 a Scottsdale, Arizona man was accused of murdering his wife with a kitchen knife and admitted to stabbing her 26 times, but claimed he did it in his sleep. After extensive sleep tests, it was proven that the man suffered from parasomnia and was found not guilty and walked away a free man. To my boyfriend: be afraid, be very afraid.

This is just a snapshot of my random ailments and I’m sure I have something brewing as we speak, which will soon rear its ugly head during another inconvenient time in my life. However, I take each ache and pain in stride always keeping in mind that afterall, I WAS born with a “puff of smoke”, so its only obvious that I was destined to handle such mystery in my life. And the magical support of my family and friends, along with a little humor, helps me face each mystery head on with my magician’s cape, hat and cane in tow.

A Hair Raising Transformation

2007-12-13T10:49:00.000-06:00

I recently gave everyone a HAIR raising surprise... you guessed it... I dyed my hair, which has created an unanticipated stir. I swear, I could have come to work naked and people would have been less shocked, so this unforeseen response to my new do has made me question why hair is such a beloved entity in our society.

Admit it, you’ve cried at least once after getting a “bad” haircut and then cried some more when your mom told you “its just HAIR”. Just hair?! To most people, hair is a treasured possession that’s power must not be underestimated. And its not just women who obsess over their tresses –hair is something universal that people of any sex, race or age have (or have had) at some point, which is why I feel a majority of people get so attached to it.

If you want to see a public display of our societies’ obsession with hair, tune into any makeover show... when the fashion victims sit in a salon chair they act as if it’s an electric chair, crying about the fact that they are going to lose 3 feet of that horse’s tail they call a hairstyle, and as the stylist begins to snip away at their mane, they scream out in pain as if a dagger is stabbing through their heart. Hair has turned into something that identifies us – “dumb blonde”, “feisty red head”, “boring brunette”, the list goes on. I even jumped on the band wagon a few years back and bought a t-shirt that proudly dispels the “myth” and declares that “Brunettes Have More Fun”.

Born a dark brunette, my personal hair fixation started in high school, when I so desperately wanted to be a blonde because apparently blondes had is SO much better. To transform my look, I turned to every hair stylists’ worst nightmare: Sun-In. I used an entire bottle in about a week followed by a regimen of squeezing lemon juice all over my head as I fried myself in the sun to develop a tan to compliment my lighter locks – not only did my skin turn red from the UV rays and smell like a burnt piece of citrus, my hair turned a brassy orange; however, being the delusional 17 year old that I was, I thought I looked HOT... my mom, on the other hand, did not agree and with senior class pictures only weeks away, I was whisked away to the salon and forced to dye my hair a boring brown. Alas, my blonde ambitions were crushed.

After that experience, I decided to leave the fate of my hair in the hands of professionals and for the past six years of my life, my hair has been on a color rollercoaster, mostly staying in the spectrum between a dirty blonde and a lighter brunette; however, a few weeks ago, I decided I was fed up with the cost of maintaining my unnatural color and even more importantly, I wanted to give my hair a break from the color abuse it has endured for years... I feel like Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest, but instead of beating my locks with a hanger, my cruelty tool of choice is a brush saturated in bleach followed by foils and extreme heat. This hurts me more than it hurts you, damaged hair.

So I went back to my natural roots, well, I smidge darker than natural, and BOY did I get a reaction, which is to be expected because one day I’m “Sunny Stephanie” and the next I’m, “Stephanie: Dark Seductress”. Some people liked it immediately, while others reacted with an “OH” paired with undertones of I’m not sure its “YOU”, when little do they know that this natural color couldn’t be more “ME”, literally. I will admit that the reaction to my apparent “hair” raising change was a little disappointing only because when you make a beauty transformation, you’re hoping for a better response – it’s like walking down the aisle on your wedding day and people saying “OH.”

But soon enough, my dry, abused hair will slowly begin to fade as it sucks up the dye faster than a Dyson in a dust storm, and I’m sure the novelty of my natural color will also begin to fade and I’ll be back to being Mommie Dearest, forcing my hair to endure the vain pain of achieving a color that was never wired in my DNA. What a vicious cycle, but as I spend years of my life changing my hair color, balding men will spend years investing in hair growth fads, gray hairs will continue to be plucked and people with an attachment to their long locks will fight off scissors with an eternal passion.

Hair is so many things to so many people – it can be a canvas, a statement, a security blanket or a burden – hair is seems to be the one thing we all have in common, so the fixation society has with it is only natural... just like my hair color.

The Ugly Christmas Sweater - Your Joke, Someone Else's Favorite Outfit

2007-12-10T14:45:00.000-06:00

As the holiday season rolls on, a few of my friends have gone to “Ugly Christmas Sweater Parties”... you know, those parties that require you to put on your holiday finest, shoulder pads and all. There you stand, winter cocktail in hand, sporting a wool blend died a vibrant red and green with Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer smiling at fellow party goers who have also adorned themselves in pure holiday tackiness.

These parties always make for a good, festive laugh, but the more pictures I see of my friends wearing obnoxious, oversized Christmas sweaters (paired with equally obnoxious jingle bell accessories), I wonder what the people who SERIOUSLY wear those ugly Christmas sweaters think about the drunken mocking of their fashion sense, because to them, those sweaters aren’t ugly, they are pieces of holiday spirit embodied in the form of a turtle neck or cardigan, something to be cherished and not ridiculed.

I personally was once a proud owner of an infamous “ugly Christmas sweater” and at the time (circa 1995) I would have been considered a part of the “serious” Christmas sweater wearing population. My fashion ode to the holiday was a cardigan made of a heavy wool, died a kelly green, adorned with little bears wearing Santa hats throwing snowballs at one another, which were represented in high-tech 3D with little cotton balls glued onto the fabric. Those interactive snowballs really made the sweater - what a cutting edge look.

As I wore my Christmas sweater with pride that year, I don’t think I would have ever guessed that I would be digging for it over a decade later just to mock it. If I had grown up to be the type of person who found Christmas sweaters as an appropriate fashion statement, I think I would be down right offended by those who hosted parties poking fun at my decision to wear snowball-throwing bears in homage of the season. (Unfortunately, I recently remembered that I had willingly donated my festive sweater to charity a few years back, so although I won’t be a hit at any upcoming holiday gathering, at least I can take solace in knowing that I made someone a lot less fortunate, a lot more tacky.)

A friend of mine, who recently donned a tacky ensemble for an “Ugly Christmas Sweater Party”, showed her mom the obnoxious garb she was planning to wear and her mom’s response? “I don’t get it.” Her mom found the sweater to be “cute” and “seasonal”; however, my friend would be sporting this “cute”, “seasonal” sweater to a gathering of people intoxicated by large quantities of egg nog and peppermint Schnapps, which would only help fuel the jokes that serious ugly Christmas sweater wearers must endure behind their bright, gaudy, holiday infused backs.

I feel that those people who wear holiday sweaters are similar to those people who are keeping the mullet alive, but fortunately enough, ugly Christmas sweater wearers only fall victim to fashion during the holidays, while mullet models tend to display their allegiance to the “business in the front, party in the back” hairstyle 365 days a year. But who I am to judge?! I’m sure somewhere there is party being hosted right now by ugly Christmas sweater wearing/mullet sporting people who find my conservative tastes more bland than a wool holiday cardigan not wired with blinking lights.

So whatever you do, please wear your holiday sweaters responsibly this season and remember that what is your joke, may be someone’s favorite outfit. And to whoever is wearing my wool, snowball-throwing bear cardigan this holiday, please be as kind to it as it was to me.

The Blog Must Go On!

2007-12-07T14:23:00.000-06:00

My loyal readers and fans (all 12 of you) -

As you may have noticed, my recent posts have not been as frequent nor have they been as clever and thought provoking as past entries (okay, I know my posts aren't THAT great, but admit it, you've had some good laughs over the past couple months listening to Stejamoe speak - am I right? Am I right? Huh?).

I must confess that the past couple of weeks have been an tornado of wrapping paper, work deadlines, gift basket making, snow advisories and car issues, which have kept me from thinking about anything clever, consequently preventing me from cleverly blogging! However, adding to my whirlwind of stresses, are the constant reminders I get from you, my loyal readers and fans, that the show must go on and demand to be entertained!

So to satiate some your appetites for the weekend, I must take the easy way out and share something I received via email that gave me a good giggle. I promise I will be back in action and better than ever soon!

(My personal favorite is #6)
-------------------------------------------------------
Ten Rules for Getting Through the Holidays:

1. Avoid carrot sticks. Anyone who puts carrots on a holiday buffet table knows nothing of the Christmas spirit. In fact, if you see carrots, leave immediately. Go next door, where they're serving rum balls.

2. Drink as much eggnog as you can; and quickly. Like fine single-malt scotch, it's rare. In fact, it's even rarer than single-malt scotch. You can't find it any other time of year but now. So drink up! Who cares that it has 10,000 calories in every sip? It's not as if you're going to turn into an eggnog-aholic or something. It's a treat. Enjoy it. Have one for me. Have two. It's later than you think. It's Christmas!

3. If something comes with gravy, use it. That's the whole point of gravy. Gravy does not stand alone. Pour it on. Make a volcano out of your mashed potatoes. Fill it with gravy. Eat the volcano. Repeat.

4. As for mashed potatoes, always ask if they're made with skim milk or whole milk. If it's skim, pass. Why bother? It's like buying a sports car with an automatic transmission.

5. Do not have a snack before going to a party in an effort to control your eating. The whole point of going to a Christmas party is to eat other people's food for free. Lots of it. Hello?

6. Under no circumstances should you exercise between now and New Year's.You can do that in January when you have nothing else to do. This is the time for long naps, which you'll need after circling the buffet table while carrying a 10-pound plate of food and that vat of eggnog.

7. If you come across something really good at a buffet table, like frosted Christmas cookies in the shape and size of Santa, position yourself near them and don't budge. Have as many as you can before becoming the center of attention. They're like a beautiful pair of shoes. If you leave them behind, you're never going to see them again.

8. Same for pies. Apple. Pumpkin. Mincemeat. Have a slice of each. Or, if you don't like mincemeat, have two apples and one pumpkin. Always have three. When else do you get to have more than one dessert? Labor Day?

9. Did someone mention fruitcake? Granted, it's loaded with the mandatory celebratory calories, but avoid it at all cost. I mean, have some standards.

10. One final tip: If you don't feel terrible when you leave the party or get up from the table, you haven't been paying attention. Reread tips; start over, but hurry, January is just around the corner.

Remember this motto to live by: "Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand,eggnog in the other, body thoroughly used up,totally worn out and screaming"WOO HOO what a ride!"

"Anyone Have $.25?"

2007-12-04T14:01:00.000-06:00

I went to school in Madison, Wisconsin, which has to be hands down the homeless capital of the world.

(Side note: Is it just me or is that strange? I’ve grown up in the Midwest my entire life and braved my share of winter storms, but nothing and I mean NOTHING, can prepare you for the winters of Wisconsin, which seem to last unusually long. It wasn’t until I started college that I understood the purpose of sweat shirt hoods, long underwear and gloves underneath mittens, but somehow homeless individuals like to establish themselves in this town where “Flip Cup” isn’t played because its fun, it’s played because the competitive beer game keeps you warm – more or less, heavy drinking in Madison is a way of winter survival.)

Anyway, the homeless population in my college town was a staple to our campus as students always had their favorite pan handler, and looking back on things, a college town, filled with preppy, often drunk kids willing to drop crisp bills at bar time with the cajoling of their equally drunk counterparts, is a very smart place for a down-and-out individual to plant their destitute roots.

I remember my favorite Madison pan handler – we called him “Anyone Have $.25 Guy”. He was a portly gentleman, about 5 feet 5 inches, who always wore baseball-like pants with knee socks. He would roam campus holding a brief case completely covered in black duct tape and would only say one phrase, “anyone have $.25?”. I personally liked him because he was no nonsense – first, he was only asking for a modest $.25 while others would corner you for 5 bucks and second, he gave no sob story and no excuses, he just laid it out there, asking for a quarter – take it or leave it.

About four years ago, right about this time of year, some close friends and I, who all had penchant for “Anyone Have $.25 Guy”, took a Styrofoam cup and filled it up with all the spare change we could find to give to our beloved campus pan handler. We dug up about 8 bucks in change, and wanted to deliver the holiday surprise before heading home for Winter break.

As we combed the streets searching for our baseball pant wearing street dweller, we saw him through a window at Pizza Hut counting pennies on the counter as an impatient employee rolled his eyes in disgust. And then, just like the Fantastic Four, my friends and I swooped into Pizza Hut, slammed the change filled cup on the counter and said, “Merry Christmas - this meal is on us!” (Actually, if I remember correctly, we were all a little unsettled by the fact that we spent about 30 minutes stalking a homeless man, so I think we just set down the cup and ran. Either way, we made our delivery, and “Anyone Have $.25 Guy” had a hot meal that night.)

And get this... the next day, we saw him standing in his usual spot, pizza stains on his shirt, asking, “Anyone have 8 bucks of change?” Just Kidding! Wouldn’t that be funny though?

I write about this memory because a) I just think it’s funny envisioning 4 college girls searching the streets of Madison for a homeless man, and b) as the winter weather hovers over the Midwest ready to pounce with frigid temperatures and buckets of snow, it’s always nice to remember how lucky you are to have a roof over your head, and although you most likely do not want to support the lifestyle of those who make the street their home, remember that during this season it can’t hurt to give someone in need just a modest $.25.

Elf Yourself!

2007-11-30T11:42:00.000-06:00

It was just like any other Monday. I got into work, signed online, checked my personal email... and then was greeted by me and three of my closest friends dressed in elf costumes breaking it down to a holiday tune.

If you haven't tried this yet, you're missing out!

http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=9615545374

The Party Formally Known as NYE

2007-11-28T13:54:00.001-06:00

The last remaining bits of Thanksgiving dinner are being re-heated for the final time and the chaos of "Black Friday" and "Cyber Monday" are just mere memories of terror and retail havoc. The holidays are officially in full swing, but gone are the days of obsessively talking about decorations and gifts as the current hot topic is, "What are YOU doing for New Year's Eve?!"

To me, this discussion seems pre-mature, but then again I'm no expert because I don't even know the "lingo" that surrounds the festive, booze drenched night. Need an example of my novice status? A high school friend recently emailed me and the subject line of the note was, "NYE". My first thought? She must be traveling to New York City and mistyped. I'm not even kidding. Once I was able to decipher the mysterious code, we had a conversation about our plans and she "gasped" in disgust via email with the infamous and always mocking ":-O", as I told her I had not really thought about...

Ah, the ever popular New Year's Eve party. For the past few weeks hotels, bars and other venues that can accommodate hundreds of drunk, sweaty gropers, have been soliciting "all you can drink and eat" party tickets starting at about $100 a pop. Based on my previous experience, these NYE (see, I'm hip with the lingo now) hot spots seem to have taken it upon themselves to redefine the term "ALL" as they serve watered down drinks and remnants of what used to be appetizers. You stand in a line for the bar to get the most of your 100 bucks along with 526 people, 3 of whom you actually recognize and 523 of whom you hope won't engage you in drunk conversation, just to get in front of an overworked bartender instructed to keep the booze light and the mixers heavy.

As you chug 12 sequential cocktails, in hopes that the combined 2 shots of liquor in them will somehow go straight to your head so "THAT clingy girl" or "THAT sweat stained guy" doesn't annoy you as much, you find yourself hungry and see what looks like a battle ground with the remains of defenseless cheap appetizers, pillaged by aggressive, drunk gluttons. There, laying on hot turned room temperature serving trays, are a few pigs without their blankets and some stray, browning garnish - yum.

Now it's approaching midnight - you're tired from standing for hours on end in the drink line only to be served what tastes like a vodka tonic without vodka... your stomach is growling after being beaten by the masses to the food and that stray, browning garnish is sadly starting to look appetizing... you have been groped by a multitude of strangers wearing those "2008" sunglasses with the "00" for the eyes... then you realize that you lost your "group". The people you came with are lost in a sea of sparkly top hats, party horns and noise makers. You don't recognize anyone and begin to wonder how these strangers became so drunk if you were all being served the same drinks. [SIDE NOTE: A crucial part of going to one of these NYE parties, and something that these venues rely on, is PRE-drinking, so that when you arrive to the destination, you are so blitzed that you don't even know what year it is or what year its going to be, making you less likely to be annoyed by the masses and in turn, less likely to complain about the weak drinks and blanket-less pigs.]

And then... 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1... HAPPY... "who's that touching my butt?!", "no, I won't kiss you, creep!", "where is my boyfriend?!", "is that him kissing that blond bimbo in the corner?!" What a night.

I realize this is a very biased opinion and I'm not trying to insult those loyal NYE party goers as I know that if you mix the right friends with the right place at the right price, you'll have a blast no matter what. I believe it was Prince who said it best, "We're running out of time, so tonight I'm gonna party like its 1999". So make like it's 1999 and enjoy the festivities whether you're at a bar, a hotel, a back alley or face down, passed out on your lawn because to each its own for the party formally known as NYE.

Granddaughter by Choice, Not Force

2007-11-26T10:01:00.000-06:00

As I sit in my office chair doing my daily "clenches" (i.e. flexing my cheeks and sucking in my stomach) to work off the calories from the holiday weekend (I think this is a proven method of exercise that I will write a book about in the near future, "Clenching at Your Desk: Flexing Equals Burning"), I would like to acknowledge those grandparents in my life who have "adopted" me over the years as I had a full weekend of both happiness and tragedy.

I grew up with a limited amount of "old people" in my life. I used to refer to the aging population in such a politically incorrect way only because by the time I was born, two out of my four blood grandparents had passed away and another when I was only four years old. My remaining biological grandparent was a wonderful woman, but somewhat distant from our family and has also since passed, so as a young child, I didn't really understand what it was to have a grandma or grandpa, thus "old people" were often thought of as scary and unfamiliar in my pig tail-sporting head. However, as the years passed and my pig tails turned into highlighted, chemically straightening locks, very special, "mature" individuals, opened their hearts and gave me the chance to be something that I otherwise would never get the chance to be - a granddaughter.

Growing up with a short supply of blood relatives, my parents have made a commendable effort to grow our immediate family with the love and support of close friends. I have some wonderful "aunts" and "uncles" who are actually just my parents' dear companions who have so graciously taken me in as a niece, no questions asked. These "relatives" are so close to me and have been in my life for so long, that I often forget that I'm not actually in their bloodline and find myself commenting on how I look like a "cousin", when in reality, I'm just as related to Angelina Jolie as I am to them (unfortunately, I did not get "Cousin Angelina's" lips and hot bod - damn).

With my parents' friends come their own parents, who over the years, have filled the grandpa/grandma void in my life. I also have been blessed and been adopted by my boyfriend's grandma who is the youngest 90 year old woman I have ever met and has truly redefined what it means to age. Its people like her that make me realize that it doesn't matter who you're related to; its the people who make the effort to love you who deserve the title "family" regardless of blood ties, and I feel so blessed to be considered a "granddaughter" to people who truly don't NEED to love me, but do anyway out of the goodness of their heart.

One of those special people who loved me because they wanted to and not because they "had" to, and who I affectionately referred to as "grandma", passed away this weekend, leaving a void in so many people's hearts. Her passing did not come as a surprise only because she suffered from failing health, but like any death, its still a tragedy and I have lost yet another grandparent.

The same day this specific grandma passed away, I spent the evening enjoying holiday lights with an 80 something who is a close family friend of my boyfriend and who has quickly become another person who treats me like a grandchild. It was a bittersweet moment because as I spent the evening enjoying her company, I was mourning the loss of someone who meant a lot to my family and it made my realize that although I technically do not have grandparents, I'm surrounded by so many people who I can affectionately give the title to, which at times, seems almost more special than plain biologcial bonds.

So as the holiday season rolls on and I celebrate the time of year with one less person, I'm reminded that I have been blessed to have been chosen by so many remarkable people who I can proudly call family.

R.I.P Grandma Grace.

The Soundtrack to Your Life: "Who's that Girl?"

2007-11-21T08:33:00.000-06:00

If you could have a boom box follow you around in your day to day life, what song would be blasting from the speakers? If you could pick a soundtrack to represent your life, what would it be?

A very dear, close, crazy friend of mine would always ask me this question when we were in college and we would laugh about the various tunes that would represent our lives. She said that her life's anthem would revolve around Eve's "Who's That Girl" and envisioned Flavor Flav following her down campus streets, with a 1981 boom box perched on his shoulder blasting THE song that represented her life. She always blared it through her headphones whenever she dominated an exam and in some cases, even when she didn't do so well, just to remind her that she's DA GIRL and nothing could break her stride.

These late night conversations about the soundtrack to our lives with my dear, close, crazy friend are some of my favorite college memories, and at the time, I found the concept to be kind of bizarre and just truly a funny thing to think about with a glass a wine. At the risk of sounding cliche, my college experience was truly the best four years of my life (so far) and if I had to pick a song that would represent those years it would be difficult. Was it Prince who wrote, "My Life is Really Great and I Don't Want to Graduate"? No? I didn't think so either.

It wasn't until I graduated and started my full-time job that my life's soundtrack unfolded and for the past 1.5 years, I have been compiling "My Life's Greatest Hits: 1.5". Just like Jock Jams and Now That's What I Call Music, this soundtrack is just one of many editions to come, because unlike my dear, close, crazy friend, who was able to nail down THE song that represented her life, I have found that my life requires many tunes - some accompanied by Flavor Flav holding a boom box, whiles others need to be paired with Celine Dion and a sold out crowd.

Below is what version "1.5" looks like for me (with the holidays approaching, this soundtrack would make a great stocking stuffer):

Say it Ain't So by Weezer - "WHAT?! So you're saying I have to graduate and get a job?!" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YU7LZts87Zg)
Gotta Get Thru This by David Bedingfield - This was my pump up song to shake off the post graduation blues and its techno beat would inspire me during my 6 am commute.(http://homepage.ntlworld.com/gary.hart/lyricsb/bedingfield.html)
Bad Day by Daniel Powter - Um, yeah. This song was my anthem for a while; I was missing my college friends and I was trying to get used to the real world. If you couldn't find me in the phone book it was because I was going by "Debbie Downer" at the time. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIcFgl6zf3A)
Crazy by Gnarls Barkley - I think I just lost my damn mind for a moment or two. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bd2B6SjMh_w)
Ain't No Mountain High Enough preformed by Diana Ross - I was finally coming to terms with life after college and succeeding at my career; the fact that I had a "career" was an accomplishment and I started to get a little skip in my step knowing that I could really beat the odds. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ain)
Home by Michael Buble - I was traveling a lot for while and I would listen to this song as I looked out the airplane window - I kid you not. I know, I'm lame. But it was when I was listening to this song, missing home, that I realized that my life truly had a soundtrack. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fDQnkYwfNfk)
Suddenly I See by KT Tunstall - Call it breakthrough. Call it breakdown. Call it whatever you want. I suddenly saw that life goes on after college and actually can be just as great. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-At6avvY_4)
SexyBack by Justin Timberlake - Oh, yeah - my Sexy was Back! Well, I don't know if it ever actually left... but I just felt the need to include JT in my compilation. (http://www.completealbumlyrics.com/lyric/130587/Justin+Timberlake+-+Sexyback.html)
Glamorous by Fergie - I was finding ways to spice up my life,and have been living G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S life every since, or at least trying to! (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOQvcMLll4E)
Who's That Girl by Eve - In honor of my dear, close, crazy friend, the last song on the soundtrack to my life, edition 1.5, is dedicated to her for making me realize that no matter how down you can be, you can't help but to smile if you think of Flavor Flav following you with a boom box, playing THE song that represents your life.(http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/eve/whosthatgirl.html)

So, what's YOUR life's soundtrack?

Maybe it was the post. Maybe it was the Baileys in her coffee. Maybe it was the Giving Tree.

2007-11-19T12:20:00.001-06:00

My last blog post was about the early arrival of the holidays and how my mom, aka "the love child of Martha Stewart and Scrooge", so desperately wished that twinkling lights and Christmas sales would postpone their appearance until after Thanksgiving. Fed up with the stress the holidays bring, which is common for so many good hosts, she often found herself resenting the early onset of Christmas carols and decorations instead of embracing them...

... then something happened...

Maybe it was the post. Maybe it was the baileys in her coffee. No matter what it was exactly, my mom oozed Rockette-like Christmas spirit this past weekend as we braved the stores, ignoring the neurotic pre-holiday shoppers and leisurely strolled from shop to shop, getting giddy at the sight of decorations and bargain buys (obviously, we decided to omit the whole kick line thing - I'm not as limber as I used to be) . As we shopped, she continued to impress me by not negatively commenting on the red and green hues that surrounded her and was eager to collaborate on gift ideas, but more importantly, her own red and green aura beamed brightly as we gently combed through the mall's "Giving Tree" and became two of Santa's vertically gifted elves. I wanted to share our experience to continue my recent holiday rant and hopefully inspire some of you to remember the reason for the season.

What's a Giving Tree? Most traditional malls have one. They are Christmas trees covered top to bottom in ornament-like tags that each represent a person in need with their Christmas wish-list attached. Most of the wishes are incredibly modest and range from clothes, gloves and toiletries. Some are from optimistic teenagers hoping for a Play Station or an iPod, and I read one from a 10 year old boy who wanted a puppy, making me realize that these hanging tags were more than Christmas lists on paper, they were people far less fortunate than me putting their dreams on a string, hoping that someone would remember them this holiday season. The young children on this tree probably gave up on Santa years ago and now here I stood determining which lucky one I would choose; however, our family has a tradition that we like to follow - we like to pick all older people because it seems that everyone favors babies and young children and seem to forget that adults have worthy wishes that should be fulfilled too.

So after sorting through the many branches, we chose:

Emma, an 88 year old woman wishing for any kind of clothing
Mac, a 63 year old man who wanted a sweater
Sarah, a 60 something year old woman who wanted a non-stick baking sheet
Justin, a 19 year old, who unlike his many electronic wishing counterparts, asked for towels and a blanket

As we ventured into stores, putting thought into each gift, I realized how lucky I was to not to have my wishes hanging from the Giving Tree. I will never have a stranger look at my name, my age and my wish list, and then move onto the next branch because I wasn't five years old asking for a doll. Would someone read my wish list and be kind enough to get something for a 23 year old female?

Now, I know I'll soon be instructed to carve butter sticks into Christmas trees and fold napkins into Nativity scenes to alleviate my mom's Martha Stewart Syndrome and even have to face a "bah-humbug" comment or two at the 11th hour before our holiday guests arrive, but no matter what, I know I would not want to be any other place during the holidays than in my home with my Family Tree instead of waiting alone, patiently on a Giving Tree.

So, appreciate your family and friends as the twinkling lights begin to shine, find something exciting to do each day to remind you that this time of year is special and should be savored, and remember to take some time to make the holiday special for someone who has to depend on those more fortunate than them to make one of their wishes come true.

On the 60th Day of Christmas, My True Love Gave to Me...

2007-11-12T16:00:00.000-06:00

It's mid-November. Trees are changing colors, families are preparing for big Thanksgiving dinners, football season is in full swing, and "White Christmas" blasts from the radio - wait. White Christmas?

Its seems that every year Christmas starts earlier and earlier, and before I've even put on my turkey-eating pants and pilgrim bonnet, I'm rocking out to "Jingle to Bells" on the radio and getting hot flashes in department stores that are swarming with pre-holiday shoppers. I recently read in the Chicago Tribune that due to rising housing costs and gas topping $3 a gallon, retailers have started the winter season "early" to encourage more sales over the longer period of time - as if offering Christmas sales two weeks earlier than normal will make people forget about taxes, energy costs and gas. Or will it? I recently filled up on $3.19/gallon gas just to join all the fruitcakes and nutcrackers at the mall for some great deals, and to celebrate those deals, I treated myself to a $4.50 Starbucks Peppermint Mocha, a holiday edition drink, of course.

With or without troubling economic times, I feel like the winter holiday season makes up 9 out of the 12 months of the year, and as retailers have taken it upon themselves to defy time and nature, I seem to feel like a majority of my life is spent preparing for, then enjoying, then finally recovering from the holiday. I think this feeling is shared by many, especially those who are constantly a holiday host finding themselves cooking, organizing, decorating, wrapping, spending, crying, burning... the list of "-ing"s goes on. The early onset of Jingle Bells leads to one big Jingle HELL as those who find the holidays stressful to begin with, begin to twitch like an anxiety ridden elf as Santa shows up at the mall before the Thanksgiving menu is even planned.

For me to admit that I'm all about officially starting the holiday season after Thanksgiving would be a lie. I will admit that when 93.9 FM started playing Christmas music on November 1st, I tuned in. Gone are the days of Maroon 5, Beyonce and Coldplay - Bing Crosby, Josh Grobin and Nat King Cole now serenade me every morning as I drive my all wheel drive sleigh. So with the support of my radio and the good, money hungry American retailers, Christmas lasts for about 60 days... on the 60th day of Christmas, what do you give your true love?!

For someone like my mom, who seems to be a recurring character in my blog posts (take it as a compliment, Mama P!), you get your love a swift kick in the arse on the 60th day of Christmas and tell them to "get over it". My mom is the perfect example of someone who resents the early arrival of Christmas because to her, the overexposed holiday is beginning to lose all meaning as angry shoppers aggressively push their way through store aisles just to get their grubby hands on gifts that we all know will end up being returned on December 26th, which is an aspect of the holidays that I've grown to detest: "The Day After Christmas Present Return Rush". What's wrong with you people? You so desperately hated that duck sweater you got from Aunt Jean that you must immediately return it or else you'll be naked?! You don't have any other sweaters to cover your cold, ungrateful heart? Oh, I see, you need to make sure you take advantage of all those sales, which just really end up being the returned gifts of strangers who you have no idea where their hands have been.

Present returning aside, what's funny is that, during the holidays, my mom becomes the love child of Scrooge and Martha Stewart. She will host lavish dinners for our close family friends that ooze thought, care and Christmas joy, but during the preparation she is "Sargent Santa" as she instructs her minions to sculpt Christmas trees out of butter sticks and fold napkins into a Nativity scenes as she tirelessly toils over the perfect bow. Throughout the preparation she utters at least a few times that "Christmas comes too early", "Why does it feel that we were just hosting a holiday party?", or my favorite, "You're not sculpting those butter sticks fast enough and are ruining Christmas... again". Okay, the last one is stretch, but my poor mother is so tainted by the early onset of the holidays, that her normal sweet, gracious demeanor turns bitter and raw.

My mom isn't the only one who feels that holidays aren't what they used to be and ends up resenting the early arrival of twinkling lights instead of embracing them. I agree that as I've gotten older, I've come to realize the stress that comes with the season because gone are the days of a $1/week allowance and letters to Santa. Now, as an "adult", my family knows that I spend my days working at a real job, which in turn gives me real money, so noodle necklaces for gifts don't quite cut it any more, and I unfortunately found out last year that Santa does not truly exist, and a piece of holiday magic was forever lost.

But enough about the stress of the holidays! I'm on a mission to enjoy the early onset of "Jingle Bells" because I figured out that you just can't escape it. I have decided to take the agressive pre-holiday shoppers as a sign to make my Christmas memories last, because unlike my noodle necklace making, Santa believing days, the actual moments of joy don't seem to last like they used to. Do you remember how long you waited for December 25th when you were a kid? I used to make a countdown calendar and I felt like that life was moving in a vat of Jell-O as I waited impaitently for Christmas Eve. Now, as an adult, one day I'm listening to "White Christmas" on the radio and the next I'm boxing up ornaments, wearing my duck sweater (what? Unlike you all, I appreciate Aunt Jean's wacky gifts), wishing I could have enjoyed the season just a bit more.

So remember that YOU make the holidays bright and its up to you to ignore those things that bring a dark cloud over your cheer, be it the early Christmas carols on the radio, expensive gifts for relatives you haven't seen since the last holiday season, the pushy bargain hunters or butter sticks shaped like Christmas trees. Don't want to spend a lot of money this year? Don't. Is it pain to cook? Order some food in. No matter what you do, don't be distracted by retailers because the holidays are a time to celebrate, not commiserate.

And to my mom who gets antsy at the sight of garland before Thanksgiving: I hope you know that you make our family's holiday bright with your attention to detail and thoughtfulness and although I complain about sculpting butter, nothing tastes better than a roll buttered with my masterpiece. This year, let's take those things that make you nuts about the holidays and make one damn good fruitcake!

Saturn is Heaven on Earth

2007-11-08T09:58:00.000-06:00

I'm not talking about the planets. I'm talking about my car.

I just recently purchased a 2008 Saturn Vue, my very first car purchase, which consequently led to my very first financially induced heart palpitation. My car loan is worth more than my little life and that worth includes me wearing ever article of clothing and piece of jewelry I own - what can I say? I'm still waiting to make it big and I also don't have any jewels yet.

Anyway, my new, shiny, flawless piece of love on four wheels is currently my pride and joy. I refer to it as its my 2 ton child and require all passengers to either a) remove their shoes before entering or b) wear painting booties which I most conveniently supply free of charge. Hungry? Well, too bad, because no food or drink is allowed in my cool-mobile, which shouldn't be a problem because after 1 minute in my baby you'll be full on the delicious aroma of new car. Sweaty? You better find another sucker to chauffeur your lazy butt around because no one's perspiration is touching my finely crafted, custom made Italian leather seats. (I think the "Made in China" tag means "Luxurious Leather" in Italian.)

However, I recently was startled by an unbecoming sound coming from my steering wheel. This sound had to be a result of a strange automotive virus as I know my precious, one month old car would not produce such a heinous sound on its own accord. So as a worried mother would rush to the ER with a feverish child, I put to the pedal to the metal and drove my ailing baby to the Saturn dealership, where much to my surprise, I experienced heavenly customer service.

First, I arrived to the service center unannounced and unprepared as I wasn't quite sure how to translate my car's disturbing sound into English or luxurious Italian, for that matter. I ended up interpreting the noise as a "weird, winding-like sound". Yes. I'm THAT technical.

In less than 3 minutes, a loyal Saturn "mechanical automotive specialist" (I have decided to refer to the mechanics there as such), was by my side and in my car asking me to drive around so he could hear the "weird, winding-like sound" (see, they even were so kind to speak MY language). And of course, just like when you go to the doctor complaining of pain, when you're on the examining table, lo and behold, you don't hurt anymore. Well, my precious, yet stubborn car (must take after her father), wasn't making her noises. Embarrassed, I practically wanted to turn the wheel as hard as I could just so some kind of noise squeaked out, but the mechanical automotive specialist kindly said, "no, no I believe you - let me take a closer look at the car and see what I can do". 10 lovely minutes later, which were spent in the comfort of the Saturn customer lounge, I was told my car just needed a few tweaks and it was ready to go!

And did you know that when you own a Saturn you get free car washes for life? Monday-Saturday. Any time. My mom drives a BMW and is offered free car washes only on Saturdays at a specified time when the moon is predicted to be full - those Germans sure are tough.

So after my car was examined and gently tweaked, a kind man took my car through the wash and as I get back into my car I notice two remarkable things - 1) there are fresh flowers on my dashboard - I kid you not. Either that's just Saturn etiquette or the car washer liked my over sized sweatshirt and smile and found some flowers laying around in the back of the service shop 2) my seat was just as I had left it - meaning both the mechanical automotive specialist and car washer had their knees up to their chins to drive my car just so I would NOT be inconvenienced by their own comfort. Its always so hard to find your seat "groove" as it is, and it would have been a major hassle to readjust after I had just gone through my first trauma as an offical car owner.

So, if you're looking to purchase a car, may I recommend you look at a Saturn? They are well priced, drive really well and their customer service is out of this world! Plus, take a closer look at the picture above... is that an X5 you ask? No, its my vue :)

Lady with a Beard, 900 Pound Man, Girl from the Suburbs... GASP

2007-11-01T13:09:00.000-05:00

For the past couple of years, I have constantly been forced to stand up for the "little guy". I have felt obligated to defend something that has no voice. I have battled rumors, jokes and myths as a crusader for a seemingly minority group. Yes. As a young, "single"*, hip (again, its my blog and I can say what I want, so I'm "hip", get over it) female, I have spent the past couple years supporting my choice to live in the suburbs - GASP.

I feel that my decision to live "way out" in the suburbs is a constant issue for those around me. Well, "issue" may not be the best word, as it often has negative, confrontational undertones, but lets just say that when someone hears that I work in the bustling city yet live in the mundane 'burbs, its as if the freak show just came to town as they respond with a combination of disgust, curiosity and pity. "Look ma, that lady has a beard. Oh wow, that man is 900 lbs... no... wait... LOOK at this young, single, hip female... she's the freakiest of them all... she lives in the SUBURBS".

The freak show is over, people... I'm going to defend my beloved homeland for the final time. Take it or leave it, but please don't point and stare anymore because unlike the bearded lady, this lady is living the good life.

First, let me define my suburb. I live about 30 miles from one of the biggest cities in the country. 30 miles. Not 300. Did you know that you can get from the suburbs to the city in something other than in a horse and buggy? No? Well, I can get to the city in a really nice car that I can afford because I don't have to pay for astronomically expensive parking and have access to cheaper gas making my sometimes 30 minute (or less) drive so much more satisfying. Okay, okay - I can hear some of my colleagues screaming, "What about the morning commute to work?! Its NOT 30 minutes!" You caught me. So, if its a lazy Sunday afternoon of shopping in the city or a random Tuesday night after rush hour, my drive is quick and easy; however, I will admit that morning traffic rivals the gridlock of Macy's on Christmas Eve. So I choose not to drive it - I train it.

Ah, the train, another misunderstood suburban myth. I'm not going to sing the praises of it as I often feel chained to specific departure times, but I do want to defend it as a very respectable mode of transportation, and for my environmentally responsible audience, its also a green way to go, which only adds to my hipness.

So, now you know that I'm a 30 minute drive or a relatively hip, green train ride away from the city (which if you think about it, isn't THAT bad), lets talk about what us suburbanites do for fun. Contrary to popular belief, there is more to do in the suburbs than crocheting sweaters and hanging laundry. Now, I will agree that some suburbs in this beautiful country fit the stereotypical picture of lameness as they are literally hundreds of miles away from a Wal-Mart, let alone a large city, and although I've stressed time and time again to my friends and coworkers that I'm not Laura Ingalls Wilder and that my town does not have any Little House on the Prairie tendencies, they don't seem to buy it. Alas, I continue to fight the good fight and battle the injustice.

Bonnets and prairies aside, let's get back to suburban social activities. First, lets talk about shopping. I often will shop in the city because once again - say it with me now - I don't live THAT far away, but I also live about 10 minutes from one of the largest malls in the world. Do you know what us suburbanites say when we bump into obvious tourists while shopping? "Damn those city people." Admit it. You city folk get a kick out of huge sprawling shopping centers and my area is full of speciality shops, chains and department stores of all kinds. And one thing I can't stress enough is the easy access us suburbanites have to Target. If you want to go to a Target in the city, you must prepare both mentally and physically for practically a 10 day adventure of trains, planes and automobiles, just to enjoy all the bounty of the finest store in the world.

What about food? Its either TGIFridays or Olive Garden in the suburbs, right? WRONG. We have everything from cheesy chains (don't knock them, I would kill for a good Chili's salad) to really great high end eateries. Do you know that 2 of most critically acclaimed Chicago restaurants of 2007 are in the suburbs?! GASP. And yes, I even "go out" in the suburbs and believe it or not, there are actually great bars and great people "out there". Everyone in the city believes young people who live the suburbs must watch dateline on Saturday nights at home because they are stranded in corn fields - not so much. I have a very active life, which I'm coming to find is somewhat mysterious and, dare I say, "hip". And may I remind everyone that the city doesn't make you social, you're personality does and I know some pretty lame people who live in the city and some crazy social butterflies who call the suburbs home - if you're wondering, I think I fall right in the middle.

I think we can now agree that the suburbs have good shopping and good food. Oh, and did I mention that I pay less for both? And when I want to splurge and enjoy true Chicago shopping or eating, I can then go back home to 2 acres of land, look out to a beautiful sunset and breath fresh, unpolluted air. Don't get me wrong, I'm NOT knocking the city - if you know me, you know I LOVE urban life and unless you knew my address, you would have no idea that I spend 2 hours everyday commuting to and from the burbs in my horse and buggy.

So to all those city dwellers that don't understand this young suburbanite - stop trying to understand me and just appreciate that I'm just your gateway to visiting beautiful landscapes and the infamous Target. And remember that I'm not a freak... I'm just a young, single, hip female living in the 'burbs.

*Please note that I consider myself as "single" (and the following explanation is for my beloved bf who was probably pissed from that word on throughout reading this post, if he even reads it), because "single" legally refers to anyone who is not married, thus putting me in the "single" category; however, I believe there is an up and coming "engaged" category that I would like to be a part of... just throwing that out there. (I bet my bf is now a little less pissed about the "single" comment and a lot more angered by "engaged").

CAUTION: Women at Work

2007-10-25T08:50:00.001-05:00

A friend of mine, who just recently accepted a new job, is leaving a company that was 100% female and consequently, 100% irritating. Her work related stories were best told around a campfire where she instilled fear into her audience with tales of menopausal managers and weekly baby showers. If she had to play one more game of "name that baby food" during her lunch hour, she was going to die. She would go into details of malicious mind games and teenage quality gossip that happened behind her back, and would attribute it to the high levels of estrogen that she could not escape.

Then I started to think... is it easier/better/more pleasant to work with men or with women?

I work in an industry that is dominated by women. Its harder to find a man in our office than it is to find Britney Spears in a parenting class, and although I do work with a few males here and there, pumps, black mascara and highlights are far more prevalent among my colleagues than loafers, aftershave and crew cuts*. So do I prefer working with women or men?

First, unlike my tortured friend who suffered severe FOLD (female overload disorder) from her overexposure to women, I work with a predominantly younger crowd which makes a big difference. Since I work with female "peers", both in the professional and social sense, I all together avoid the awkwardness and various issues that occur when 15+ years separate you and your colleagues. I can only imagine what my friend must have experienced on a daily basis as I have had similar, yet few, experiences trying to mingle with the more "mature" female crowd ... my boyfriend is the youngest of a sales team full of 40 and 50 something men - just imagine the holiday parties I must endure: I'm standing around with women who share more in common with mom as I try to relate to their housekeeping and child bearing woes. These women, although kind, totally don't buy it when I'm shaking my head in agreement about having to take junior to soccer practice while trying to cook a full meal for the family. And that's a big difference between men and women both socially and in the workplace - in the end, men are all big kids and pretty much can relate to one another at some level no matter what age as my 23 year old boyfriend will be put in a head lock by his 53 year old male boss. Yet you won't find me and my group of "mature" lady friends playing slap the Franzia sack (if you don't know this drinking game, you are missing out) as women seem to often look down at their younger, less experienced counterparts and want to keep things far more professional and often times cold.

But age and slap the sack aside, should XX or XY determine if you sign your X on the dotted line with an employer? In my line of work, communication is key and women excel at both truthfully explaining and cleverly manipulating (without risking complete dishonesty, of course). This helps business both internally and externally, and regardless if you agree or disagree with general female tendencies in a social setting, you can't deny that women are pros at thinking rationally and responding to difficult situations calmly at work.

What about the "G" word and infamous workplace "no-no": GOSSIP. Don't only women chatter behind their co-workers back? Whoever thinks only women gossip, is obviously a delusional and hypocritical male. Remember that we're talking about the workplace here, which I have found sometimes brings out a different side to both sexes, so although you won't find a group of men chattin' in up at coffee shop with their boyfriends on a Saturday afternoon, they sure do flock to the water cooler on a Monday morning. Its just the nature of an office setting and both men and women fall victim to it.

How about emotions? Men, generally, are thought of as rougher and more to the point compared to women, which might be considered a "fair" approach. If your male boss doesn't like your work, he tells you and doesn't care if you cry because he doesn't have a cute pack of tissues on his desk anyway. I feel that women are often criticized for dancing around a point to avoid hurt feelings and in the end all you want is the truth so you can do your job. So many of my female friends claim that they rather work for a man to avoid such an annoying situation, but I would venture to guess that once that aggressive male barks at them straight in their face, they would get a little misty eyed and want to turn to the more understanding female colleague for support.

It seems that my thoughts are leaning more towards pro-woman workforces, but what I'm really trying to say is that you need a happy medium or at least a sprinkle of a certain sex to make work tolerable. An all female office results in too many emotions bouncing off cube walls, yet too many men result in a conference room of head locks. I think society is generally finding that female leadership is proving to be very successful, so I would caution men to treat their female counterparts with respect knowing that they will someday be signing their paycheck - muhahaha.

So for all the men and women out there suffering from FOLD or MOLD (the male version of FOLD and seems to fit the sex, doesn't it?), don't despair. Wear your loafers or pumps proudly and remember to look at each colleague as a individual because pleasant, hard working, fair coworkers aren't male or female - they are just simply a person who naturally has those traits no matter what sex (and if they want to gossip with you at the water cooler on occasion that's just a bonus).

*In a continued effort to promote political correctness on my blog, I must acknowledge that loafers, aftershave and crew cuts are not limited to men, and I'm sure there are some very lovely women out there who prefer the more masculine products in life, and I salute you.

Signs. I'm not talking about Mel Gibson.

2007-10-24T08:24:00.001-05:00

My blog following, as small as it may be, is the greatest audience of all time because I have recently been talking with some of my friends... er... I mean, my fans, and they have been giving me some great topics that they want Stejamoe to speak about. Yes, I just referred to myself in the third person. Its my blog and I can do what I want.

So, last night I spoke with a good friend who is in a bit of a love conundrum and we talked out her predicament. Long story short, she met a great guy who has given her all the initial signs that he's interested, but now is leaving it up to her to make the next move, and that move takes a lot guts and is best accompanied with a vodka tonic. Since my own good relationship is a result of me making both the first AND second move (sans vodka, thank you very much), my advice to her was to tuck her pride in her pocket, go out on a limb and if it went well she would represent all the strong women out there and have a wonderful man in her life, and if it didn't go well, I would be the only person to know and hate the loser guy forever. We ended the conversation with her committing to make the next move and promising that she would keep me updated in regards to whether I would: a) be making a new friend with the wonderful man she would now be dating or b) making a loser guy's life a living Hell with my crafty ways (you mess with my friends, you mess with me, and its just so darn fun to mess with stupid boys' heads).

This morning I get an email from my love conundrummed friend asking me, "do you believe in signs?". (I know that "condrummed" is not a word, but it should be.) She proceeds to tell me that after our female empowering conversation last night, she pondered our discussion, took a deep breath and suddenly experienced various signs that were the equivalent of a vodka tonic, which then inspired her to be the strong, independent woman that she is and make the next move. The success of this move is still to be determined, but in the meantime, she's relying on my fabulous advice (again, its my blog and I can say what I want) and the signs she experienced, which has led to this blog post and questions what are signs and do you believe in them?

What is a sign? I believe a sign can be a hint, a warning or a divine clue that inspires you to make both trivial and difficult decisions. For a trivial example, I've been trying to cut back on Starbucks to both shed a few extra pounds and save a few extra bucks. The other day I received a Starbucks card from my boss and took it as a sign that I should visit my dealer (aka the Starbucks Barista) and buy a mocha because after all, the drink would be free and I considered the gift card to be a hint that I should treat myself to a cup of love.

An example of a more significant sign would be when I ran into my now boyfriend 3.5 years ago when he was just a hot guy who I met only for a moment, never thinking I would see again among 42,000 college students, and took the second random run-in as a sign that I needed to ask him out on a date.

I also think a sign can be an indicator that you made either a good or bad decision. An example for that would be me starting this blog because it wasn't a sign that inspired me to start it - to be honest, I just wanted a creative outlet - but it has been all the positive feedback and all the resulting conversations from my posts that I consider to be a sign to keep investing my time and thoughts into it. Now, if I were to find a horse's head in my bed tonight, I would take that as a sign to STOP blogging.

Do I believe in signs? Sure. Why not? As I mentioned, I relied on a sign to make the first move with my now boyfriend and by doing so, I was able to create my own love filled and promising future. If I didn't take that sign, perhaps the only man in my life would be "Scary Train Boy" (see October 19th 2007 post) and I'd forever regret not going on out a limb and asking that hot guy out. I've relied on signs and gut feelings for a lot of important decisions so I have to pay homage to the concept, but when it comes down to it, a sign is just a more romantic, magical version of an excuse to do something that you want to do, but just need validation for - and there is nothing wrong with that.

I realize that some signs are very freaky, and my good friend who inspired this post has some very valid and strange examples that would justify her signs as being divinely sent, but I don't want these signs she experienced to take away from the fact that she just did a very brave and commendable thing on her own. I think signs are like your dad waiting in the pool with his arms outstretched as the toddler version of yourself takes a deep breath and dives in. In the end, your dad was a sign that you'd be safe, but you still had use your own muscles and bravery to take that leap.

So to my love conundrummed friend - whether you rely on signs, excuses, friendly advice or just your own instinct, never let it diminish the strength of your decision because in the end, sign or no sign, I know you would have made the right choice.

I'm going to take the length of this blog post as a sign to get back to work!

Stretch Out Your Beer Pong Elbow... Its Homecoming Time!!!

2007-10-23T08:21:00.000-05:00

There is nothing like half naked men with painted chests and drunk alumni hanging out with students half their age. There is nothing like honoring the days when you would drink from 7 am to 7 pm, nap, and then drink some more. There is nothing like a college homecoming.

Its mid-October and universities are preparing for the flock of graduates, both recent and more "established", who will join the undergrad population and celebrate their school's history of violent football games, obscene chanting and excessive drinking. When I was an undergrad I remember being terrorized by a pack of drunk 40 year old dads turned 21 year old wannabes who, with their mock turtle necks underneath their school spirited sweatshirts, tried to persuade me and my friends that they knew of a great after bar. Oh, alumni.

Its funny how your former, younger, drinking self emerges when you return to your old stomping grounds and its even funnier watching little league dads and kool-aid moms put on their game faces and become the most offensive fans in the stadium during homecoming. With this in mind, I would like advise my fellow recent grads to move forward with caution because, unlike your more established counterparts, you will not be looked at as the funny, old alumni, oh no... you will be put on a pedestal as you are now in the real world, yet still could blend in with the regular college crowd, and when the older, established, mock turtle neck wearing alumni are buying students drinks, students are buying YOU drinks... and shots... and boots full of beer... and a nasty combination of liquids better suited for nail polish removal.

Think about it. When you were in college, you had friends of all classes and when they graduated, leaving you behind, it was like the red carpet of past students during homecoming. You would see your favorite classmate from the year before and you would glamorize their real world existence which probably wasn't anything more than a bedroom in their parent's house and an entry level position at a dry company, but still, they were "out" and deserved a drink! And those recent alumni were so drunk on pure college bliss that they accepted every drink graciously, which was then followed by them trying to get the bar to participate in a school chant and finished with the comment, "don't EVER graduate" (in slurred, alumni speech, of course).

Now most of my friends have pretty heavy work schedules that have eliminated the M-F drinking conditioning of their college days (please note the emphasis on MOST as I realize some my friends are still a version of their college self, but instead of drinking in the token campus bar, they are sipping high priced booze in a suit with their coworkers on a random Tuesday night), and they have definitely toned down their weekend habits as the real world is exhausting... and expensive! But although we may honor our newly found adult drinking limits during our day to day lives, there is something about going back to our Alma Mater that brings out the students we once were.

So as you begin to stretch out the elbow you play beer pong with and prepare to celebrate homecoming as a recent grad and less established alumni, please remember that although current students don't know much about the real world, they DO know how to drink, and your arrival to campus will merit Bradgelina-like attention which will result in many drinks and many beer related game challenges. So don't get too caught up in the undergrads adoring you, and don't be THAT girl or guy who can't keep up with the youngins', BUT please DO all of us "real-worlders" proud and kick every undergrad's ass in beer pong. Go Team!

Birth Order: What am I? A Gerbil?!

2007-10-22T09:10:00.000-05:00

Over the weekend, I read an article in TIME Magazine about birth order (http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1673284,00.html) and how it has been scientifically proven that your personality is greatly impacted by where you fall in line among your siblings. This concept is by no means a new idea, and TIME has done numerous articles on birth order over the past few years, and being the youngest child that I am, I feel the need to both confirm and challenge this increasingly popular belief in relation to my family.

First comes the confirmation...

I am the younger of two girls in my family and my sister is the typical first born in many ways. According to the research, first borns tend to be more reserved, more in control and always seem to have the bigger bedroom compared to their younger siblings (okay, the research doesn't specifically reference bedroom size, but it does discuss how first borns are often given more resources due to a sense of entitlement that comes with age). For example, when my sister and I were growing up, her bedroom was like the Taj Mahal compared to my shoebox, and when I hit my teenage years and started to value closet space, my mom would justify the space difference by claiming she gave me a choice, and I went with the smaller room. Considering that was only one year old when we moved and couldn't speak let alone choose a room for my future needs (I was all about sippy cups and Big Bird at the time and not really concerned about square footage), this decision was made solely on birth order.

So not only did my sister have the larger, first born-entitled, bedroom growing up (and the "I'm better than you" attitude that went with it), she had four years of complete only-child bliss before I bounded into the world, and according to the TIME article, even in the primitive animal sense, the eldest child is accustomed to getting 100% of their parents' resources, which leads to the expectation of constant attention and inability to accept the needs of others, specifically of their younger siblings. The perfect example, and my mom is going to kill me when she reads this, is when I was just a wee one and my sister and I would both need lunch. My mom was alone, and because I was child numero dos, her resources were quite stretched, so she would prop up a bottle between the rungs of my crib and then tend to my older, attention needing sister. As my sister enjoyed a PB&J with a side of my mom's love and attention, a baby Stephanie was stuck alone like a gerbil in her crib sucking on a bottle that could not be held by her mother because her older sister required the one-on-one time. When I heard this story from my mom, I asked her if she was kind enough to put a salt block in my crib since I had to be fed like a rodent. Obviously, my mom was doing the best she could and its really just a funny story that I tease her about, but in the end, true to birth order, I'm used to making due with what I have (even if that means being fed like a rodent), while my sister doesn't like change and wants things her way.

Another thing that jumped out at me in the TIME article was the reference to baby books. According to research "family scrapbooks are usually stuffed with pictures and report cards of the firstborn and successively fewer of the later-borns--and the later-borns notice it." When I read this, it was like TIME had spent a day in my shoes. My sister's baby books (PLURAL) are quite the collection of memories and my baby book (SINGULAR) is one page of pictures from the moment I popped out all gross and ugly followed by pages of... nothing. Thank God I have my memory and know that I too had a great youth like my sister who can refer to those memories in volumes of books dedicated to her, while I must fish for them in the cobwebs of my mind. No, I'm not bitter, but yes, this relates to scientific research that first borns walk into a life of pre-given attention, while those who follow need to create and earn that awareness, which results in the youngest children being more creative, funnier and more rebellious than their older siblings - why do you think this youngest child started a blog?!

Now comes the challenge...

Birth order research constantly support the success of first borns and the sometimes pitiful downfall of their younger siblings, specifically the youngest, due to the attention and privilege first borns receive. TIME's article references famous siblings including the Bush Brothers, the Royal Family and other families whose youngest child is the rebel and often falls into the shadows of their other siblings successes. As an adult, my sister is very successful, but when we were growing up, she was always being compared to me as I tended to be involved in more activities and was just overall more outgoing. In fact, I think my sister to this day resents me for being in the spotlight, which is very non-oldest child-like (I'm sure she's stabbing the voodoo doll of me as we speak).

Researchers also claim that younger siblings like to "court danger", but I'm queen of fearing physical peril. According to research, last born siblings like to play very physical sports and lean towards adventure and like to push the limits - bungee jumping, sky diving, rollercoaster riding, etc. For me, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride is my definition of a "thrill" ride, and non-stop shopping during the holiday season is what I consider an adventure. I played volleyball throughout my school days to avoid face-to-face confrontation and found athletic relief knowing that a net separated me and my competitors. So, danger is out of the picture for me even though I should technically welcome it.

Although I'm the typical last born when it comes to cracking jokes and excelling at creative tasks, I'm also level headed and according to research, my parents SHOULD turn to my sister to assume various responsibilities anywhere from "watching out" for me or taking care of the house when they are away, as "us" younger siblings would tear the place apart. Au Contraire! My sister, although reserved and mature in her own birth order right, is not as organized and "street smart" as me and contrary to research, my parents have always turned to me, the youngest, to put out any fires. Even in my social circle, I'm the level-headed "mom" of the group who thinks a few steps ahead to avoid any unpleasant situations. But according to research, I should be the one who my friends need to watch and coax down from dancing on table tops because, dammit, I'm the youngest and should be living only for the NOW, but alas, I personally live for the tomorrow and my 401K.

Conclusion...

Birth order research is important and valid; however, its not infallible. There are just so many variables outside birth order that impact our personalities beyond socioeconomic status and race (see article for further explanation), so although my days of being fed like a gerbil, and the outcome of it, are indicative of birth order, my tendency to follow the rules and my fear of chaos would hint that I was meant to be the oldest. So maybe I'm just a first born stuck in a last born body or better yet, maybe I'm a gerbil stuck in a human... you'd have to ask my mom about that :)

Social Etiquette Meets "Scary Train Boy"

2007-10-19T08:26:00.001-05:00

I'm a commuter. I sit on a train for a total of 2 hours every day right along side all the 45 year old dads who think that I'm going to go back to college any day now, but 1.5 years later, I'm still there. It has been during these past 1.5 years in which I've learned that the train is by far the most interesting microcosm of human behavior and more specifically, the train is the best place to observe social etiquette, or the lack thereof.

For example, I have sat in the same seat in the same train car since I began commuting - last car, right side, 4th seat up. My fellow commuting comrades have marked their territory as well and we all do the same thing every morning knowing the "dos" and "donts" of the 6:34 am train. The man who sits a row in front of me pops open a diet coke like clock work as soon as he settles in. The woman to my left will always be working on her laptop and start packing it up as soon as we hit the second to last stop. I will have my nose buried in a book and close it once we pass a specific apartment building that has become my own personal landmark hinting that my destination is near. And no one talks. It is silent. You always know when a newbie gets on because they either are on their cell phone (a big no-no on the 6:34) or they try to strike up a conversation with their neighbor (aka - the morning kiss of death).

Every train has different etiquette and about a year ago, I took the 7:11 am and those "locals" were yuckin' it up, sharing donuts and stories, and to be honest, I was scared. I missed the silent, familiar faces of the 6:34 and feared that someone had already muscled their way into the last car, right side, 4th seat up, claiming it as their own (thankfully, I have resumed ownership).

So basically, every train has its own style, from my 6:34 library on wheels to the 7:11 mobile college party, that its riders adapt to making for a great National Geographic article - "Behaviors of Commuters in their Natural Habitat: The Metra". However, just as a lion disturbs a pack of gazelles, "Scary Train Boy" has forever disturbed my commuting surroundings and is THE epitome of someone who has no concept of train etiquette or just social etiquette and norms in general...

I was on my regular train back to the burbs (which happens to be a very mellow, quiet train, similar to my morning ride), minding my own business, listening to Justin Timberlake on my iPod (if I remember correctly, I was all about "SexyBack" at the time). It was unusually crowded on the train that day and just as I was ready to let JT serenade me and "take it to the chorus", I noticed that the 20 something guy who just sat down next me (later to be named, "Scary Train Boy") was asking me a question - now this where I SHOULD have left my headphones on and kept my train ride between me and Justin, but no, I'm not rude, so I take off my headphones and say, "excuse me?"

Now before I go any further, let me paint a picture for you - this "Scary Train Boy" is a little under 5 foot 5, has a gaming belly (aka - a beer belly not induced by alcohol, but by long afternoons of Xbox), long sideburns, tiny wired rimmed glasses and small, little rat teeth. Now mix that with the comic book store owner from the Simpsons and you can now picture him. Obviously, this isn't what I saw when he first starting talking to me because I'm not THAT judgemental and honestly, he just looked like an average nerd before he opened his mouth.

Anyway, as soon as "excuse me?" came out of my mouth, the next 60 minutes would be the most painful moments of my entire train riding experience. Long story short, "Scary Train Boy", starts a conversation and won't shut up. And on my very quiet train, he's talking very, very loud about everything from comic books (I kid you not) to one night stands. And since I painted the picture of him for you, do you honestly think he's had a one night stand? He then starts asking me if I have a boyfriend to which I respond, "YES. A very SERIOUS boyfriend, who is very aggressive". Now my fellow commuters are starting to snicker and look at us, and I'm mortified - I have a reputation to maintain on the Metra, you know.

I'm not rude and if you remember a recent post, I'm nice to a fault, but as the time ticked with "Scary Train Boy", I became downright rude. I would put my earphones back on as he was talking - did that stop him, no? I then text my mom to "please call me", so I could excuse myself to answer a very important call who was just my very confused mother on the other line. The train was packed, I was sitting by the window, I was trapped and of course, his stop was AFTER mine.

This was the first, but not the last time I encountered "Scary Train Boy". About once a month, he'll pop up on my train and somehow happen to find me. I now have a system down - if the train isn't crowded, I'll say that I was just getting up because a friend just called to say that they were sitting in the back of the train and I invited me to sit with them. Or, if the train is crowded, I'll text my mom, "STB", and she'll call me to chat for the next 60 minutes - God bless that woman.

So I guess the point of this long, hopefully funny, story is to bring to every one's attention the interesting social world we live in. Even if you don't commute everyday like I do, I'm sure you've experienced your own little microcosm of social behavior and I know that everyone has witnessed public etiquette gone very, very bad. So when you're standing in line at Starbucks, take a look around and you'll notice a well oiled machine of activity and those who don't know the "rules" stand out and annoy you to no end. Hopefully, "Scary Train Boy" doesn't happen to be in that line asking you obscenely inappropriate questions.

If you have your own stories of socially dysfunctional people, I'd love for you share them!

You Say Tomato, I Say Dating - Part II

2007-10-18T08:31:00.000-05:00

To conclude my thoughts on the definition of dating, I want to reference a conversation I recently had with a good friend. This specific friend has mastered that art of dating that my mom had once so flawlessly executed, and she openly admits that she receives her share of criticism in regards to her style. But she also confidently says that she's just one girl in a big city of people, so having a "flavor of the month" is just a way for her to find THE flavor of her life, and there is no harm in openly and frequently dating especially if she's not giving the flavors any real "sugar". How sweet it is.

So how can we define dating for 2007? I don't think you really can. My mom and good friend have the same old school mentality of keeping dating casual, frequent and constantly changing. But a majority of people I know either keep dating really, really casual to the point of "I'm not sure if we're just friends" or take it the other extreme of getting bent out shape when they write on some one's Facebook wall of the opposite sex and conclude their comment with a ":)" - "What does that mean?! Is he cheating on me?! He doesn't put ":)"s on my wall!!!"

Below are my own, personal definitions of the many layers of dating, take them for what they're worth:

"We're Talking" = You met someone at a bar, gave them your phone number and now you talk with them randomly on a Tuesday night and you can't seem to remember if they were cute or not - this has little to no potential of going somewhere serious and a HUGE potential of being awkward when you finally meet up with them again
"I'm Seeing Someone" = Casually talking or hanging out with someone who you may like to date; this person most likely has or will spend many nights with you and your roommates on your couch watching Sex in the City
"We're Dating" = Seeing someone who may have the potential of being more and this includes going to functions beyond the bar scene and your couch; somewhere in this period you will most likely meet the parents
"I'm in a Relationship on Facebook" = Whoa, this is getting serious; you are telling all of your 413 closest friends that you're taken
"This is my Boyfriend/Girlfriend" = Take this one for what its worth; I once had a "boyfriend" for 3 days in the 6th grade and I now have a boyfriend who I know will be in my life forever and turn into "something else"; if your significant other refuses to say this word even if things are serious, be worried, but if he/she acknowledges the term but doesn't throw it around like is confetti, don't be too concerned

So you say Tomato, I say Tomatoe. You say dating, I say what's your defintion?

You Say Tomato, I Say Dating - Part I

2007-10-17T08:16:00.000-05:00

What comes to your mind when you hear "dating"? If you're part of generation X or Y, chances are you all have a very different view and definition of the word, which leads to a lot of miscommunication and confusion. "Dating" to some people means casually seeing more than one person at a time with no strings attached, but for others, it can also mean a monogamous relationship that comes paired with the title "girlfriend" or "boyfriend". So how should we define the word for 2007?

When my sister and I were growing up, my mom would always tell how us how during her "dating years" she would have dates every Friday and Saturday night with different "gentlemen", and would question why we weren't doing the same. No, my mom wasn't encouraging us to be, for a lack of better words, "loose women" (love you, Mom), she just didn't, and probably still doesn't, know that the term "dating", and romantic relationships in general, are not what they used to be.

First, I've found that the actual "date" is dead. I realize this isn't going to be true for everyone, but on average, it seems that dates have gone from the one-on-one dinner and a movie of my mom's era to the "come over and watch a movie with my roommates so they can judge you" date of today. I think the more casual approach to dating is due to the fact that so many people meet one another in bars or other potentially judgement impaired settings that when it comes time for the sober meet and greet, there is power and safety in numbers, so the first date that includes your roommates seems like a smart first move. Then once you get comfortable keeping it casual, the fine dining seems like an unnecessary cost and "ta-da!", you don't know if you're "dating", "seeing each other" (is that the same as dating?) or "just friends". Damn.

Second, men today are no longer the chivalrous, confident men of yesterday, which I believe has greatly impacted today's definition of dating. This isn't entirely men's fault and because I happen to have great men in my life, I rather stress the variables that men in the dating scene cannNOT control, to give them some benefit of the doubt, which includes the increasing reliability on the woman to make the first move. Compared to my mom's dating day, its more acceptable for the female to approach the male and I think this a result of women finally taking control of every aspect of their lives. But this has confused the dating scene. I am in serious relationship and was the one to make the first move by asking him out and although we're now 3.5 years into a great relationship, I think it threw him off in the beginning and I had to continue sending "signals" for him to finally take dating ownership. This isn't a bad thing, its just part of the explanation as to why "dating" is no longer black and white.

And what's most interesting in today's dating scene is how "serious" things get so quickly. My mom always made the argument that she could casually date different lads without things getting taken out of context with absolutely no lines being crossed. As politically correct and liberal as my generation is, we sure do like to commit and keep things conservative. Going back to my mom, her kind of dating was considered normal, and I feel that if a young person today consistently has different dates with different people even withOUT any hanky panky, they are considered promiscuous (insert Nelly Furtado's song now). Its seems that if you go out on a REAL date (not a TV party with the roomies) and then you see that person out with someone else the following weekend, all Hell breaks loose. "How dare he/she". Did you even really like them? Well, no. But still, you were kind of, sort of annoyed that someone you were "dating" was out on a date with someone else.

This merits a Part II post once I get some feedback on how "dating" can be defined for 2007. Or is that the beauty of dating in 2007, that times are changing and so should relationships? Do people get serious so quickly because a relationship is the only thing that is stable in 2007 with so many other issues surrounding us?

Do I Have "Non-Confrontational" Written on My Forehead?

2007-10-16T08:34:00.000-05:00

I'm nice. I can't help it. I think its a positive attribute to have, but it sometimes kicks me in the butt, and my cheery disposition is often used against me. So not fair.

The security staff at the building where I work is the perfect example of people who use and abuse my "niceness". It all started about year ago when I came into work on a Saturday to finish up some last minute details for an event I was attending the following day. My building, usually buzzing with commotion and full of the sounds of clicking heels and ringing BlackBerries, was silent that Saturday morning and I could almost hear the hallways whispering, "get a life, go home". Feeling sorry for myself, I was even more saddened to see the same security staff I see Monday through Friday sitting at the front desk. I gave a friendly smile, a smile they had seen every morning for at least the past six months, and went about my business.

A few hours later I was ready to finally enjoy my Saturday, or at least what was left of it, and on my way out of the building, I looked up the 80 stories and thought, "hey, this would be a cool picture". Okay, so that's a lame thing to think of, but normally, when I'm at work I'm surrounded by hundreds of hurried people and never had the chance to really sink in my surroundings, so on this Saturday afternoon, I was taken back by the view.

So, I step back. Pull out my snazzy camera phone. Point. Click. And then get grabbed by security.

Within seconds, a man from the beloved security staff, who I was just feeling sorry for hours before for having to work on a Saturday, had his hand wrapped around my wrist demanding that I give him my phone. If only I knew the man's name I would have been like, "George or Chuck or Whoever, its me! The NICE girl you see every morning - I'm not doing anything wrong. And its Saturday for God's sake!".

Turns out, you can't take pictures of the building according to "George or Chuck or Whoever", which is nonsense because I was on public property and I'm pretty sure that every person who has every taken an architecture tour in the city has snapped some photos of this specific building. So what was really happening here? I'm convinced that the building security needs to make a "smack-down quota" and since I have "I'm non-confrontational" tattooed on my forehead, I'm the perfect target.

Recently, I was waiting in the lobby of my building for a friend as we were meeting for coffee, and "George or Chuck or Whoever" approached me once again and told me I couldn't "loiter" and asked for proof that I worked in the building. I have seen these damn security bullies, M-F for the past 1.5 years! I don't look like trouble. I don't look like I don't belong in my casual business attire. I do look NICE. That's the problem. The security can say they are doing their job by harassing me, which is obviously the better choice compared to Mr. Money Bags, CEO of "I Make More than You" Corp., who would throw a fit.

Its such a shame that nice people are taken advantage of and the grunting, pushy, attitude-heavy folks get to avoid issues such as my security staff woes. However, in the end, nice prevails, and I have reaped major benefits from my own niceness - free coffee (for nicely saying and not barking my Starbucks order to the barista in the morning), promotions (for being someone that people enjoy working with), a great boyfriend (trust me, the good ones don't like the bitch, they like the nice girls with a cute butt) and amazing friends.

So to "George or Chuck or Whoever" - let me say this - harass me all you want... you ain't breakin' my nice!

Random Acts of Kindness

2007-10-15T08:14:00.000-05:00

Tis' the season for candy corn and tis' the morning for a random act of kindness.

I always dread waking up at 5 am every morning to make my daily, grueling commute. Monday mornings are especially hard, and I feel like I'm back in the 7th grade because I once again consider Sunday nights the worst "school night" of all - the fun of the weekend comes to a screeching halt and I have to crawl into bed early and start a full week of work... all over again.

This morning started like every other - I arrived at work, sifted through the 100+ emails that landed in my inbox over the weekend, eyed my schedule for the day and wished I was still buried in my glorious bed - but then some kindness, mixed with some candy corn, changed my entire morning... my colleague, friend and cube neighbor, knowing my love for candy corn, dropped two huge bags filled with the sugary goodness on my desk with a note recognizing a recent project we worked on together that turned out to a be a great success.

Two things come to mind: first, Brach's bags filled with corn and pumpkins can truly make any day a good day and second, a random act of kindness can make your day, your week or even just your life, better. I know, I know, I should stop being emotional about Halloween candy, but on a gloomy Monday morning, having someone acknowledge a job well done with something that they know you enjoy, can make you realize that are so many little things to look forward to each day, and each day - EVEN Monday - is another chance to experience a random act of kindness which reminds you that you are surrounded by good people.

So, to my candy corn-giving colleague - thank you for making my morning so much better, in fact, I've almost forgotten about my glorious bed and the fact that's it only 9 am on a Monday. And to everyone else - whether you give someone a bag of candy corn, a quick note or a pat on the back, remember that it feels just as good to give as it does to receive.