The Other Third

stretch armstrong

2011-08-14T18:37:00.000-05:00

Sometimes there are some holes in my stories.

Sometimes I stretch the truth a bit. Especially on here.

It's not that I lie, necessarily. It's more that I don't share all the pieces. Maybe I share the emotion, but not why I'm feeling it. I share the story, but not why it's significant to me. I share the questions swirling around, but not why I'm asking them. Sometimes I tell the story that's easier, that's safer to tell than the one that's real. Because the real story? That story can hurt to tell. That story can bite you in the butt.

But I think I owe you (honestly, I owe myself) the truth: It's not that I haven't had anything to write over the past months. It's that everything I've started writing has been too real. Too honest. Too better-keep-those-feelings-hidden-you-crazy-girl. And, so, I did. I've kept it to myself. I relegated it to my journal. Safe away from any need to actually own up to it.

So here's what I haven't been saying: I'm not necessarily good at vulnerable. I try to laugh things off when I can. I default to sarcasm and indifference. I poke fun at myself to show that I'm not hurting. When I fall down (which I tend to do a lot), I jump up, scrape off my knees and get back in the action. I act like I'm okay and hope eventually I will be. After all, I'm strong. I can take this. At the end of the day, though, I'm a girl. And a girl, despite how tough she may seem on the football field, is often more fragile that she likes to admit.

And I've been struggling. Struggling with what makes me unique. With what makes me someone anyone should find lovable. What makes me worth it.

Struggling with what I'm supposed to be doing. Struggling with the notion of working to live vs. living to work. There are days when I feel like I couldn't have a job better suited for me. Where I'm flying high. And then there are days where I enviously eye the receptionist, thinking how great it would be if the biggest problem I had to solve today was how to handle two calls coming in at once. Umm... Can you hold, please?

Struggling with what defines me. Are those the things I want to define me necessarily? And if they're not, how can I change that?

Just struggling. And vulnerable. And not myself.

So there. That's it. That's what I haven't been saying. That's what has been blocking me for three months. That's the big secret.

And now I can try to move on. Move up. Just move.

the best laid plans

2011-06-23T13:58:00.006-05:00

I've said it before (and I'm sure this won't be the last time), but I'm a "planner". Almost to a fault. I'm not good at relaxing. I'm not okay with 'nothing going on'. And I'm even worse at sitting still. I just always want there to be something to do. Something to look forward to. Somewhere to go. I hate a blank calendar. Especially when there's so many opportunities to fill it.

I know this isn't always the most desirable quality for those around me. I think I tend to drive my roommate, my friends, my family and pretty much anyone on my email contact list crazy with my constant wanting to be doing something. Add to this that I'm restless. I'm anally organized. I'm all kinds of type A personality. And when you throw all of these wonderful traits together and you have on your hands the perfect combination for one high-strung girl.

But I'm working on it.

And most of the time, I think I'm getting better. Sure, you won't find me hanging out on the couch for hours on end on a Saturday or Sunday, but I have stopped inundating whatver email inboxes I can get my hands on with all sorts of requests to do this or that with me. I even made it my New Years resolution last year not to send more than one mass email a quarter. And while I think that lasted maybe until May (if I'm lucky), the point is I'm trying.

But then there's the past eighteen hours where I booked 3 flights for the fall which 'required' sending about a million emails to my college roommates about a trip to Denver, a hundred-thousand emails with my Chicago gals about grabbing our cowboy boots and heading to Austin and about eight-hundred texts with Suzzle about the IU/OSU football game. A huge search for the perfect Non-Book Book Club July event - a movie in the park. And to top it all off, a massive email to all my Chicago friends trying to coordinate a country concert in August.

It's like I'm an addict slipping back into a relapse. I can't help myself.

And just when I think I'm making progress.

Someone better take away my planner and my access to gmail.

dot dot dot

2011-06-07T20:50:00.008-05:00

Leave it to my favorite TV obsession (or maybe second favorite, next to Criminal Minds), The Bachelorette, to provide me with just the right bait to lure me out of my month+ blogging hiatus. I may be less than inspired these days, but there's just something about Bentley that makes me (and just about every girl in America) want to comment. And by comment I mean scream you're a jerk! every time he opens his mouth.

Now, I'd be withholding some incriminating evidence if I didn't admit that I pre-picked Bentley from ABC's website as my personal favorite before the season began. (What? It was important for our office pool!). I mean look at this seemingly innocent and rough-and-rugged face:

So, I guess I understood a bit when Ashley, despite being warned that Bentley was on the show for the 'wrong reasons' (my favorite over-used phrase in Bachelor(ette) history), started to get all over-the-moon for Bentley. In a situation where 24 guys were fighting for her attention and professing their love-at-first-sight for her, Bentley was the challenge. Bentley was the wild card. Bentley, therefore, was the one she wanted to win over.

I'd like to shake some sense into her if I wasn't guilty of the same thing more times than I'd like to admit.

Well, minus the 24 guys vying for my affection part.

It was clear to we, the TV viewer, though, very early on that Bentley was indeed not there for Ashley. He didn't give a hoot. But that didn't stop him from enjoying her woo-ing all over him at every chance she got. I guess when it comes down to it, we all like attention. Even if we don't necessarily like like the person we're getting it from.

Difference is the rest of us usually feel a little bad about it. Or at least don't brag about it. On national TV nonetheless.

But Bentley does.

Fast forward through countless you're a jerk! comments and you get to the first good, nobel decision we've seen Bentley make: to leave the show. Only instead of confessing that he's not feeling an ounce for Ashley of what she's feeling he decides to blame his leaving on the fact that he misses his daughter. Sick-o.

In his attempt to "console" (if I can call it that) Ashley, he insisted that they leave the goodbye with a "..." instead of a "." You're a jerk! While this "..." meant for Bentley that he 'wouldn't mind hooking up with her every now and then' to Ashley it meant that things were unfinished. Feelings were unsaid. There was still hope.

And hope, I unfortunately know, isn't always a good thing.

I've come to realize that in this crazy world of dating and boy-and-girls and love and things-that-feel-sort-of-like-love, there isn't anything worse than the "...". It's not fair to give them out in hopes of sparing someone's feelings. And it sucks, quite frankly, to have them handed to you. Only, the worst part is, it doesn't suck at the time. At the time you want anything but a period. Anything but something definite. Anything but the end.

Only later, when you're living in the "..." do you realize how bad it really is.

Wikipedia (yeah, I realize that comes out of left field) says that "when placed at the end of a sentence, the ellipsis can also inspire a feeling of melancholy longing." Melancholy longing. Emotional purgatory. Frankly, it's the pits.

So while you annoy me about 85% of the time, Ashley, I can't help but commiserate with you on this. Bentley, of all people (you'll realize when you watch the show yourself, girl), didn't need to leave you with a "...". Everyone deserves better than that.

But, man, I'm going to miss that Bentley commentary...

Yes, that "..." is intentional. After all, I'll be longing for it every Monday night.

the young and the restless

2011-04-21T13:50:00.006-05:00

I've cleaned out my closet 3 times in the past two months. I bought two new mascaras. And seriously considered dying my hair. If I lived alone (and had the space to actually to do so), I would have rearranged the furniture in my apartment at least once.

I'm restless again.

Do you ever have those days? Those weeks? Those months? Where you’re looking around at your life and thinking something has to change. Maybe not a big thing, necessarily. Then again, maybe so. But maybe it's just something tiny. Something in the everyday details.

Part of me feels like I'm living in this worn-out, over-sized, old sweatshirt. I'm comfy and cozy. I generally like where I'm at. I like who's around me. I like what I see when I look out my window. It's familiar. It's safe. It's nice.

But then part of me doesn't feel comfortable at all. Feels like it's time to shed that lazy lounge wear and get my butt in gear. Part of me wonders when comfort becomes complacency. And complacency is just not something I'm comfortable with. I just can't deal with the idea of settling.

And so there's restlessness. One of the very worst feelings. It's just dull and boring and itching and twitchy. It's like you're just waiting for the heat of something to pull you towards it. Waiting for the passion to move you in the right direction. Just waiting.

I generally like to get where I'm going.

I walk too fast. I tend to drive just a little over the speed limit. I pay my bills ahead of time. I get that assignment due Friday done on Wednesday. I don't do well with the slow and scenic route. If I know that there's a destination, I just want to get. there. already.

So waiting? And restlessness? Not really my cup of tea.

I want to move. I want to do. I want to be calling the shots. I want to be in control.

And yet I'm back in the antsy mode, wondering what comes next.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one, wild and crazy life? - Mary Oliver

i know you are, but what am i?

2011-04-20T15:49:00.003-05:00

They say as a writer (so I'm assuming as a blogger) you're supposed to write what you know. You know, write what you're feeling. What you're experiencing. What's real. And maybe that's what I haven't written much lately. I'm not sure what I know at the moment. Things I thought I knew just don't seem as steady as they did before. And so I've got nothing to write.

So maybe instead of what I know, I should reach out to what I don't know...

I don't know how to hang on to an umbrella for more than 2 months. An El train. A cab. A restaurant. The salon. All of these are obstacles that stand in the way of me actually owning an umbrella for any length of time. Why those bad boys don't come with some sort of strap to hang around your wrist or something... Oh wait...

I don't know how to use our coffee pot at work. I don't think it's that it's particularly fancy or top-of-the-line or anything. It just sits there on the counter, looking all intimidating. Taunting me every morning. If it were my own coffee pot, in the safety of my home, I might just give it a whirl. But who wants to be one to blame when everyone is complaining about the coffee around your 9am meeting? Not this girl. And so, every morning, I get to work early. And wait. Wait for someone else to come in and start up the pot. God bless you, brave soul.

I don't know how 27 and 3/4ths is supposed to feel. Older? More responsible? More grounded? And I better figure it out fast because 28 is quickly approaching and I certainly don't know how to be 28.

I don't know how to get from here to there. Here, of course, being now. Today. The present. To there. The future. Where I'm supposed to be. What I'm supposed to be doing. Who I'm supposed to be.

I don't know why it's April 18th and it's snowing. And, for that matter, I don't know why I live in Chicago in the winters.

I don't know how in the world the Indians are leading the AL Central. I don't know how they're above .500, much less 12-5, for that matter. And, while we're at it, I don't know if I could name more than about 5 players on this years roster. And I call myself a fan...

I don't know how two people ever fall in love in this world. I just don't know how it ever happens. That they're at the same place at the same time. That one of them actually gets up the idea to go talk to the other. That someone feels a spark. That they actually meet up again. And again. And again. And the timing's just right. (Or at least not horribly wrong.) That they both like each other enough to give it a shot. And when they do, that they both fall in love... It's just mind-blowing to me. How does it all work out?

I don't even know how to be a girlfriend.

I don't know how to walk into lululemon and not spend at least $100 dollars.

I don't know.

I just don't know.

lessons on love via brad womack

2011-03-16T17:08:00.002-05:00

Monday wrapped up another season of my biggest obsession to ever grace the TV airways, The Bachelor. And while I watched 3 hours (3 hours!?) of the final drama unfold, I realized that while I've been quick to criticize this season in particular, I have to admit, I've actually learned a thing or two from watching.

And so I give you "What I've learned from The Bachelor"...

1. It’s better to be on the aggressive side than the shy side. Shy girls do not get air time. Or roses. So, when you see something you like, sometimes you've got to suck it up and make a move. Even if there are 24 girls surrounding him.

2. Sometimes a guy will keep you around because he thinks you're pretty awesome. He likes you. He likes hanging out with you. Heck, he probably even likes kissing you. This does not mean you're the one and only girl for him. He may be keeping you around because you're one of the best girls available to him. And, well, why would he say goodbye to you before the number of roses indicates he has to?

3. Hands down, helicopter rides make for the best. dates. ever.

4. Sometimes when a guy isn't telling you he's in love with you it's because he's contractually obligated not to let on to his true feelings until the last episode. Other times it's because he's actually not in love with you. Unfortunately, it's hard to tell the difference between the two and a majority of the time you're left balling your eyes out in the back of a limo wondering why you ever put your heart on the line in the first place.

5. It’s okay (heck, it's encouraged) to confess your love after two dates. Especially when he's dating other people. I mean, what could go wrong here?

6. Connections come in different shapes and sizes. And just because you have a connection with someone doesn't mean they don't also have a connection with someone else. It is possible to be in like with two people at the same time. It's not, though, possible to be in love with two people at the same time. Love, after all, is not only an emotion. It's a choice. A choice to give that final rose (and humongous Neil Lane diamond) to one person and be ready to accept America's criticism After the Final Rose.

7. Someone you can "totally see yourself hanging out with every single day for the rest of your life" is apparently not someone you see yourself marrying.

I've got to admit, Brad, you threw me for a loop on this last one. I sort of thought that the whole point of dating was finding that person who you would want to hang out with for the rest of your life. That's marriage, isn't it? It's why I always thought that people wanted to marry someone who was their best friend. Someone they laugh with. And want to go on helicopter rides with. And have overnight dates with. But mostly someone who they just want to hang out with. Every single day. For the rest of their life.

But what do I know? I'm just a single gal who couldn't even make it on The Bachelor.

spring forward

2011-03-11T14:03:00.000-06:00

Here I was having a pretty productive day. Reveling in the fact that it's Friday. It's sunny outside. And I'm out of here at 5 o'clock on the dot to head to Indy for a great weekend.

Then this email happened.

To: Everyone
From: Announcements
Subject: Daylight Savings Time

Remember that Daylight Savings Time begins this Sunday, Mar 13 at 2:00am. Don't forget to set your clocks ahead one hour.

Daylight Savings Time will end on Sunday, Nov 6.

Which prompted this gchat exchange.

Brooke: Oh liz! This is spring forward weekend haha
we just had one of these like in Oct
haha
bad news is we lose an hour
me: i had NO CLUE it was coming up so quickly again
Brooke: haha i heard through the grapevine
me: this is not the type of news that can just be casually passed through the grapevine!!
come on, people!
Brooke: you would think after 5 years of living here it would catch on haha
me: and yet it gets me every time
sneaky sneaky DST
Brooke: hahaha

Give me a break! How many of these things can one girl handle in a year? (Well, two, it would seem.)

Ugh.

alexander and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

2011-03-05T17:08:00.011-06:00

One of my favorite books from growing up was Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. In it, from the moment Alexander wakes up with gum in his hair, things just don't go his way. From everything to not finding a prize in his cereal box at breakfast (while, of course, his two brothers do) to his teacher not liking his picture of the invisible castle (which is actually just a blank sheet of paper) to his friend, Paul, deserting him for his third best friend to finding out he has a cavity at the dentist to having lima beans for dinner (which he hates) to there being kissing on TV (which he also hates) to having to wear his railroad train pajamas to bed (yeah, you guess it, he hates his railroad train pajamas). This just isn't Alexander's day. So much so that at the end of the day, he just wishes he could move to Australia. That is, until his mom reminds him that everyone, even people in Australia, have bad days.

Yesterday just wasn't my day. Yesterday? Yesterday was just the pits.

From the moment I got out of bed. Scratch that. From the moment I was asleep, nothing, I mean nothing, went my way. It all started when, for the 3rd night in a row, I just could not get any useful sleep. I tossed. I turned. I checked the clock. I checked it again. I tried to shut off my mind. But it just wasn't any use. Sleep was a reality in bits and pieces. Rest, on the other hand, was not.

Luckily, I had a doctor's appointment at 9:30, so at least I got to sleep in a bit and still get my work-out in. However, the doctor had directed that I fast from 8pm the night before so by the time I was done with my work-out I was starving, but not able to do anything about it. I got ready, looked out the window and realized it was raining. Lovely. Especially when I realized that I had left my umbrella in my rental car. Guess I'd be toting my huge golf umbrella around today. Fantastic.

So I, and my grandpa umbrella, made it to the doctor's office on time and then proceeded to wait. And wait. And wait. Ugh. Not to mention, the doctor's office was a complete dead zone for my cell phone so as I waited, I just knew I was falling further and further behind. And then, just when I thought I was about ready to leave the office, the doctor let me know that she wanted me to get some blood work. Of which I waited for another 20 minutes. And when I finally did get into the lab? Well, the technician couldn't seem to find a vein (good thing I'm not a crack fein, eh?) and proceeded to poke around my inner elbow for a bit before she finally just poked the needle in and, I'm convinced, hoped for the best. Ouch. But at least I was making progress.

Finally, I was checked out of the office and on my way. When about 5 minutes away from the office, just as all of my emails, voicemails and text messages were pouring in, I realized I left my only remaining umbrella at the doctor's office. Bummer. Especially when the afternoon forecast calls for 70% showers. Perfect.

Of course, as luck would have it, one of those voicemails was from the president of my company, wondering if I could head out to our clients for an 11am meeting with the president of cheese (yes, that's an actual title). It was 10:52 when I received the voicemail. And our clients are 35 minutes away. On a good day. This is never going to happen. What's worse, I had asked about this particular meeting on Monday I was told by my boss that there wouldn't be an issue and if anyone was going to go from our agency, she would. Glad we got that covered.

So, I'm rushing back into the office in a fit because I'm letting down my president and missing out on an opportunity for face time with a really prestigious client. Double whammy. I rush to make it across the street before the light turns red when I nearly get hit by a car only to jump and lose some of the contents of my purse. I, glad to still have my life, decide against dodging back into traffic for my favorite pen and my Carmex. Rats.

I make it back to work only to find out I have to cover a 12:30 call and I'm not going to be able to grab anything for lunch until around 2. I'm sweating from my rush into the office. My stomach is growling at me. I'm flushed trying to catch up on everything I missed while in the cell phone-hating doctor's office. And when my creative director comes up to talk about prepping for our 3 o'clock client meeting, I turn into a huge monster. I'm rude. I'm short. I'm all hot and bothered. I'm probably the worst version of myself.

Ugh. Double ugh.

The afternoon included a fight with the color printer 15 minutes before the meeting. My computer freezing during a client presentation. My hitting my knee 3 times on the conference room table. And me finally getting out of the office around 7:30.

It just wasn't my day.

Luckily, despite the late Friday night and the evening downpour, I made it to drinks and dinner with Abby and Julie. There's nothing like a perfect night with good friends to erase even the most terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

So, maybe I won't pick up and move to Australia after all either.

warriors, monkeys, and happy babies

2011-02-24T18:12:00.009-06:00

I want to like yoga. I really do. But last night, after my first official yoga class (the yoga video in p90x doesn't count because no one can actually see - or critique - me doing the poses), I confirmed what I always thought I knew. I. Hate. Yoga.

I mean really just hate it.

Maybe I'm not serene enough. Or mature enough. Or spiritually evolved enough. Or bendy enough. Because I just cannot appreciate yoga. It seems like a very zen-like thing to do. And I envy those girls that just love yoga and blab on and on about all the great things it's done for their body, mind and soul. I mean, I really want to enjoy it. I want to be able to stand on one leg while holding the other out at a right angle. I want to be able touch my palms and heels to the floor at the same time. I want to be a yoga-er. But, quite frankly, I find it boring and slow and just plain awful. Which, I'm well aware of, is a very unpopular point of view to have these days.

But you know what? I just don't care. Life is too short to downward dog when you don't want to.

Perhaps I am too Type A. Too wound up. Too impatient. Too in need of something intense, gritty, sweaty, and unpleasant to get my heart racing and send me into a stress-relieving trance. (Which, of course, is what you'll be able to find me doing once again when all of this yoga business is said and done. Beating up my body. And loving every miserable minute of it.)

But, in the meantime, let me walk you through last night...

We walk into the already jam-packed room a couple minutes late from filling out our new student forms. So if I was already self-conscious about what the heck I was doing, I'm even more so as I can feel people watching as I lay out my mat, grab my blocks and get situated. However, I managed to get all set up on my little mat (which reminds me of preschool nap time) and join in the class.

We're then told by the instructor to lay on the ground, supporting our spine and just pay attention to our breathing. Easy, right? Wrong. It's during this 10 minutes (do we really need 10 minutes for this?) that I not only realize that I cannot pay attention to my breathing, but also that when I actually start to for a couple seconds, my breathing is rather unable to be controlled. This, in turn, makes me anxious about why I can't control my breathing and causes my mind to wander about what else could be physically wrong with me.

At which point our instructor encouragingly reminds us to leave behind all the stress of the day and be here in the present. Well, now that you mention it oh, nimble one, I do have some stresses. Thanks for reminding me and causing my mind to wander to those for a while. On the plus side, though, this diverts my attention away from my brief lapse into hypochondria.

Editors note: Now, I definitely would consider yoga "exercise". And would even admit that certain poses are physically strenuous. But I just don't think anything where you lay on the ground, still, breathing for 10-15 minutes can be considered activity. Or a work out. Or purposeful for that matter.

But, nevertheless, that's what we do. And then, what feels like 15 long, boring and pointless minutes later, we're ready to move to the next thing.

Through-out the next 30-60 minutes, I'm guided to contort my body into one unnatural shape after another. All the while, straining my neck to see what the heck the instructor (or the girl next to me) is doing because I don’t know all the poses by name and I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what 'prosperous pose' could quite possibly mean without a visual reference. However, when I look up all I can think of is 'how in the world is she doing that!?' I then, not be be defeated, muster my best attempt to mold my body into a form like hers only to have her gently push my back somewhere it doesn't want to go as she walks by and says 'Now relax and go deeper'. Fat chance, sister of nature.

The perfectly balanced and relaxed people around me must be looking at me with pity, wondering why my face is turning bright red as the blood rushes to my head. Actually, that's a lie. Because while I can't help but steal a glance each and every direction when I get the chance to check out how other people's poses look, no one else seems to notice or care. And it's pretty clear that, while I was busy stressing out during corpse pose (which, much like it's name would indicate, could easily be preformed by a dead person), they were 'clearing their mind' and 'releasing their worries' and 'letting go of the day'. Allowing them to be all zen and spiritually focused now. I, on the other hand, continue to feel the tension build in my neck and back.

But, still, I'm trying. I promise. Because I really, truly want to walk away liking this.

So there I am holding each and every shaky pose while our instructor, looking perfectly muscular, balanced, flexible and skinny, continues to encourage our deeper decent into stillness and peacefulness. Which only continues to remind me that I'm not feeling any of the such. And through it all. The twisting. The bending. The Namaste-ing. The breathing. The only thing I can think about is not my 'center' or finding peace within, but rather, "what the heck am I doing here, and how can I make it stop?"

As we go into one of our last poses, the instructor gets all spiritual about being able to just feel our heartbeat and, again, I realize I cannot feel my heart beating. Yoga has, literally, bored me to death. So I stand there, hand over my heart, trying desperately to just feel my heartbeat. Seriously, not feeling a thing but confusion.

At the end, we're told again to lay on the ground and just be at peace.

Not a chance in hell this is happening for me.

And as we lay in the dark room while Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah plays in the background, I know I'm supposed to be feeling calm and relaxed. But I think by now you know how that's going for me. I, on the other hand, am running through the things I have to get done tonight. What I need to do to prep for Friday's big client meeting. How in the world I'm going to break it off with the newest nice guy in my life. Why in the world I'm not just feeling relaxed already. Basically, this exercise is going for me the exact opposite of what it should be.

After we leave the studio, Brooke looks at me with excitement and asks "Sooo, did you like it!?

I hated it.

But she was so happy about it and I wished I felt like that. I wished forced relaxation was something I could embrace. I wished I felt revived. I wish I was excited about our next class. I just wished I could be that way about it. So, I reassured her that I would, indeed, not be bailing on our 5-class Groupon.

Yes, yes, I agreed to give it 4 more classes. (What!? I'm not one to waste my money... except for when it comes to shots at 3am.) And I promise to give it my all. But, if in the end, I'm still as miserable as I was last night, I'm going to call it a day. You know, let sleeping downward dogs lie. (Or something like that.) And just accept that maybe yoga isn't for everyone.

Namaste.

wordless wednesday #3

2011-02-02T10:59:00.004-06:00

Snowmageddon. Snowcropolis. The Blizzard of 2011.

Chicago is, indeed, blanketed with nearly 2 feet of snow. And I'm forced to take back all my snide comments about weatherman always being wrong. Making too much of everything. Preparing us for the worse, when in all actuality we get a flurry. The scene from outside my living room window (and every news station around) is living up to all the hype.

You win this time, Andy Avalos.

As I laid in bed last night hoping for a snow day today, I couldn't help but feel like a 3rd grader, desperately waiting to hear the news that school was out tomorrow. Remember just how great that was? Today a "snow day" means working from my kitchen table, coordinating conference calls from a variety of locations and the headaches that come with schedule delays. Back then it just meant one thing: snow ball fight!

And so, in honor of my 3rd grade self who's healthy imagination could turn a snowy backyard into any number of wild adventures, I bring you my favorite quote from Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland:

There is no use trying, said Alice; one can't believe impossible things.

I dare say you haven't had much practice, said the Queen. When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast!

because i said so

2011-02-01T22:11:00.002-06:00

My mind is, well, heavy right now.

I often times find myself considering the actions of friends, co-workers, etc and wondering if they are at peace with their decisions. They seem to be so content with themselves. Do they ever wrestle with the consequences (whether positive or negative) of their actions like I do? Or are they more of the carpe diem type? Able to suck up even the worse situation as a classic case of better luck next time. You live you learn. It's better to regret something you have done than something you haven't. You win some, you lose some. Have they accepted that mistakes are just a part of life?

When we were growing up there were so many things we couldn't do. Couldn't do because we weren't old enough. Because we weren't big enough. Because our parents didn't think it was best for us. Because it was a school night. Because 'I told you so'. They were so many rules in place to help shape us into the type of people our parents set out to raise.

But as we get older it becomes increasingly clear: the rules we set for ourselves are the only rules we know are real.

I yearn for clarity when I wrestle with my own actions, decisions, emotions and desires. I’m constantly caught between action and thought. There have been several times when I was faced with a situation and I had to decide: do I break my own rule? And if I do, will there be any consequences? I mean, certainly my parents won't be grounding me...

There are times when I was terrified of doing the "wrong" thing and regretting it. So, instead, I fought my emotions, what I wanted to do, and my "better judgment" won a battle that it probably should have lost. And for what? Just so that I didn't break my self-imposed rule? Just because I was worried what someone else might say or think? Times when I've stuck to my guns and found myself looking back and, on one hand, being proud of myself for abiding by my rules, but on the other hand filled with regret at the fact that maybe, just maybe, I thought too much and acted too little.

I'm not saying I regret all of the time. Or even most of the time. But every once in a while I regret. The things I haven't done likely could have only made things worse. But I'll never know for sure and I have a hard time accepting that on some days.

As I write this I realize that it’s certainly possible that I think too much and act too little. Sometimes I should just go with it. Do what I want to do at the time. Not burden myself with whether or not I'm going to regret it tomorrow. Or next week. Or next year.

I feel sort of relieved and excited about this confession of inner turmoil, doubt and shame. The next step is to live now, in real time, knowing that tomorrow isn't promised to anyone. Today's actions could bring about hardship, heartbreak and regret in the future. But they could also bring about something unexpectedly amazing. The thing is you never know. There's no way to. So you've got to live for what you know, and what you feel, now. And let tomorrow figure itself out.

After all, if I'm the one making the rules, aren't I also the one allowed to break them? And if I'm not going to do it, then who is?

of mice and men and a honda accord

2011-01-24T12:58:00.000-06:00

aka: grand theft auto
aka: early onset alzheimer's
aka: dude, where's my car?

Plans are funny things.

One minute you're planning on a trip to the grocery store and an early matinee movie. The next minute you're searching the streets for any sign of your car, swearing you left it right here the last time you drove it. One minute you're carefully pulling together your grocery list and checking fandango for movie show times. The next minute you're tracing and retracing every step you've taken over the past 2 days, wondering what the heck you're forgetting. One minute you have a nice little Saturday of errands planned. The next you're on the phone with the Chicago police department reporting a stolen vehicle.

What an unexpected Saturday!

As soon as I started walking towards the spot I knew I had left my car on Wednesday night, I felt like something was wrong. What's that grey SUV doing in my spot? But to go right to "someone stole my car" just seemed a little rash. So I walked up and down and around the block a couple times. I retraced every move I could remember making between 9pm on Wednesday night when I parked my car after work to 11am on Saturday morning when it was no longer there.

Did I actually end up driving to work on Thursday or Friday and forget I had, leaving my car in the parking garage? Had I moved the car recently without remembering why? Had I actually parked somewhere differently on Wednesday night? Is this just another sign of early onset Alzheimer's?

After asking these over and over, in a million different ways. (And actually calling my dad to re-walk through the last 72 hours just to be sure I wasn't missing anything.) The only real answer to any of these questions was no. And that's when I had to say it out loud: I think my car has been stolen. Cue intense cop drama music here.

Cut to me calling the cops to file a police report. In which case I wasn't sure exactly what to say so I defaulted to every movie or show I've seen and stuck with "I'd like to report a stolen vehicle". Cut to me frantically looking up my insurance coverage to be sure that I indeed had upgraded from just collision to comprehensive back when I purchase the Accord a couple years ago. (Luckily, I had.) Cut to a montage of all the random questions from the CPD and Progressive that, I suppose, they just have to ask....

Is there any signage around the spot that indicates parking restrictions? (Would someone actually go straight to a grand theft auto accusation before checking this all out themselves?) Do you typically lock your car? (Ummmm yes. I live in Chicago. Do people not lock their cars?) Do you typically take your keys with you from the car? (I find it helps, especially when you lock your car, to actually take the keys with you in order to unlock it in the future.) Do you have your keys now? (Do you mean am I sure a roommate or friend didn't just borrow it?) And, finally, how old are you? (Is this relevant?)

I promise I wasn't as snarky as I sound in my commentary above. But I do have to admit, the whole ordeal was rather comical. Which, on the plus side, kept my spirits up admits the initial uncertainty of what the heck happens next?

I guess what happens next is I wait. Wait for the car to someone show up. Wait for the police to call. Wait for any word on it's whereabouts. Just wait. Both the CPD and Progressive kept letting me know that when they find my vehicle this or that would happen. Glad to see they're so optimistic. But I've seen The Other Guys. At this point I'd rather not have my car be returned to me after God knows what happened to it in the last few days.

In the meantime, my new Progressive claims rep, Josh, has been a major help in securing a rental car for me from Enterprise and letting me know he hopes to have it all buttoned-up in a matter of 2-3 weeks.

In his experience it usually turns up in the first 7-10 days. So if we get to day 11, I should probably be looking for a new set of wheels... You know, as much as I have complained about my car's age and lack of radio and, most recently, noises, when it comes down to it I'm rather happy to have a car. Rather happy to have my car even. Sure it may not be the most stylish ride on the block, but it gets me from point a to point b in one piece. And it's paid off.

I certainly wasn't planning (or saving) for a new vehicle just yet.

But the best laid plans of mice and men, right?

jerseys are becoming my cats

2011-01-21T17:19:00.001-06:00

I was seriously considering purchasing another Colts jersey... when I had to stop myself, assess the situation and decide against it. I have two jerseys already. (Well, three, if you count the fact that I actually have two Peyton Manning jerseys - one that's a men's small and another that's a kid's large because I got sick of swimming in the men's one.) So, as much as I want a Dallas Clark or Jeff Saturday jersey. And as much as I can try to justify it by saying that my Sanders jersey is bad luck. Or mine are all blue and I need a home one. When it comes down to it I, as a 27-year-old girl, do not need another jersey. Because if I get another one, when will it stop?

I think jerseys could end up becoming my cats.

You know, as a single girl, one may be okay. Two, even, if you really like 'em. But once you start getting more and more, you're just on your way to quickly becoming the cat (er, in this case, jersey) lady.

And there's no coming back from that.

7:25PM Correction:
I have 3 (technically 4) jerseys. How could I forget about my Indiana Hoosiers football jersey!? No one (and I mean no one) in their right might needs one of those.

potpourri

2011-01-20T14:32:00.002-06:00

So your girlfriend rolls a Honda, playing work-out tapes by Fonda.
My Honda's acting up. It's cold. It's consistently parked on the street. Not to mention it's just plan getting old. (My brother reminded the other day that if my car were a person it would have it's own learner's permit by now.) So I suppose this should be expected. But, as any car owner knows, car troubles always seem like the absolute worst kind of troubles. Unexpected. Expensive. And, overall, a real wrench in your routine.

While I was home at Christmas, my car behaved perfectly. No sounds. No creaks. No weird spinning noises under the hood. Nothing that I had been so carefully trying to replicate to my father over the phone for the past month or so. Nada. That is until I was backing out of the driveway, ready to head back to Chicago. Thanks, Accord.

Turns out there was a problem causing one of my power steering belts to wear. But, ultimately, the crank shaft was worn down and spurring on this problem to begin with. (Do I sound like I even slightly understand this jargon?) So what started as just replacing the belt turned into a wild goose chase around the city of Fort Wayne (and then the broader state of Indiana) to find a crank shaft that would be compatible with my 1996 Accord.

Luckily, a couple days and $550 later, my car was good as (almost) new. Supposedly.

Not two days after I got it back into the city and made a couple treks out for client meetings in the suburbs did a new little sound begin to resonate through the streets (and even more loudly through the parking garage). Now, I'm driving around with a car that consistently sounds like it's auditioning to be the squeaky bed-spring sound effects at the beginning of Trillville's 2004 hit Some Cut.

Don't pretend like you don't remember the jam.

Identity theft.

Alternative working title: Rachel Nichols is a poor man's Erin Andrews.

I'm increasingly convinced that Rachel Nichols has stolen my identity. Or what was meant to be my identity anyway. Each and every time I watch (or even overhear) her reporting live from some big NFL game, I'm left somewhat stunned at just how much better I think I'd be at that job if I ever got the chance.

Confession time: I have, on occasion or two, practiced my would-be sign-off: Reporting live from outside the Colts hotel in Miami, Florida, this is Liz Brune. ESPN. Practiced the different scenarios. Mastered the inflection (and the ever so slight of a pause between the first and last two syllables) in "ESPN". Made myself as ready as possible for the one-in-a-million chance that I just so happen to be sitting mid-field when Rachel goes down and someone (ohhh, pick me!) needs to step in so the broadcast can go on.

Yes, I realize this makes me sound incredibly ungrounded in reality. But it also proves I'm more than ready.

And I promise I will deliver whatever "breaking" news needs to be delivered with more heart, more interest and more entertainment value than Rachel could ever muster. Plus, my hair may be a mousy color that can't decide if it's brown or blonde, but it will never, ever be that badly dyed (and fried) red.

Editors note: If ever, in a million years, I'm actually being considered for some sort of journalism job at ESPN and this blog, for whatever reason, is being used as an example of my writing, I reserve the right to take back this prior paragraph and all my nasty, bitter, possibly exaggerated and clearly envious accusations regarding a certain employee thereof. After all, no need to ruffle feathers in Bristol before my first day on the job, right?

Actually, on second thought, if this blog is being used as an example of my writing. Of my potential as a writer. Of my ability to report on anything. Or of my ability to form complete and competent sentences. Use correct grammar. Or legitimate English words. Then I doubt I have to worry about a first day anyway.

You win again, Rachel.

Now, back to you Boomer.

Pete and Repeat were in a boat...

In the same way I was obsessed with my new apartment a couple months ago, I'm now fixated on P90X. Which may be understandable when you realized that for nearly 3 weeks now, I've been hanging out with Tony Horton for at least an hour a day. Sadly enough, this could qualify as the longest "relationship" I've ever been committed to. Lord help me when I make it all the way to 90 days. I think I could end up being in love for the first time.

The real point here though is that Tony has a couple catch phrases that he seems to pepper in through-out the various videos. And since I do each video once a week, I inevitably hear them over and over again. There's one especially that always stands out to me: This makes me happy. Which he says in at least one (although I swear it's more) of the videos in my current weekly phase. I realize that, especially after having watched the video(s) now a number of times, that this should be incredibly annoying and infuriating. Especially at 5:30am. But quite the contrary. I've found that it actually does, indeed, make me happy.

Finding things that should be annoying actually rather endearing? Shoot, I think this means it's definitely love.

Banana Peppers changed my life.

I am a creature of habit. And nowhere is this more true than at Subway. I, without fail, (except for a few visits this past summer during the short-lived era of the Orchard Chicken Salad), order the exact same thing. 6 inch Veggie on Honey Oat wheat bread with Provolone cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, extra pickles and black olives, topped off with Honey Mustard sauce. That is, until I discovered something that would change my Subway experience forever: the banana pepper. I know, I know. This is by no means a new vegetable. It's not even new to the Subway condiment row. But, for whatever reason, I never noticed or thought about it until about 2 months ago. My life - and my sub - will never be the same.

Can you use it in a sentence?

I cannot spell convenience for the life of me.

Scratch that. My family and every teacher I've ever had would argue that the more accurate sentence would be: I cannot spell for the life of me.

It's true.

Up until about 4th grade I couldn't even spell the name of my own hometown.

Seriously.

I consistently spelled it out as Fort Wanye. (Which, to this day, my family uses against me at any and every chance they get. It's like the comeback that trumps any Brune family argument. Sis can't spell Fort Wayne. KO. Fight's over. We have a winner.) In fact, I'm not sure I ever really learned to spell it. I just learned a clever little way to remember where the letters go: the "y" clearly needs to be in the exact middle of the 5-letter word to balance it out. Fort Wanye. Fort Wayne.

So this "convenience" revelation of mine likely does not come as much of a shock. The shock may actually be that I feel the need to limit my spelling troubles to one specific word. When, clearly, it's more of an epidemic. But this word in particular trips me up every. single. time. And, what's worse, the way I always attempt to spell it (convience) isn't even close enough for spell check to provide "convenience" as a suggested alternative.

Not very convient, er, convenient if you ask me.

Tennis lesson of the day: How to return a backhanded serve.

It must be something in the water. But I've been receiving all sorts of backhanded complements recently. The two best ones within the last 24 hours?

1. After sending out an extremely detailed and (albeit a biased opinion) incredibly well thought-out 923-word email, (yes, in research for this entry, I most definitely copy-and-pasted it into Word so that I could check the actual word count. I mean I had college assignments shorter than that!), one of my clients replied with this: Hahahaha... have not read a thing, but just wanted to acknowledge that you are great .. and I thought I was the only crazy one on this brand. Thanks for being awesome!! Yeah, Arthur, I'm right there in the padded cell next to you. Thanks for the, um, complement. I think.

2. While waiting in line at Subway (see banana peppers above for additional context), I realized I was just a person away from a woman (from a partner marketing agency) that I had worked with recently on a client assignment. Well, we got into talking about a couple things and soon I realized that instead of knowing that I was an account person, she actually thought I worked in consumer insights/planning. Which lead her to exclaim: You mean you're an account person? (Hope her almost palpable disgust is coming through here.) I could have sworn you were a planner. You seem too smart to be an account person. Thank you, I suppose, for thinking I'm smart. But thank you, also, for belittling my career path, position and what I spend 12+ hours a day doing.

Geesh.

wordless wednesday #2

2011-01-19T21:27:00.004-06:00

One of my very best friends just got back from Paris (where she got engaged!) and, in true Darcey fashion, brought back with her the most thoughtful gift for me. (She's the absolute best at unique and personal gifts. It's unreal how she truly nails it every time.) Well, she did it again! This time she bought me a new, uniquely hard-covered version of The Great Gatsby, one of my top 5 favorite books of all time. I can't tell you how excited I am to replace my current version, a paperback back from when I was required to read it in high-school, with this fancy new one, deserving of all the love and appreciation I have for the story.

And so, in honor of Darcey (and my newest favorite book on my shelf), my second Wordless Wednesday is dedicated to my absolute favorite quote from The Great Gatsby (and probably the reason I adore the book so much) ...

He smiled understandingly - much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced - or seemed to face - the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrate on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.

I'm not sure I've ever come across another piece of writing that so beautifully captures a moment and a feeling the way that Mr. Fitzgerald does above. It gives me chills (the good kind) every time I read it.

Oh, to be able to write like that...

it all hangs in the balance

2011-01-17T16:47:00.003-06:00

As I was (rather comedically) trying to hang on to a yoga pose in one of my P90x videos the other morning, I got to thinking about balance. Or, rather, the lack thereof. The fact that, when I really think about it, most of my major resolutions for 2011 all hinge on the notion of balance, actually. Work/life balance. Spiritual balance. Emotional balance. Physical balance. 2011, for me, is all about the attempting to push the scale from lopsided to a little more evened-out. Attempting to achieve some sort of balance amidst all the things in this crazy life that aim to tip our see-saw one way or the other.

1. Physical Balance
Put me out on a field or a court and throw some sort of ball my way and I tend to be able to (at least 95% of the time) look pretty coordinated and balanced. But athletic balance, I've learned, is much, much different than real-life balance. You know, the ability to walk down a straight street without tripping kind. That, my friend, is something I've yet to master. Or even start to obtain. (If you don't quite believe me, I have plenty of scars, pants with ripped knees and even a ankle x-ray to prove it.) Balance is not one my strong suits. Or, as my family has taken to reminding me: Grace is definitely not my middle name. So, as much as I hate it, I'm attempting to incorporate yoga into my routine. To balance out my body. To strengthen my core. To push myself in ways that may typical running or weightlifting isn't quite accomplishing.

I've got the mat. I've got the pants. And I've got a Groupon for 5 classes to kick it off.

Now, I just need to find a Wednesday that I can actually leave work in time to make the 7:45 beginners class.

Which brings me to the 2nd resolution...

2. Work/Life Balance
It's two weeks into January and already this year feels like the longest year in the history of my world. (Except, perhaps, my 20th year when I just couldn't wait to be 21 already.) Whatever refreshment I felt after my holiday time off is a distant, distant memory. Work, officially, is kicking me in the butt. And while I'm trying to keep my outsides smiley and cheerful, my insides are grouchy, exhausted and on the brink of throwing my papers up in the air, running to the elevator and disappearing for a couple weeks.

Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'm a workaholic. Work is the one place in my life where I feel like I have it all together. Where I feel successful. Accomplished. Ahead of the game. But even that's not enough to combat that feeling that something's just not right when I spend just about every waking minute at work. When I neglect friends and family because there's one more thing I should get done before I leave tonight. When I can't remember the last time I left a work email unanswered because I was "off the clock".

I've gotta find the balance. I've got to stop shoving a work-out into the wee hours of the morning because that's when I know I'll actually get it done. I've got to stop canceling plans at the last minute because I'm stuck at the office. Or, worse yet, neglecting to make plans because I anticipate I will be.

The funny thing is, over break, I actually got pretty used to not being at work. And I realized that I could really, really like my life even if work wasn't a part of it. That's not saying I'm going to go quit my job and throw caution to the wind (unless, of course, one of these 5 lotto tickets is a big winner)... It just means I'm going to try to remember that defining myself outside of my job is just as (if not more) important than defining myself at work.

And so, like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, I'm chasing the elusive work/life balance.

3. Emotional Balance
I'm not completely sure how to classify this, but "emotional" seems as good a word as any, so here goes... It's really, really easy to get caught up in the me-ness of life sometimes. You know, the tendency to focus on what's happening to you and not take a step back to look at the bigger picture. I'm just as guilty as the next person when it comes to focusing on the bad, not the good. That's not to say that I walk around all sad and depressed all the time. In fact, I'd like to think that's not the case at all. I'm just saying that I have more than enough times when I find myself all caught up in how unfair things seems to be for me. (Sob.) I want to more willingly accept the fact that life, indeed, is incredibly unfair. Especially when you look at it from a limited, personal perspective. Any one of us can find 100 things to be upset or discouraged or down about. But we could also find a gazillion things to be happy about. To thank our lucky stars for. I want to concentrate more on those things. More of the time.

4. Spiritual Balance
I'm trying to get better at the trusting in a higher plan. In letting go. And letting God. But it's a real struggle for me. I like to control things. I like to plan things out. I like to know where I'm going. And how I'm going to get there. Trusting, for me, is easier said than done. Even when it comes to God. I realize this is incredibly foolish, but it's the truth. It's like most of the time, I know and truly believe there's a bigger plan for my life and all these little things along the way are in pursuit of that plan. But sometimes, especially when I'm focused on the little things themselves, it's incredibly hard to see the bigger picture. Incredibly hard to trust that my utmost well-being truly is being looked after. I want something now. And God says "wait". I say "please". And God says "No, it's not best for you". It's that whole notion of learning to love and live the questions. So that, one day when the time is right, you'll eventually get the answer you need. Although perhaps not the answer you want right now.

And so I'm working on it. I'm praying about it. I'm trying to loosen the reins I have on my life because I know it's a silly thing. I'm trying to trust more. And look to Him for guidance when I can't seem to understand it on my own. Ultimately, I'm trying to balance this selfish, foolish desire for control with the trust and reassurance in His plan.

Whew.

So those are the four big pillars that make up the mammoth balance resolution. I'm not saying it's an easy feat. But I do think it's an important thing to work towards, even if it may take a lifetime getting there.

Now excuse me while I go work on my Warrior II pose. (Grunt.)

will you accept this rose?

2011-01-09T21:40:00.002-06:00

The Bachelor is back for what seems like the 96th season (don't misinterpret me; I'm definitely not complaining). Brad Womack, the Bachelor who three years ago in the most. dramatic. rose ceremony. ever. chose neither Jenny or DeAnna, but instead walked away alone, is back in the Bachelor saddle again. Merry belated Christmas to me from my friends at ABC!

After watching last Monday's first episode I've come to a pretty solid conclusion why I never got a call back from ABC... I'm way too normal for this show. I mean you've got Madison, the vampire. Raichel, the manscaper. Shawntel, the funeral director. Keltie, the Radio City Rockette. And who could forget Emily, the drop dead gorgeous platinum blonde who's high-school sweetheart and former fiance died in a tragic plane crash just before their wedding. Only to find out just a week later that she was pregnant with his child! It's like a line straight out of All My Children. And to top it off, she's a southern belle and as sweet as pie.

I, with my advertising job in Chicago and a totally normal/alive family and friends, didn't even stand a chance to get into this cast of love-struck characters vying for the final rose.

I guess I should have known when I was filling out the 18 page (no exaggeration here) application form that I wasn't right for this. When I couldn't keep a straight face while answering "Why do you think you haven't found true love?" and "Do you think you can find true love on The Bachelor?". When I sarcastically answered that I was saving children from a burning apartment when the person filming me at the in-person interview asked how I broke my ankle.

I'm just not what ABC is looking for.

Because, when it comes down to it, as much as I love the show, I just don't believe it's good for anything other than pure entertainment and a couple exotic dates. I just don't. And unless ABC is going to bring back Jesse Palmer, the most dreamy Bachelor in the history of the show, I just don't believe I'd ever fall into love on this mess of a show.

Because I don't find it particularly tragic that Brad didn't pick either girl last time he was on the show. In fact, I liked him more for that. I liked that instead of proposing (proposing!) to someone he had only known for a couple weeks within the context of this make-believe, non-realistic, reality show bubble, he took a deep breath and realized he didn't like either of them enough to move forward.

I'm clearly alone here. If you watched Monday's premiere you can see that ABC has brainwashed us all, including Brad, into thinking this was the cardinal sin. Meeting and dating 25 beautiful women and then not liking any of them enough to propose? There must be something wrong with this guy. So much so that Brad's apparently been in therapy over the past three years trying to figure out why in the world he didn't find true love (gasp!) on The Bachelor. So much so that they just had to bring back his jilted lovers so they could comment on his commitment issues and whether or not they believe he'll be able to actually find true love this time through. (Note: both DeAnna and Jenny are happily engaged. Get over it, ABC!)

Give the guy a break. This happens every day in real life. You meet great people. You may go on a date or two with some of them. And, inevitably, most of those don't work out because you just don't like them enough. But that's where the Bachelor gets you. It tries to make you believe that maybe just maybe with a little romance (and a lot of eligible choices) true love is inevitable. Even if history would tend to put that notion in it's place. And so we watch with earnest interest. For true love to blossom? Perhaps, if you're a sap. But more so because it makes us feel better about our crazy dating lives.

I mean, I may be a single, total-wreck-when-it-comes-to-dating headcase most of the time... But at least I don't have fangs. (Yep, that one's for you Madison.)

the elephant in the room

2010-12-20T20:48:00.004-06:00

144 lbs.

144 lbs?

144 lbs!

Let me walk you through the series of thoughts that went through my mind as those glaring digital numbers stared up at me from the bathroom floor this morning...
1. This has got to be a weighted scale.
2. I should have never kicked-off Sunday football with that bloody mary yesterday.
3. Am I sure I got all of the conditioner out of my hair in the shower? Perhaps there's an extra pound or two (or 12, hopefully) left in the suds.
And, finally:
4. Okay, fatso. It's official. Time to start making changes.

I've, admittedly, avoided stepping on the scale ever since I broke my ankle this summer. I justified it by telling myself that I was already depressed enough at missing out on intramural softball, the Chicago triathlon and wearing the hot new heels I purchased. I just didn't want (or need) to know the physical toll the injury was inflicting on my body. The emotional toll was more than enough for one girl to handle. So I avoided it all summer. And then all summer became all fall. And fall spilled over into the winter. And now it's nearly the end of the year and I'm 144 lbs. Gulp.

For the first time since college I've realized just how easy it is to fall into the rut of not working out. Waking up at 7am instead of 5:30am? That extra hour and a half of sleep is just dreamy. Especially when it's cold and snowy outside. (I know, I know. Surprise, surprise, right?) Running out and grabbing a grilled cheese at the Nordstrom cafe or the Chicken Salad Salad at Jimmy Johns (which, of course, is that much better with the regular dressing and croutons) for lunch? So much easier and tastier than packing a salad or veggies from home. Going straight home after getting out of work at 8pm? So much more appealing than heading to the gym.

And all that leads to one sad, sad truth: I have, officially, fallen into an unhealthy rut. And the results? Well, they don't look pretty at all.

So I've got to get back on the saddle again in 2011. (What!? Let's be honest, Christmas cookies and mom's home cooking are just too good to resist. So, I'm giving myself a two-week free pass.) P90x is sitting in my room, ready to be tackled. And I'm standing in my best friend from high-school's wedding at the end of March. Seems, to me, like the perfect combination. But since "I'm going to lose weight" seems so very cliche, especially at this time of year, I'm going to put it in the words of Knocked Up:

Alison Scott: You want me to lose weight?
Jack: No, I don't want you to lose weight!
Jill: No, uh, we can't legally ask you to do that.
Jack: We didn't say lose weight... I might say tighten.
Alison Scott:Tight?
Jack: Tighter.
Jill: Just liked toned and smaller.
Jack: Don't make everything smaller, I don't wanna generalize that way... tighter.
Jill: We don't want you to lose weight, we just want you to be healthy. You know, by eating less.
Alison Scott: OK.
Jill: We would just like it if you go home and step on the scale, and write down how much you weigh, and subtract it by like, 20.
Alison Scott: 20.
Jill: And then weigh that much.

I hear ya, Jack and Jill. I hear ya loud and clear.

125, here I come.

time out

2010-12-15T11:12:00.001-06:00

I had the luxury this morning of heading to focus groups, starting at 10am, rather than into the office at the normal 8/8:30. And even though I spent all night and most of the morning working from home, it was nice to have a couple extra minutes to myself this morning to break out of the routine. So, I took advantage of the late start and headed over to Einstein Brothers to pick up a bagel and a cup of coffee and just sit there for a half hour or so and eat breakfast. Ahhh, it really is the little things.

And as I was enjoying my little half-hour breakfast break, the little girl next to me took a liking to me and decided to come over and say 'hi'. So, instead of using the half hour to respond to a couple emails and check a couple more items off my to-do list, I just spent it playing peek-a-boo and giving high-fives and laughing with this little girl. And you know what? Even though I was a bit further behind by the time I left breakfast, it absolutely made my day. I needed it.

It reminded me of something I've been forgetting lately; that it's so easy to get so caught up in work and all these things that seem oh, so important. It's so easy to lose sight of the fact that life, indeed, will go on even if (heaven forbid) our newest TV spot goes on air on the 11th of January instead of the 10th. Even if the client gives us feedback on Wednesday instead of Tuesday. Even if I don't respond to every single email every night. Life (my life, even) will most certainly go on.

I'm learning this more and more. Learning how to take a step back and breathe. To put the Blackberry away for a couple minutes to just enjoy cooking dinner or a birthday celebration or How I Met Your Mother. To accept the things I don't have control over and learn how to roll with the punches.

It's not the easiest lesson for a perfectionist, type-A personality like myself to embrace, but it's such an important one.

So, I'm trying. I'm getting better. But I'm definitely not all the way there yet.

wordless wednesday

2010-12-08T18:22:00.000-06:00

Work seems to think it has a monopoly on my life these days. Hence I haven't had a whole lot of time for writing lately. Heck, I feel lucky when I find time for the little things like eating and showering and working out. And if I fit all three of those in a day? Well, that's a good day, my friend.

But as I type this, I'm sitting overlooking the beach in Santa Monica, where it's 70 and sunny, and I have work to blame (or, in this case, thank) for my being here. And even though I'll be working long hours over the next two days on set, I was able to go for a long run along the beach this morning and even sneak in lunch with an old friend. So, I guess all things considered it's not all bad all the time. As often is the case, life could be much worse. So, perhaps I should stop complaining, shut my trap and look at the bright side. Which, when it's a gorgeous day like today, isn't very hard to do.

Hmmm, can't say I have a whole lot to write about actually. I just hate that I've been so consumed with work that I haven't made time for anything else. Haven't made time for thinking really. So I had to just start typing...

I know! I'm going to borrow (unfortunately plagiarize is probably the official term for it) the idea of Wordless Wednesdays from Lyd. If anything, it'll keep from going a week without writing something (anything!) in the future.

I think the real idea behind Wordless Wednesdays is that I should take a picture or post something other than words. But, instead, I think I'm going to post other people's words when I just can't seem to find some of my own. Because I? I am a rebel who writes my own rules when it comes to blog posts. Plus, this gives me something to do with all the quotes I've gathered through the years. It makes me think they serve a purpose other than to convict me as the hoarder I am when it comes to quotes and sayings and kooky inspirational and thought-provoking stuff like that. (I know, I know. Call it sentimental. Corny. Lame. But I'm a sucker when it comes to a good set of words.)

Since I've been obsessed with Taylor Swift's new album lately, I'm honoring her as my first Wordless Wednesday "author". And while I could probably pick any number of quotes from her songs that speak so perfectly to being a teenage girl (confession: sometimes to being a 27 year old girl), I actually want to share a couple of the thoughts she shared on the inside of her most recent cd case (sorry iTunes, but Brooke bought the actual cd so I just had to go that route) about speaking up. Speaking out. Speaking now.

Real life is a funny thing, you know. In real life, saying the right thing at the right moment is beyond crucial. So crucial, in fact, that most of us start to hesitate for fear of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. But lately what I've begun to fear more than that is letting the moment pass without saying anything.

I think most of us fear reaching the end of our life, and looking back regretting the moments we didn't speak up. When we didn't say 'I love you.' When we should've said 'I'm sorry.' When we didn't stand up for ourselves or someone who needed help.

What you say might be too much for some people. Maybe it'll come out all wrong and you'll stutter and you'll walk away embarrassed, wincing as you play it all back in your head. But I think the words you stop yourself from saying are the ones that will haunt you the longest.

So say it to them. Or say it to yourself in the mirror. Say it in a letter you'll never send or in a book millions might read someday. I think you deserve to look back on your life without a chorus of resounding voices saying 'I could've, but it's too late now.'

There is a time for silence. There is a time for waiting your turn. But if you know how you feel, and you so clearly know what you need to say, you'll know it.

I don't think you should wait. I think you should speak now.

It's so true. It's so crucial. And, yet, sometimes it's so, so hard to do.

go back to texas

2010-11-12T12:56:00.004-06:00

Okay, emo time is over. I re-read my post from yesterday and, boy, I can be sort of depressing when you get me going, can't I? Wowser. But the good news is now that the feelings are words, the words can be, well, erased. Just like that. And we (and by we I mean I) can move on already. From now on I'll try to save that craziness (when it does creep up) for my journal, thank you very much. Because, let's face it, no one wants to be friends with Debby Downer. Nobody.

So in other less dark, less depressing, less pity party for me, more normal news: my little brother is visiting from NYC this weekend! And while this is the same brother who co-authored and co-posted a note on my door to welcome me home from a trip to Dallas that read "Go Back to Texas" (proof below*)...

... after a couple years and now a bunch of miles between us, I cannot wait for him to visit. And the very best part of this weekend is not only is he visiting me, but we're also surprising my youngest brother by showing up at his last football game of the season.

I just love surprises. And I especially love them when someone else is in on the secret. Yes, yes, I know this surprise is likely not at the "Surprise! You're Publisher's Clearing House's next million dollar winner!" level, but I'll take what I can get, when I can get it.

Now, this isn't the first surprise my brother and I have gone in on together... In retrospect, my favorite probably has to be when we decided to take over cooking dinner for my mom one night and made Macaroni and Cheese along with a surprise salad. Bet you're dying to know the surprise, eh? Dum-dum suckers (still in their wrappers, mind you) hidden among the leaves in the salad bowl. Boy, aren't we something?

You know, the impending family weekend has me feeling all nostalgic about my brothers. About my mom dressing us up in coordinated outfits to get our pictures taken at Sears portrait studio. About playing Where in the World is Carmen San Diego and Jeopardy on our old Apple 2GS all summer long. About raking leaves into huge piles just to jump in them and have to rake them up again. About getting to unwrap just one present on Christmas Eve. About going back and cheering them on on their high-school (and then college) football fields.

It sort of amazing how you can go from telling on each other because someone didn't eat all of their peas at the dinner table (true story) and yelling at them to GET OUT! of your room to calling each other up to talk through a problem or tell a joke. It's like somewhere along the line you all of a sudden realize that your siblings actually are real people with real lives and real friends and real problems... They don't only exist within your familial frame of reference. And then you make this even better realization that they're actually pretty cool people at that. People you would want to spend time with, even if you weren't forced to around the Thanksgiving dinner table.

And as we grow up, spread out, get lives of our own and get further and further from those childhood memories we were sort of forced to have to together, I feel like it's more important than ever that they're not just my brothers, but my friends.

Even if they'd still sometimes rather have me just go back to Texas.

* Okay, okay. In their defense when you flipped the note over, the backside actually said "Lol** Welcome Home!". But still.
** Again in their defense, I think this note was written just around the time LOL was actually considered a cool, legitimate term to use. If it ever really was.

the dating game

2010-11-11T14:39:00.001-06:00

I try not to expose too much on here. Sure I'll give a sneak peak, but I tend to avoid the really big, really embarrassing, really personal things. After all, some people actually do read this (I'm still amazed they do) and there are just some things that a girl's gotta keep to herself. You know?

But lately my mind is filled to the brim with personal things. Filled up so much that there just doesn't seem to be room for the practical, productive things like remembering to call my dad back. Or order mustard on my sammie at Jimmy John's. Or write anything somewhat amusing or insightful on here. So I think I just need to make some room in the attic of my brain. And the only solution? Spring cleaning in the form of putting pen to paper (or in this case, fingers to keyboard). Because, after all, words don't ever seem quite as unmanageable as feelings and thoughts and emotions and stuff. So feel free to stop reading right now if you don't want to know me this well. (Honestly, Michael, if you want to maintain the pleasant notion that your big sister isn't actually a girl dealing with weird girlie emotions, stop.) Don't say I didn't warn you...

A couple weeks ago (after I spouted off some football stat a normal girl probably shouldn't know) one of my good friends said that she would totally date me if she were a guy. Which, I suppose, is flattering and a complement and all that jazz. But it made me realize a pretty sad truth: I don't think I would date me right now. No way. No how. Not going to happen. Just like Dr. Seuss, I wouldn't touch me with a 39 and a half foot pole.

Why not?

Because I push guys away. Good guys. Guys who ask me out on dates. Guys who pursue me. Guys who tell me I'm beautiful. Who think I'm amazing. Who bring me flowers when I've had a rough week. Who want to spend more time with me. Really good guys. I just ... push them away.

Because I'm selfish. I've gotten so used to living my life on my own that I run the risk of not knowing how to make room for someone else. Between the late nights at work. And the various intramural sports. And the girls nights out. And the times I just need to be alone for a bit. My schedule is full and I just haven't figured out how to make the time. I haven't wanted to figure it out.

Because I'm a girl who doesn't always have the ability - doesn't always have the emotional stability - to make the best decision between someone who could be right and someone who is right now.

Because I'm addicted to wanting what I can't have... And then it hits me like a ton of bricks. Brutally honest, enlightening bricks. Maybe it's not about wanting what I can't have. Maybe it's really because he believes, like I do, that I'm undateable. He thinks I'm pretty great. Apparently just not. quite. good. enough. (Gulp. Sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.) He's been validating my argument.

So what am I supposed to do with all that?

I guess I just have to continue. I have to go on dates. I have to make mistakes. Some big ones. Some littler ones. But I have to do it all with the best of intentions. And I absolutely have to believe that it's all leading somewhere. Even if it's taking me along the long, scenic route.

Because when it really comes down to it, I don't want to believe I'm a total lost cause. I want to believe in love and connection and soul-mates. And I want to believe it can actually exist for me. Not just for other people. I want to share inside jokes (and my spot on the couch) with someone. To find the smell of a certain guy that makes everything seem comfortable. Makes everything seem like it's going to be alright. I want to find someone who makes me actually want to make room in my life for more than a party of one.

Because as much as I don't think I'm dateable right now. I know deep down, with all my heart, that's just got to be untrue.

my dream catcher is full

2010-11-03T13:24:00.002-05:00

Last night I had a dream that I found a baby (a baby?) at Cedar Point. Said baby had no apparent parents anywhere nearby. No cute little basket it had been left in. No note. Nothing. So, naturally, I toted it around all day. And even though it made it rather difficult to ride some of the more intense roller coasters, I was sort of fond of that little guy by the end of the day (and the dream).

Toss and turn. Wake up. Check the alarm clock. Whew, it's only 12am. Back to sleep

Then I had a dream that from some reason I was walking around the 26th floor of my office building when I noticed some guy with a to-go bag from Chick-fil-a. Even my dreaming mind realized that this couldn't be possible. Chick-fil-a doesn't exist (yet) within the city of Chicago! But I retraced his path and, alas, there it was tucked away in this back corner, behind the elevators. It was like this little hidden gem! No more waiting until 2011 for a Chick-fil-a to open on Michigan Ave. It was here! Thank you, Chick-fil-a! (To which, of course, they'd have to respond "My pleasure". :))

Wake up with a start (and a strange mid-night craving for a chicken sandwich). Check the alarm clock. Whew, 3am. Back to sleep.

Then I drifted into a dream (possibly a nightmare) that my camera wasn't working. I kept trying to show people pictures from the weekend and nothing would show up in the screen. And just as I was in the middle of trying to show yet another person my pictures, I realized I was actually on a jet-ski on some tropical waters! Shawn was swimming around (welcome to my dream, Shawnee!) and all of a sudden dolphins started jumping right over her. What a great picture! But when I tried to take it, nothing! I couldn't capture it because of my broken camera. Such a bummer!

Wake up. Check the alarm clock. Whew, 5:30am. Realize I have to pee. Stumble to bathroom. Then climb back into the warm covers and back to sleep.

Luckily I can't remember any dreams after that.

So, dream interpreters out there, what do you think? If I had to make my best guess I'd say my mind is just filled with a lot right now. All these ideas, questions, concerns, unknowns, deadlines (and chicken sandwiches?) jumping up and down, using my brain as a trampoline. Or, perhaps, I need to stop doing LSD before bed each night. You know, either or.

disclaimer

2010-11-01T08:22:00.003-05:00

So, it turns out DST is actually next weekend.

It's always been the last Sunday in October. Until this year. When they decided to up and change it.

Just when a girl's getting the hang of it...

(Sigh.)

daylight savings time

2010-10-28T13:51:00.000-05:00

I hate time. And therefore I hate Daylight Savings Time. (I know, I know: you're not supposed to hate. So, I take that back. I strongly, strongly dislike Daylight Savings Time.)

Now don't get me wrong. I don't have anything against days and hours and years and what not. In fact, there's actually something nice about the individual units of time. An hour is always going to be 60 minutes long. A year is always going to be 365 days (unless, of course, it's a leap year ... but I'll let that slide). And the clock's always going to rest at 5 o'clock twice a day. I like that consistency. That dependability. You always know where you stand.

But I have big (HUGE!) problems with time when it starts to get all screwy. Time travel. Teleporting. Time Zones. Daylight Savings Time. They all have the tendency to make my head start to spaz out. I can't seem to make sense of it all... I get the basics. I get that Fort Wayne is an hour ahead of us. I get that when it's 9pm here, it's 10pm there (and probably too late to call my parents). But what happens when I drive from Chicago back home? Do I lose an hour or do a gain an hour? And where exactly does that take place?

It probably goes without saying that I didn't make it past the 4th chapter of The Time Traveler's Wife, I could barely even watch the preview for the movie "Jumper" and I become a complete imbecile whenever Brooke tries to explain the "The Lake House" to me. (I mean why couldn't Keanu just tell Sandra where he was 2 years ago so they would run into other!? Ahhh, I just don't get it!) It's like I wasn't built with the part of my brain responsible for the understanding of temporal relations. (Or the part responsible for phonics either, but that's an entirely different issue for a different day.)

Maybe it's because I grew up in Indiana. Up until a few years ago the state had only a few weirdo counties that practiced Daylight Savings Time. Luckily mine wasn't one of them. So I thought it was completely normal to sometimes be on time with my grandma in Cleveland and the rest of the year with my grandparents in St. Louis. I got used to TGIF coming on at 8 o'clock for half of the year and 7 o'clock for the other. Because 2am was always 2am in Fort Wayne. And because I? I was always on the same time. Time made sense and life was good.

But then I moved to Chicago and everything changed. Now I have to deal with Daylight Savings Time. Now I have to change my clocks twice a year. Now I have to "spring forward" and "fall back". And actually grasp what those clever reminders are telling me to do! (I still don't know what exactly happens. Does 2am become 1am? Or does 2am become 3am?)

And what's worse; everyone acts like it's no big deal! It's like all of a sudden DST is here and everyone just knows what to do. Everyone, that is, except for me. I'm waiting for the news flash. The public service announcement letting me know it's coming and walking me through, step by step, what exactly I'll need to do. I'm waiting for someone (anyone!) to acknowledge that this is the most bizarre thing in the world.

Geesh.

Wish me and my poor clocks luck this weekend as we fall behind. Whatever that means...

preview to a post

2010-10-28T12:35:00.002-05:00

This g-chat conversation only helps prove the point I'm about to make in my next post ....

me: what was the tv show that always used to be so hard for me to understand (because it was about time) or maybe it was a movie?

Brooke: the lakehouse hahahahahahahha

me: ohhhh yes!!!! that darn movie

Brooke: that movie was a total mess for you

me: hahaha

Brooke: haha what made you think of that?

me: writing a post about daylight savings time

Brooke: oooh my.... this should be interesting hahahahahaha

Brooke: how can you write about something you dont get? hahaha

me: honestly, i'm sort of getting work up about it just writing it
Brooke: hahahahahaha

I rest my case before I even post.

fashionista

2010-10-27T15:44:00.007-05:00

I always get a kick out of it when technology has recommendations for me based on what it thinks it knows about me, my purchases, my on-site browsing, etc. For instance, when iTunes recommends Kanye West, the soundtrack from Shrek the Musical, Frank Sinatra and Carrie Underwood in the same sentence. I mean, what kind of sporadic person would listen to all of that? Oh, wait, let me check my iPod. Ehhh. Looks like iTunes may know me better than I thought.

So maybe sometimes they know what they're doing.

But then sometimes I log into ebay and am greeted by these recommendations:

I don't know what's worse. The fact that they think I may be in the market for some old school Air Force Ones. That they think I would wear a shirt that features a bride and groom with the slogan "Game Over". That I would rock a Kenny Powers jersey. Or that they have made these recommendations based on my past "fashion purchases". Ouch.

Now I'll admit may have purchased a pair of soccer cleats and a vintage Indianapolis Colts t-shirt in the past month or so. But the fact that ebay thinks this means my fashion sense is in line with an orange tuxedo t-shirt is just unsettling.

I sure hope I have a better sense of style than ebay thinks I do. Or else, I think I may have discovered the reason I'm still single.

geography lesson

2010-10-22T14:11:00.002-05:00

I had an interview last week. At another advertising agency. In Boston.

It's a great opportunity. It's a promotion. It's for a great client... And it's in Boston. (Which, even for me - a birdbrain when it comes to geography - is clearly not Chicago.)

Now I tend to talk a big game about being willing to take risks. About not being afraid to try something new, even when success isn't promised. About jumping and hoping the net will appear... Blah, blah, blah. But when push comes to shove, I'm not really living it.

The interview went really well. The opportunity seems really exciting. And yet I emailed them first thing Monday morning to tell them that while I appreciate the consideration, I just don't think I'm at a point where I'm ready to leave Chicago. The timing's just not right.

Oh, I justify it to myself by saving that I love this city. That I absolutely love the group of friends I have here. I love knowing that every spring and fall, the flag football team will come together again. And that every Thursday night, some conglomeration of us will be at Durkin's. That every summer we'll inevitably have a fair share of bbqs and Saturdays in Wrigley and weekends at the beach. That every fall, we'll plan a couple Sunday Fundays to cheer on our respective teams. I love knowing that I can walk less than half a mile in any direction and end up at the door of someone I know. That any time I want to go out - be it Tuesday or Saturday - I won't have any trouble finding someone to join. And that the same can be said any time I want to stay in with a cheesy movie and a glass (or, let's be honest, bottle) of wine on a Friday night.

I couldn't be happier. Really.

There's a comfort in knowing these things. In being surrounded by the familiar. And yet, part of me yearns for the unknown. Wonders if I could make it in another city. If I could start over again. If I'd be able to reconstruct a life just as great as I think this one is. If there's something out there that may be better for me. If there's something I'm missing.

But when it comes down to it and an opportunity presents itself, I clam up. I get, well, scared. Scared about the unknown? Maybe a little. Scared about leaving what I have here in Chicago? You betcha. So scared. I know eventually more and more people will start moving on and moving away and it won't be the same here. But for the moment, I'm trying to keep this going as long as I can. And I guess I don't want to be the one to make it end for myself. At least not right now.

So, I'm not 'jumping' quite yet. But I don't think that'll stop my wondering about what it would be like if I did.

and guest

2010-10-17T22:48:00.001-05:00

After being single for the better part (and by the better part, I mean all) of my 27 years, there are a couple things I've come to appreciate:

being approached by that really good looking guy at the bar
finding out that the aforementioned guy actually has a personality and a sense of humor
the excitement of a first date and .... maybe, just maybe, a first kiss
the way your heart gets to fluttering when your "crush" is around
actually being able to have things like crushes, even if your married/dating friends tend to role their eyes at you like you're a 14-year-old girl when you use that phrase
not having to worry about compromising your plans for some guy (okay, maybe that's me being plain old just selfish)

But there are few things that have a tendency to stop me in my "I love being single" tracks like:

realizing 10 minutes into a date that I'm never going to like this guy and having to put on my best smile and politely laugh at his stories for the next hour
constantly having to answer the question "are you dating anyone?" every time you run into someone you haven't seen in a while
and the grand-daddy of them all, the "and guest" invitation

You know, after a certain amount of time, you become accustomed to replying sans guest, the mash-up singles table, the awkward let's-point-out-all-the-single-girls bouquet toss and the embarrassment of finding yourself alone in the center of the dance floor while all the couples pair up as the DJ switches from "Baby Got Back" to "Wonderful Tonight". Thanks, Mr. Clapton, but I'm not exactly feeling all that wonderful right now.

And it's at that very moment (even more so than during the actual wedding itself) when I usually feel the thumping in my heart that tells me as great as being single is, it would be awfully nice to always know who you're going to slow dance with. To not have to worry ever again about being the cheese, standing out there alone.

So, yeah, having an "and guest" might be kind of nice.

But I think I may have found the absolute next best thing. It's not just having one guest, it's having two of them! It's 3 single friends (okay, make that 2 single and 1 friend with an MIA boyfriend) having the absolute greatest time, dancing and singing and just being a little nuts. It's couples and singles and everyone in between interlocking arms in a giant circle, belting out every word to "American Girl". And no one feeling left out. No one feeling like they're missing a plus one. It's being able to turn in any direction and find the hand of a guy friend to spin you around. And no one standing stranded on the dance floor as "Unchained Melody" oozes out the speakers. It's remembering, again, another reason why being single is so great: you get to have a handful of significant others in the form of your closest friends. You're not just tied to one!

So from here on out, I welcome the "and guest". Because maybe one day I'll actually have a guest to invite. Or maybe I'll get lucky again and end up with another "plus two" like this weekend. And if not? Well then there's always the chance of a hot groomsman. Or usher. Or cousin. Right?

Editors Note: This revelation is only possible because of this weekend's nuptials of one of the greatest couples I'm lucky enough to know. As a perpetually single gal, sometimes it's easy to get down on love and think that maybe, just maybe, this notion of soul mates and true love and falling is just a thing of fairytales and Hollywood movies. And then I look at a couple like Dana and Jon and I can't help but believe in it all. So, thank you.

sigh, the potatoes

2010-10-14T11:53:00.002-05:00

Email from Jules. 10:50am:

gals - i have bad news - like, REALLY bad news

I just called Dunlays - and they do NOT serve the POTATOES on fridays :( only on the wekeends - can you believe it!?!?!?

they do still have some of the items he said, like the fried egg sandwich.......

Reply from Shawnee. 11:18am:

so after experiencing the 4 stages of grief:

1) denial: scoured the online menu for some indication that the dunlay's host julie talked to is an idiot and simply mistaken

2) anger: why would they EVER think its ok to only offer brunch and those potatoes (SIGH, THE POTATOES) TWO DAYS A WEEK?!!?!?!?

3) depression: oh how my stomach cried

4) and finally, acceptance: fine. i'll believe it.

julie and i gchatted and decided alas, we'll just have to take our business elsewhere!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! below are some options:

1) nookies: always a fave!!!

2) wishbone: delish!!!

3) elly's pancake house: this place at north and clark that serves brunch 24/7 (DUNLAY'S, PLEASE REFER TO THEM FOR ADVICE) that is also really yummy!!!!!!!!!

thoughts on these options LADIES!?!?!!?!?!??!??!?!?

File this under why I love my friends and think they're the absolute best in the whole entire world. Granted, I'm partial. But if you met them, I think you'd agree.

a bugs life

2010-10-14T09:50:00.003-05:00

I pinky-promise that this is the last post that will have anything to do with my new apartment. Because a) I want you to have believe that I may indeed have a life outside of moving, organizing and my new apartment and b) let's face it, in about 2 weeks we'll be a month into our lease and I don't even think it can be classified as "new" anymore after that. But for today, humor me by allowing me to tell one more story, deal? Deal.

So there's two things I may or may not have mentioned about the new place: 1) It has this great exposed brick wall that runs from the living room into my bedroom and 2) it's an "English garden unit". (Note: this is apparently the term for a garden unit that isn't actually underground, but I'm convinced it's just the fancy pants Realtor way of saying bottom level.) Both of these things are quite all right with me. The former adds a ton of charm and character and the latter made it a whole lot easier to get my over-sized couch actually in our living room vs. left in our backyard. However ..... I'm starting to think that the combination of these two things makes for some unwelcome visitors of the creepy crawler kind. Now, don't get me wrong. I can handle a spider here or there. And I have no problem swatting at the occasional bug. But when I encounter two (two!) in one morning, even I, the aforementioned almighty bug-slayer have had enough!

The first encounter happen while I was in the shower this morning, minding my own business. As I squirted a healthy amount of body wash on my loofah and got ready to suds up, I noticed a peeping Tom, in the form of a little centipede-like creature, staring up at me from the loofah-top. Excuse me, buddy! Please keep your eyes to yourself! After throwing the loofah to the ground I stomped on it and thoroughly drenched it with the faucet. Score? Me:1 Bugs: 0.

But then as I walked back into my bedroom, I saw a grand-daddy centipede like this:

crawling around on my white bed sheets right where my head had been not 15 minutes earlier! This I am not okay with at all. So I grabbed my nearest flip-flop and went into full on attack mode, chasing this pesky guy around the head of my bed. When I finally had a decent angle, I took a home-run worthy crack at him and sighed with relief... Only to lift up the flip-flop and find a couple crippled legs where a full bug body should have been. What!? I pulled out the bed. Searched the sheets. Torn the space apart. And still I could not find the rightful owner of those disguarded legs. Now, coming from someone who spent the entire summer with only half of her legs available, I know it's not ideal. But if I could figure out how to get around quickly on one leg, I have no doubt that this guy certainly can manage on the ten he has left! Score? Me: 1 Bugs: 1. Ugh.

And now all I can think about is this still-living centipede making himself comfortable in my sheets. I'm having visions of waking up to him just hanging out on my nose. To him crawling over my legs in the middle of the night. Ewwww. Major heebie jeebies.

So I guess this is as good a reason as any to take a couple shots at the bar after flag football tonight so that I come home and carelessly pass out instead of flinching every 7 seconds as I try to fall asleep because I think I feel something crawling on me.

Wish me luck.

p.s. I've decided that while I'd like to keep my title as the almighty bug-slayer against all things crawling or flying around the house, I would be more than happy to never encounter another centipede (and their scurrying little legs) again. Ever. But don't worry, in an attempt to calm my fears, good ol' Wikipedia let me know that they are "non-aggressive, and are generally considered harmless to humans. In fact, in Japan they are considered a useful species, as they prey on a number of disease-carrying and destructive insects." As if this makes me feel remotely better about them!? I don't care how harmless they are to humans, I do not want them snuggling with me in bed. No sirree Bob.

news flash

2010-10-13T08:47:00.004-05:00

An email from my mom last night:

Re: News Flash

There's a big party planned tonight for the trapped miners in Chile. When they get out, there will be lots of food and music and friends, but no alcohol...

Why? .....

Wait for it .....

Because they can't serve miners! :)

You know what they say; the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

new apartment resolutions

2010-10-05T19:54:00.002-05:00

I love New Year's resolutions. I mean really love love 'em. It's really a shame that they only come around once a year. . . but then I wondered why does that have to be the rule? Isn't it more about a starting over anyway? January 1st just seems like the best time to do this. But I, for one, am looking for any excuse to make a list of things to try. Things to be better at. Things to accomplish. So I? I am making my New Apartment Resolutions. Because now seems like as good a time as any. And, basically, because I can. Here we go.

I'm going to be more responsible with my money. I will put down that adorable sweater at The Gap that I "just can't live without" and I will walk away. I repeat. I will walk away. Even if it's on sale.

I'm going to travel more. (Which I realize may fly a bit in the face of my aforementioned resolution, but I'd argue that a trip to Greece - or even to visit Lynnie in D.C - is a much more responsible decision than a shopping spree at Niketown. Even if I think those new kicks will increase my mile time by a couple seconds.)

I'm going to learn how to make coffee in a real, live coffee pot. I'm determined to. I wish this was a joke, but unfortunately it's not. I'm 27 and don't know how to make coffee. (I guess this means I was one of the lucky ones who actually learned something during their summer internship beyond making photocopies and cleaning out the coffee pot.)

I'm going to plan a little less. Live in the moment a little more. (Deep breath.) I'm looking at you, to-do list.

I'm going to floss everyday. Every. Single. Day. I'm always so good for the first couples weeks after visiting the dentist, but somewhere it becomes less and less of a daily occurrence. Which, let's face it, is just plain icky.

I'm going to learn how to golf. Now, granted, this has been on this resolution list before, but a pesky little spiral fracture got in the way of my lessons. And after a somewhat embarrassing 18 holes at a work event in August, I'm even more determined.

I'm going to stop picking every single scab on my body. (Gross, I know, but I can't help it!) I tend to fall more than the average person. Which leads to a more than average number of scabs and, eventually, scars. As I've said before, healing is a pretty amazing process. That is, if you actually let it happen.

I'm going to allow myself to not have it all figured out. To fail. To not have the answer. Instead of always beating myself up about it. I think this is one of the worst parts about me. Having perfectionist tendencies does a person well when it comes to things like resumes and job interviews. But it's not practical for the real world. Failure is not something to be feared. It's something to be learned from. Now, I've just got to convince myself to believe that.

So, that's it for now. New apartment. New Apartment resolutions. (Hopefully) a new-and-improved me in the near future.

Now if my new kitchen table would just be delivered, I'd be all set.

first impressions

2010-09-29T15:09:00.005-05:00

This past Saturday a couple girlfriends and I went out to a yummy pizza dinner then stopped by a nearby bar to drink our desert before heading over to the house party next on our agenda. (It's better to be fashionably late to these things anyway, right?) As we sat enjoying our little impromptu girls night out, we were approached by a guy with more than his fair share of questions and comments. Our favorite of which had to be the point where he decided to go around the table and let us know, from his limited observations alone, what kind of girl each of us was.

Now, we've all been told that first impressions are lasting. But I wonder, do first impressions lie? Do first impressions even start to chip away at who we really are? And, if not, how can we be sure that the person we're conveying to the outside world is who we, at our very best, hope to be?

Here were his impressions:

1. You're the relationship girl. You're all-American; someone a guy can take home to his mom. Plus, you have a really nice complexion.
2. You're in it to win it. You're ready to have fun. You're down for Sunday funday any time. And you're probably the girl that will go home with a guy on the first night.
3. You're the ring leader. You watch out for the group and don't let people mess with your friends. This is not the girl you mess with. Plus, you have great teeth and great dimples.
4. You're the secret ninja. You're always scoping out the scene, wondering what's going on. Plus, you've got great lips and a great tongue (editors note: what!? seriously, I can't make this up!). I've wanted to kiss you since I saw you.
5. No offense girls, but she's the best in bed. You're in it to win it (editors note: must have been his phrase of the day) in the sheets. I mean, this girl knows what to do.

I'll leave it up to you to decide (ala SAT's matching question format) which of the following 5 of us matches each first impression...

a. Brooke
b. Julie
c. Kadie
d. Liz
e. Shawn

...but I will tell you this: I seriously hope I'm giving off a different first impression to the general public than I did to this one guy.

i see london, i see france

2010-09-22T15:59:00.002-05:00

After a morning of client meetings involving slightly raised voices and enough corporate politics to make your head spin, everything was just feeling a bit nutty. Sure, I was feeling competent, accomplished, bright(!) and altogether pretty professional, but something just felt off. I drove back into the office, sat down at my desk, stared at my computer and realized that somewhere along the line I had officially become a businesswoman. Phrases like "per our conversation" and "I just wanted to touch base on" and "sell-in strategy" roll off my tongue without a second thought. I'm drinking real coffee (instead of coffee-like beverages from Starbucks) on a pretty regular bases. If I'm away from my Blackberry for more than 20 minutes, I start to have slight anxiety attacks. I wear comfy shoes commuting to and from the office and slip into my heels when it's time for real work. Ugh. It's official.

Well fast-forward to me running to the ladies' room just a couple minutes ago. In the back of my mind I'm still thinking about this whole 'Businesswoman Liz'. Part of me is getting a sort of kick out of how far I've come. Part of me wishes I could make it stop. And then I look down to see that somewhere in between the early-morning gym and the shower and the sensible, grown-up breakfast and the final preparations on the deck for this morning's meeting I had put my underwear on inside-out! Are you kidding me? So much for being a professional adult. Last time I checked, kids learn to dress themselves around age 4.

And yet it made me think.

While professional me can take pride in the fact that I can walk the business walk and talk the business talk, real me can laugh at the fact that underneath it all I still may not have it all together. And you know what? I feel like that's just the perfect balance for me right now.

who i'd be

2010-09-20T21:08:00.002-05:00

I still remember that Spring afternoon in 2001 when I drove straight from the high-school parking lot to my dad's office after school let out. Despite the uneasiness in my head and the thumping in my chest, I calmly shut the door and managed to somewhat cohesively explain to my dad that I didn't want to go to any of the colleges I had applied to. I didn't want to go to any of the colleges I had visited. (I mean Ball State has side walk signs that actually chirp like cardinals when it's time to walk! Geesh!) I didn't want to go to any of the colleges that had offered me scholarships. I wanted to go to IU. Yes, the same IU that my father had - over and over again - tried to convince me to apply to even if just as a back-up. Yes, the same IU that I insisted I didn't want anything to do with as little as a month earlier. Yes, the same IU that had closed it's admissions a couple weeks before. That IU. That was the one. The college that I was absolutely convinced I was supposed to go to. My dad, being the amazing amazing father that he was and is, talked it out with me. Asked me all the right questions to make sure this was real and not some new crazy idea of mine inspired by 7th period study hall boredom. And finally agreed that, if this is what I wanted, he would support me 100%.

And so I became a Hoosier.

Then there was the day during my Senior year of college when my brother committed to Columbia University. My Columbia University. I was happy for him. I was. And extremely proud. But I was also a little jealous. I couldn't help it. Not 5 years earlier Columbia had been my dream, but I was told that we wouldn't be able to afford it. That it wasn't an option for me. It's hard at age 17 to hear that a dream isn't a option. Heck, it's hard at age 27 for that matter. But some how it worked out for him. So he went and lived in New York City. In my dream. And I only visited.

If something would have gone differently, I could have been a Columbia Lion. And yet I was a Hoosier.

Then there was the past weekend when I visited East Lansing for the Michigan State vs. Notre Dame game. After a jam-packed weekend of tailgating, college festivities and eating awful (but oh so wonderful) college food I wondered what it would have been like if I had gone to Michigan State. It's a really charming campus, the football team is sure more entertaining than IU's and green is a much better color on me than red.

If something would have gone differently, I could have been a Spartan. And yet I was a Hoosier.

I get sort of sentimental when I think back to my years at Indiana. I think back to my freshman year when I had absolutely no clue what to expect. No clue what was in store for me. No clue who I would become over the next 4 years. I think back to sophomore year when I moved into this wonderfully nutty place called Delta Zeta and learned how to live with 130 other girls. I think back to junior year when I was pulling all-nighters in the library with a Polar Pop to keep me going. When I was balancing a million things just hoping to keep my head above water. I think about senior year when we lived on Hunter Ave and fought off the bats in our attic. When we spent Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday night hoping in and out of the bars along Kirkwood. And when, just as I seemed to finally really truly appreciate it all, it was time to leave.

It’s so crazy to think of just how far I have come since that Spring afternoon in 2001. If even one little thing would have gone a different way, I could have ended up any of those colleges I received acceptance letters from. I could have ended up in NYC. Or East Lansing. Or anywhere, really.

And yet I was a Hoosier.

And you know what? If I could go back, I wouldn’t do anything differently. Not a thing. Because if I did, I might not be where or who I am today.

But it's always fun to wonder what if.

multiple definitions

2010-09-14T12:10:00.002-05:00

Overheard at Starbucks . . .

Girl barista: A date is a pre-planned occasion to spend time together and learn more about each other.

Guy barista (er, baristo?) #1: A date is shelling out some cash and hoping to get to make out at the end of the night.

Guy barista #2: A date is spending enough time with a girl to figure out whether or not she's crazy.

You decide who's right.

peter pan

2010-09-12T21:13:00.001-05:00

There are times when I feel like I may actually be, despite my best efforts not to fall into that trap, a real grown-up making real grown-up decisions, dealing with real grown-up issues and making real grown-up purchases (note: my brand new super deep, super comfy couch). And I have to admit, it's a little intimidating. When did I become an adult and what can I do to make it stop?

Then there are times where my trip to Target results in this. . .

A 12-pack of Bud Light, a bottle of Andre and a pair of leg warmers.

And I realize that I still have a lot of growing up to do.

Thank goodness.

the heeling process

2010-09-09T00:50:00.001-05:00

I'm absolutely blown away at the process of healing. How, within a span of 9 weeks, you can go from hurt to healed. Broken to whole. Damaged to repaired. With little remnants to remind you that you were ever injured in the first place. How, with a little time, your body does all this healing on it's own! It's pretty darn amazing if you stop to think about it.

Not only am I feeling healed, but I actually wore heels for the first time this week! And that, my friends, feels like a victory.

If anything, this process has taught me to appreciate the little things. Graduating from a crutches to a walking boot. Walking on my own two feet again. Being able to walk down stairs normally. As much as I wanted all that to happen within the first week, I had to accept the fact that it was going to take longer. And so the last 2 months made me take a step back. Slow down for a second. It certainly wasn't a lesson that I embraced all that willingly, but I can only hope that I learned something because of it. That I've come away a little stronger. A little more appreciative of the little things I took for granted before.

I may not be back to 15 mile runs quite yet, but I'm back in 4 inch heels. So, it's a good week.

i'm falling

2010-09-02T11:49:00.005-05:00

Pumpkin Spice lattes are back at Starbucks (yum!) . . . College football is kicking off . . . It's dark and rainy and overall pretty crummy outside today . . . It's September 2nd.

It's officially FALL.

And I couldn't be happier.

it's just lunch

2010-08-25T13:17:00.005-05:00

I'm in the process of selling some extra Carrie Underwood Ravinia tickets on Craigslist and had planned to meet Amy, one of my buyers, outside of the Wrigley building at noon today to exchange my ticket for her mula. Simple enough, right?

Wrong.

At about 5 minutes til noon (what? I'm always early) I text Amy to let her know where I'm standing and that I'm wearing a black short-sleeved dress (at which point I feel like I should tell her I'll be holding a red rose, you know, just to see if she has a sense of humor) . . . Well, about 10 minutes go by and there's no response from Amy. No problem, it's a nice day! I'll just take advantage of this excuse to stand outside and enjoy the nearly perfect weather.

Then possibly one of the top 10 most random/awkward situations happens. I would try to summarize it, but I don't think I could even start to do it justice. So, here's how the situation played out:

Scene opens with Liz standing outside the Wrigley building, catching up on a couple emails on her Blackberry, soaking up the nice weather, waiting for Amy to show up. Between writing emails Liz looks up to take a quick survey of the surroundings in case Amy forgot to bring her phone with her and now has no way of finding Liz.

Mid-email, Liz senses someone approaching.

Guy: Hi. Are you Liz?

Liz: Yes . . .

Guy: It's so nice to meet you in person.

Liz: . . . Yes, you too (?) (What! In the same way that you instinctively say 'bless you' after a sneeze, it just came out without me even thinking!)

Liz tries to process the situation and quickly assumes that Amy must be stuck in a meeting and have sent a co-worker/friend to get the ticket for her. I mean it's the only reasonable explanation, right?

Wrong.

Guy: Wow, you're really beautiful in person. I almost didn't recognize you.

Liz thinks to herself "Recognize me?" and realizes something isn't quite right.

Liz: Wait, are you friends with Amy?

Guy: Wait, you're not Liz from eharmony are you?

Lightbulbs go off!

Liz laughs. (But with him, not at him, I promise.)

Liz: No, I'm sorry. I'm actually waiting for a girl named Amy to sell her a concert ticket. I thought maybe she had sent you instead. Especially since you knew my name was Liz. . .

Liz laughs again. Because, really? what else can you do at this point? This is hilarious!

Guy: Oh, wow. Ummm. I'm so sorry. I'm really embarassed. Errr. I'm just going to go back and stand over there and act like this didn't happen.

Liz: Gosh, don't worry about it! This is funny! You just made my day! And, on the bright side, at least you have a really really great story to tell Liz when she does show up!

Guy: Ummm. Yeah. Ahhh. Good luck with the ticket.

Liz: Good luck with Liz!

Liz and Guy proceed to wait for Amy and Liz, respectively, for a couple minutes when, suddenly, the real Liz appears! (Editors note: while Liz and Liz have sort of similar hair colors, their similarities end there. Liz wonders how Guy ever confused her for other Liz.)

Liz pretends not to be listening, but hears Guy tell Liz about the earlier snafu. Both Lizs look up at each other and smile. Liz (me Liz, gosh! this is getting confusing!) waves awkwardly and tells the couple 'good luck'.

End Scene.

Eventually, Guy and Liz walk away to what I pretty confidently am assuming was their first date, Amy shows up, the deal goes down and I head back to work. (Of course I had to tell her the story before letting her leave!)

And I can't help but hope that this Guy and Liz really hit it off and eventually fall in love. I hope at their wedding reception Guy gets up and tells the story about how he met the right girl. How he met the right Liz. Everyone will chuckle and comment on what a great story that'll make for their grandkids. And they live happily ever after.

I mean could this story be any better?

Well, I suppose he could have been incredibly good looking and decided that Liz (me!) was who he'd rather be meeting! Gotten my number and had lunch with that Liz and dinner with this Liz. And our grandchildren could hear this great story someday.

But, I digress.

fantasy football

2010-08-23T17:26:00.002-05:00

Now, don't get me wrong, I take the selection of my fantasy football team pretty seriously. As a past fantasy football champion (yes, I'm bragging), I have a lot of pride on the line. And, despite my inability to secure a running back that amounts to anything consistent or to ever be in a position to draft Peyton Manning, I like to think that I know what it takes to draft a winning team. However, as I gear up for draft day (8pm CST this Sunday for my all girls league), I've decided to put together the ultimate fantasy football team. For this team, players are judged on their overall appearance just as much, if not more so, as they're judged on their athletic ability. And, come to think of it, my fantasy football team name (2 Addai 4) seems to be the best way to sum up this team. Because with their good looks and athletic prowess, these boys are certainly to die for.

Adrian Peterson - Running Back - Other than Chris Johnson, AP rightfully finds himself on the top of most fantasy draft picks. Plus, have you seen him run in slow motion!?. Talk about muscle definition. Good looking and able to single-handedly crush most NFL defenses? That, my friends, is a true fantasy pick.

Reggie Bush - Running Back - Anyone who has the ability to distract some attention from a teammate as good looking as Matt Leinart deserves to make it on this team. Since USC, Bush has gone on to win a Super Bowl ring and Leinart has a handful of less-than-sober-looking pictures of himself in a Jersey Shore-inspired hot tub scene floating around the internet. Clearly, Reggie did something right. Plus, the boy's got a killer smile and, when completely healthy, can juke a tackle like nobody's business. He may be a risky actual fantasy team draft pick, but for this team, he's a shoe-in.

Miles Austin - Wide Receiver - Gosh, two Kardashian boyfriends on one team! I didn't intend that, but Kim sure knows how to snag a good looking football player. I'll give the girl that. He racks up yards and has a smile that could make most girls swoon. Basically, he's smokin' hot on and off the field.

Wes Welker - Wide Receiver - He's on the shorter side and he spent a significant amount of time injured last season. But he's one of the most consistent receivers in the league. A go-to guy in the Patriots offense. And you can't argue with blue-green eyes like his when it comes to this fantasy team.

Hank Baskett - Wide Receiver (honorable mention) - I'll admit it, I'm a big fan of Kendra. So, after watching a couple seasons of the show, I feel like I actually know Hank. He's charming and genuine and little Hank is adorable. (Which has to, at least in part, be attributed to Hank's great genes.) But I cannot and will not actually draft Hank for this team after the great onside kick debate of Super Bowl XLIV.Yes, it's just one play. And one single play does not make or break a game. But the Colts were never the same after that play. At that moment, they were defeated. And I blame Hank. But, gosh, little Hank has got to be the cutest football baby I've ever seen. For that, Hank gets a mention.

Tom Brady - Quarterback - As if there was any question. He's got 3 Super Bowl rings, 2 Super Bowl MVPS and the greatest chin dimple I've ever seen. I'll just let this picture do the talking. . .

Jason Witten - Tight End - Hands down my favorite player in the league. (Okay, that's not entirely true. But he's a close 3rd to Peyton Manning and Bob Sanders.) Witten has, in my mind, the absolute ideal build. Tall. Strong. Not too juiced-up or too defined. And when he's not wearing a helmet, he can usually be found in a backwards baseball cap, to boot! Witten is by far the captain of my fantasy football team. (Sigh!)

Adam Vinatieri - Kicker - Vinatieri looks like he belongs in a business suit instead of a uniform, but when the game's on the line he's Mr. Clutch. It doesn't get much better than that.

And a couple defensive guys to round out the roster . . .

Dwight Freeney - Defensive End - One of the most stylish guys in the NFL and one of the most threatening to opposing QB's. Plus, he just happens to play for the best team in the league. Check, check and check.

Will Demps - Safety - He's a little more GQ than NFL, but oh my, that skin. That smile. Those abs.

Okay, okay. This is arguably about the girliest you can get when it comes to football. So, sure, you can laugh now. But I'll be the one laughing when my real fantasy team (as if I'd reveal my strategy for that one) brings home the championship this season.

Let the fantasy games begin!

cuckoo for lulu

2010-08-18T20:20:00.003-05:00

I finally caved in.

I've been holding out ever since it moved into town. Ever since it opened it doors onto Halsted Ave. and started tempting me with it's butt-hugging pants and electric yellow sports bras. Ever since I saw those red totes all over town. A store that combines athletics and fashion? I think I've died and gone to heaven.

Yet, somehow, by my own better judgement and self-control, I had resisted. (Sometimes, I surprise myself.)

But then the two greatest brothers in the world gave me a lululemon gift card for my birthday. I now had the excuse I always needed to dip my toe in the water. To walk through those doors and flip through the racks. I knew myself. I knew once I started browsing, I'd never stop. I knew no price tag would seem too high when I found the perfect pair of running pants. I knew I should have brought in the gift card and nothing else. No credit. No debit. No cash. No checkbook. Just the gift card. I knew better. But I just didn't know how bad (slash wonderful!) it would actually be.

$208 later I walked away from my first lululemon experience. Hey, it could have been much much worse. I reluctantly (after much internal deliberation between the bad angel on my left shoulder and the good angel on my right shoulder) had put back two $54 tank tops. I had even resisted the $28 leg warmers, which sounds much easier than it actually was mind you. And I has passed up the $98 neon yellow nylon gym bag that I couldn't help but stare at the entire time I was waiting in line. I had been good! And yet, I ended up spending twice what I went in there to spend.

The immediate damage to my bank account tonight isn't nearly as bad as the impending future damage this store is bound to cause. I'm still longing for those two tank tops that got away. I'm still trying to find a way to justify leg warmers in 2010. I'm hooked. Hook, line and sinker.

lululemon will eventually be the financial death of me. I guarantee it.

But at least I'll go out in a fitness fashionable way.

scary, but true

2010-08-17T10:58:00.000-05:00

“Nobody knows what’s wrong with themselves and everyone else can see it right away.”

- from last week's episode of Mad Men

movin' on up

2010-08-13T11:15:00.002-05:00

Somehow 'find a new apartment' has landed on my annual to-do list ever since moving to Chicago. It's right up there with attempting to figure out New Years Eve plans that will accommodate all my friends, a nasty case of strep throat, renewing my city parking sticker, filling out my income taxes and (sorry, guys) the dreaded trip to the ladies doctor on the list of things that happen once I year whether I like it or not. It's not that I necessarily intend it to be that way, but rather it's just a reality of being twenty-something and living in a big city. Regardless, except for that two-year stint that B-Trice and I did on Dayton (which I only attribute to it's huge closets and the fact that it just so happened to be within stumbling distance of our favorite bar of all, Durkin's), every year we're searching Craigslist, viewing endless dumps, finally finding a place we like, hiring movers, packing up all our shit, trying to negotiate with RCN on a better rate, sweating as we transport box after box and then making sure that we have every little thing put away and every picture hung within 24 hours of move-in. (That last one I blame on my type-A personalty and obsession with organizing.) Then, whew!, we fall in love with our new place. At least for 12 months, until life throws a curve-ball and the cycle starts again.

Well, like clockwork, moving day is approaching again. Only this time, my cousin so rudely scheduled her wedding day on October 2nd. The very day after we move into our new place! And not only that, but she had the audacity to fall in love with a guy from Neenah, Wisconsin. Not somewhere convenient for me like Chicago. So, yes, I am very very happy for my cousin and her approaching life of wedded bliss. But at the moment, I'm just feel cranky because I have to drive up to meet my family in Milwaukee on Friday night so that we can make it to Neenah in time for all the festivities on Saturday. How in the world am I supposed to concentrate during the vows and dance the night away during the reception when all I'm going to be thinking about are all the boxes that are still fully packed up? All of the walls that are still bare? All of the things I could be putting away? Arrgggghh.

Life is so cruel, isn't it?

weather or not

2010-08-12T15:01:00.002-05:00

I'm addicted to weather.com. Addicted. Against my own better judgment, I constantly feel the need to look up the 10 day forecast or, better yet, the hourly forecast. (Eeee! What could be better than knowing the exact temperature and chance of showers for every single hour in the foreseeable future!) Despite the fact that time after time, weather.com let's me down. Gives me bad information. Leaves me ill-dressed for my 8:30pm flag football game. Causes me to tote around an umbrella in my purse all day for no reason. Or, worse even, leave my umbrella at home in the morning only to get drenched on the walk from the El at the end of the day. I just keep coming back. Weather.com never fails to fail me. But yet, I can't get enough of it.

I wonder if sometimes we don't get addicted to being told half-truths. Addicted to being let down. Addicted to disappointment. Or maybe just addicted to the possibility, however small, that this time will be different.

For what it's worth, it's supposed to be 88° F with a 10% chance of precipitation at 6pm tomorrow. I should learn from my mistakes and bring an umbrella just in case. But something tells me I won't.

hope floats

2010-08-11T12:47:00.000-05:00

There aren't many things that I look to the Detroit Lions for beyond losing and roster instability. And I wouldn't consider head coach, Jim Schwartz, to be a regular beacon of knowledge. Now, I realize that's probably unfair, but if you ask me, anyone taking the head coaching position with an organization as messed up as the Lions either has a God-like complex, believing he can turn things around, or may be just a little crazy. Either way, I don't usually look to Schwartz, or anyone connected to the Lions, for inspiration. But then I stumbled upon this quote from Schwartz in the middle of ESPN.com's Camp Confidential report: "Hope is not a strategy". I mean, I was just reading the article in hopes of finding a couple digs to keep at hand when my guy friends start boasting about their Lions finally turning things around! But, this? This caught me off guard. It's sort of one of those duh! statements. Of course we know hope isn't really a strategy. But how often to we act like it actually is? Like if we want something bad enough or hope for it strongly enough, we can just will it to happen. Just like that! Hope is a really powerful thing. But I think hope, on it's own, can sometimes be debilitating. Hope isn't enough. It's never enough. To accomplish any great feat, to make any big change, to do anything worth doing, hope has to be present. But it has to be accompanied by a strategy. By a blueprint. By a game plan. By a way to put one foot in front of the other. Hope, alone, can only do so much. It's not going to move you from point A to point B. It's not going to change the world. And it's not going to win football games.

Who'd have guessed that it would be Jim Schwartz to remind me of this?

I guess it makes me wonder if the Lions are going to catch a couple teams, just like they caught me, off-guard this season . . .

it's the little things

2010-07-30T11:19:00.001-05:00

Thanks to my office neighbor, Tina, I'm now obsessed with my new plastic tumbler from Starbucks. Obsessed.

It's doubly insulated so my water stays cold and my ice cubes stay, well, cubes. (And it won't get all wet and leave rings on my desk.) Plus, it's complete with a sturdy straw! (After all, everything's more fun to drink through a straw.) I've already consumed my daily amount of water. . . and it's only 11:30am!

I think I'm in love.

if i only had a brain

2010-07-29T15:18:00.004-05:00

It's Thursday afternoon. But it's one of those weeks that felt like it should be Friday by about 2pm on Tuesday. Late nights. Long decks. Meeting after meeting. Deadline after deadline. A to-do-list as long as my leg. But, after a 9am-1:30pm client meeting, I'm finally back to my desk, ready to dive in and all my mind will do is wander. So since I can't concentrate, neither can you, my imaginary friend/reader! Welcome to the space that should be my brain . . .

I have a bird's eye view of the patio at Sixteen, the chic restaurant/bar in the middle of Trump Tower. And I can't help but wonder. . . who are the people always sitting out there in the middle of the day, sipping cocktails (that's, at least, what I'm assuming), without a care in the world? And where can I apply for their job?
I wonder if Craig from the Bachelorette ever gets confused for Peyton Manning?

And while we're on it, what's with this new influx of Bachelor-themed E! specials and 20/20s? And why are they on every cover of every trashy magazine? I mean, holy Bachelor overload! (Even for me.)
If everything continues to heal well, I'll be boot-free as of Monday, August 9th at 8am! I wonder how many days/weeks before I can run again. Or, better yet, wear heels. :)
I would seriously consider buying a Hug-Me-Pillow, if it didn't seem so, well, heebie-jeebies-creep-me-out-strange. But, seriously, what's better than snuggling!? Even if it's with a disembodied arm.
My favorite part of Chad (Ocho Cinco) Johnson's new dating show, cleverly titled "The Ultimate Catch", has to be the presence of Bernard Berrian in a host-like capacity. Especially since Chad's nickname for him is B-Twice. I mean, I want a B-Twice in my life! I'm thinking I may have to nickname my best buddy, Brooke, B-Trice. Get it? Best Buddy Brooke. I can't wait to tell her. She'll be thrilled. (Pretty typical reaction to most of my 'awesome' ideas.)
Why is it that no matter how many times you check and double-check the technology you're using before a big meeting, something inevitably goes wrong in the IT department? This can't just be coincidence.
I'm planning a trip to Greece in the next year. There, I said it. (Isn't there some stat about goals being more likely to be accomplished if you write them down? I'm banking on it.)
How in the world did I become so addicted to textsfromlastnight.com and Chelsea Handler? Both are usually a little vulgar. A little inappropriate. And make me a bit embarrassed, but I love 'em.

Okay, back to life. Back to reality. Hopefully my brain will cooperate.

ants in my pants

2010-07-15T13:22:00.001-05:00

I feel antsy.

Like something's got to change, I'm just not sure what it is. Or why.

Maybe it's turning another year older. Maybe it's seeing more and more friends get engaged. Move to new cities. Go back to school. Make changes in their careers. Do big things. Or maybe it's that I'm just not sure I'm who, what or where I should be at 27.

At 17 if you would have asked me what my life was going to look like in ten years, I'm not sure what I would have said. I'm guessing 27 would have seemed so far into the future that I wouldn't even know where to start. Married? With kids? Working my way up the corporate ladder? Living in a great condo with stainless steel appliances and granite counter tops in a big city? Uber-successful? I don't know, maybe my current life would be exactly what I imagined. Exactly what I hoped for. But what if, after staring into that fortune teller's magic ball, 17 year old me would be just plain disappointed with future me?

I think 17 year old me would love the view into the heart of Chicago from my 29th floor window-side desk. Would love going out to LA for advertising TV productions. Would love the friends I'm surrounded with. Would love rockin' a killer pair of pumps and smoothly running a meeting with senior clients. Would love going on a variety of first dates with Chicago's eligible bachelors. Would love the feeling of running along the beach on an early Spring morning.

27 year old me certainly does.

But what about the fact that I still haven't had a relationship that's lasted over 6 dates? That I'm sitting here dreaming about reporting from the sidelines of the NFL or being a writer or a realtor or owning my own business instead of doing something about it? That my business card still reads Account Executive despite the actual responsibilities I've been given? That my savings account is what can only be described as pathetic? That, except for the 1996 Honda Accord I purchased from my parents when my brother went to college, I don't really own anything?

27 year old me isn't so sure of these things. (To say the least.) I can only imagine what 17 year old me would think.

And so I'm antsy.

About where I'm at. About where I'm going. About what the heck I'm going to do to get from here to there. About what it's going to take. About what comes next. And about what I might have to give up in order to make it a reality.

in full bloom

2010-07-13T17:07:00.013-05:00

About 4 months into my first job I got a plant from one of our new business reps for the holidays. A Christmas Cactus to be exact. Which looked just like this when I received it:

Vibrant shades of green. Healthy. Full of leaves. (Are they called leaves on a cactus?). Overall, pretty beautiful.

And you know what? Despite my inner office cube, harshly lit by the all-too-typical corporate florescent lighting, and the fact that most days I could barely fit in time to feed or water myself, that little bugger managed to survive through-out my entire time working there. Over 4 years. During which, on numerous occasions, I couldn't help but congratulate myself on my responsibility and overall genius as a plant owner. What great watering skills I had acquired! What great attention I had paid!

Well, it turns out Christmas Cacti actually have the potential to look like this:

Who would have guessed, right!?

The night shift cleaning lady, that's who. She took the cactus from me late one night and relocated it to the windowsill of the empty window-office-with-a-view across the hall from me. While I spent a couple weeks wondering where in the world my beloved plant had disappeared to, she was tending to it. Watering it. Keeping it in the sunlight it so desperately needed to reach it's full potential. A few days before my last day at Element, she proudly returned the plant to me, now brimming with gorgeous blooms off of every leaf tip. (I mean, seriously, if they're not called leaves, what are they called!?)

Well, look at that!

I don't know exactly why I thought about that today, but it made me realize something important. Sometimes we think what's sitting in front of us is perfectly good. A success. At it's full potential. The best it ever could be.

And it turns out that we just don't know any better at the time.

27 candles

2010-06-29T14:59:00.002-05:00

Best moment of my 26th year: the marathon.

Worst moment of my 26th year: the spiral fracture in my left ankle that I acquired two weekends ago. At least 3 weeks on crutches. At least 4 weeks in a walking boot (hopefully soon). Another 2-6 weeks before I can run again. About a 6% chance of being able to do the triathlon on August 29th. 1 completely bummed 27 year-old.

the waiting game

2010-06-14T14:04:00.005-05:00

Is there anything more dreadful than waiting? Waiting for a response. Waiting for the pasta water to boil. Or the light to turn green. Waiting for football season to start. Waiting for the next episode of The Bachelor. Waiting in line at the DMV. Or for Friday to finally role around. Waiting for an answer. Patience, they say, is a virtue. But patience, it would seem, goes against everything in our very nature as human beings. We're always anticipating, always wondering what comes next, always looking ahead. . . and, therefore, always waiting in some sense. Maybe you're waiting for a positive response to the hundreds of resumes you've sent out. Maybe you're waiting for that guy from Saturday to call. Maybe you're waiting on those adoption papers to come through. Maybe you're waiting for him to get down on one knee already. Maybe it's just for a sign. Something to let you know what to do. Or maybe you're just waiting for your prayer to be answered. But, perhaps, waiting is the answer. Ugh, I know.

beauty and the beast

2010-05-19T21:18:00.002-05:00

I sort of hate being told I'm beautiful.

Now, before you scoff. (Or tell me I'm stuck-up. Or a brat. Or worse.) Hear me out. Can you think of any other complement in the history of the world that's more overused? It's cliche. It's easy. It doesn't take any thought at all. And it certainly doesn't take any observation on the behalf of the admirer. It's the dozen red roses of complements.

And yet, like a dozen red roses, most girls will swoon over receiving it.

Not me.

I'm sure some guys may really mean it when they say it, but I have a hard time not wanting to punch them in the face when they do. I almost get offended. Like does this guy really think I'm the kind of girl that will just fall all crazy in love just because he says I'm beautiful? Give me a break, buster. It's going to take a lot more than that.

It's going to take some thought on your part. You're going to have to notice something that no one else has. Or figure out what matters to me. Figure out the sort of complement I want to receive. Not the complement that comes easiest. And if it takes you a couple weeks, even a couple months to figure it out? Well, that's fine. I'd take a genuine, unique, well-thought-up complement once every 2 months over a "you're beautiful" every single day.

Now don't get me started on 'You have really great eyes' . . .

knowing > wondering

2010-05-11T17:14:00.002-05:00

A couple hundred years ago, Benjamin Franklin shared with the world the secret of his success. Never leave that till tomorrow, he said, which you can do today. This is the man who discovered electricity. You think more people would listen to what he had to say. I don't know why we put things off, but if I had to guess, I'd say it has a lot to do with fear. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, sometimes the fear is just of making a decision, because what if you're wrong? What if you're making a mistake you can't undo? The early bird catches the worm. A stitch in time saves nine. He who hesitates is lost. We can't pretend we haven't been told. We've all heard the proverbs, heard the philosophers, heard our grandparents warning us about wasted time, heard the damn poets urging us to seize the day. Still sometimes we have to see for ourselves. We have to make our own mistakes. We have to learn our own lessons. We have to sweep today's possibility under tomorrow's rug until we can't anymore. Until we finally understand for ourselves what Benjamin Franklin really meant. That knowing is better than wondering, that waking is better than sleeping, and even the biggest failure, even the worst, beats the hell out of never trying.

- Grey's Anatomy

team big

2010-05-03T16:40:00.002-05:00

So I just purchased my ticket for Sex and the City 2. I'll probably tell most people it's because opening night just so happens to fall on my friend Dana's birthday and who am I to stand in the way of her b-day wish to go see it with the gaggle of gals? But, honestly, the girlie girl in me (however small a percentage she makes up) can't wait to see it! Can't wait to be reunited with the foursome. Can't wait to see what's in store for Carrie and Big now that happily ever after has begun. Can't wait to see Aiden step back into the scene.

Aiden. Mr. Perfect. Mr. Available. Mr. Never-Quite-What-Carrie-Really-Wanted.

So seeing him again, even if just in the previews, makes me wonder all over again which one I wish Carrie would have ended up with. . . Well, at least for a split second. Who am I kidding? I loved Big. Loved him all along. Loved him every time he called Carrie 'kid'. Loved him when he couldn't commit. Loved him even when he went and married Natasha. And, boy, you better believe I loved him when he eventually chased Carrie down in Paris.

There's not much doubt that Aiden is pretty much perfect. That he would be the perfect boyfriend to Carrie. But is perfect annoying? Does perfect always (or even ever) equal perfect-for-you?

And then there's Big. He's pretty much a disaster when it comes to relationships and committing and feelings and everything that makes for a perfect boyfriend. He's Mr. Wrong. Mr. Can't Commit. Mr. Unreliable. Mr. Shithead-who-you-can't-help-but-fall-for for some reason. He couldn't be further from Mr. Perfect. But could he possibly be Mr. Perfect-for-Carrie?

Sure, I always adored Aiden. Adored him the way you adore your best guy friend. You think they deserve the most amazing girl in the world. As long as that's not you. But Big? I always had a thing for Big. Sure, Carrie was a fool because she did a lot of waiting around for him. She was a fool to have an affair with him. She was a fool to always come back to him after everything he put her through. She was a fool to believe he'd ever love her. Until he did. And she wasn't.

Hard to argue with that.

In fact, I'm getting my Team Big shirt made right now. . .

i dream of jeanie

2010-03-29T07:54:00.001-05:00

Last night I dreamed I was at the grocery store shopping for food and . . . that's it. I woke up with vivid memories of picking out fresh fruits and vegetables, considering a box of organic mac and cheese before deciding against it, and looking at the expiration date on the milk gallons. The worst part is that I woke up a little disappointed. Not that my dreams are filled with trips to the grocery, but that it hadn't actually happened in real life. Either there is some serious underlying meaning behind this mundaneness. Or I'm just in desperate need of some normalcy and free time in my life. I think it's the latter, but I may look up the meaning of dreams containing organic mac and cheese. You know, just to be safe.

couldn't be more true

2010-02-23T17:50:00.000-06:00

I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I'm out of control and at times I'm hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.
- Marilyn Monroe

great expectations

2010-02-15T19:17:00.004-06:00

Most of her dates were disappointing. Like biting into a cookie expecting to find a chocolate chip, only to find a raisin.

I jotted down this quote in my journal years and years ago. It must have been from some book I was reading at the time, but after all this time has passed I can't even begin to remember what it was, who it was by or what it was about. (Besides maybe a single girl, it would appear.) Apparently it hit a cord with me at the time and resonated yet again when I ran across it last night.

We're always expecting. Expecting things to happen a certain way, to be a certain way, to act a certain way, to taste a certain way. Expecting that delicious looking cookie in front of us to be filled with indulgent chocolate chips, not healthy raisins. We just can't help it. We see something or someone and our mind just starts wondering. Starts supposing. Starts expecting.We probably do this most often when it comes to dating. Anyone who's spent any time being single would have to agree. First impressions are lasting we hear time and time again. We judge people unfairly (whether it's to their benefit or detriment) without even thinking twice.

We learn, often times the hard way, that people are who we expected them to be. Who we imagined them to be at their worst.

But every once in a blue moon someone surprises you. Someone has a way of surpassing your expectations of them. And it's those times, however rare, that keep us holding on to hope.

It's those times that keep us reaching into the cookie jar.

twenty ten

2010-02-12T15:02:00.011-06:00

It's pretty plain to see that I’ve been a little bit (okay, a whole lotta bit) delinquent in my postings. I've lost the handful of friends that somehow were conviniced to read this blog every once in a while in the first place. And worst of all, I've lost faith in myself as a writer. A real writer. A writer who writes to be read. Not a writer who scribbles in a journal every couple of days.

But it's 2010. (Okay, it's been 2010 for a month and a half now, but it's never too late to start over, right?) And with the new year, comes a new me. I know, I know. I've said this before. We all have. But a month and half into the year, I think I might be getting there. I've got a new job, a new set of resultions and goals and a renewed determination to propel me along. 2010 is going to be a good year.

What about the last 7 months? Well, let me catch you up. In the last 7 months I:

Turned 26. (And 26 and a half.)
Learned that hiring a moving company is the best $200 you will ever spend.
Completed my first marathon, running the entire way. I even beat my goal time of 4:20 by ten minutes! Crossing that finish line was, by far, one of the coolest experiences of my life so far.
Watched Cliff Lee and CC Sabathia face off as starting pitchers in the World Series. Unfortunately, neither were playing in an Indians jersey.
Learned that you have to be careful of people who have hurt you in the past. They may not know how not to hurt you again.
Realized (over and over again) that I have the 2 greatest brothers in the world. They've set a really high bar for other guys in my life.
Learned that now more than ever I know I'd rather be alone than with the wrong person. No matter how great they are.
Found a new appreciation for a $5 bottle of Andre champagne. (Who says Mimosas are only for brunch?)
Saw my first 3D movie. (Seriously!)
Realized that I like seeing everyone wearing the goofy 3D glasses more than I actually like watching the movie in 3D.
Baked what feels like a truckload of cupcakes, mostly red velet. Yummy!
Watched the Colts throw away a potential perfect season. In person. (I really could have gone my whole life without ever seeing Curtis Painter play live.)
Quit the first and only real job I've ever had and said goodbye to the most amazing co-workers.
Started a bright, shiny new job and said hello to some potentially equally great co-workers.
Learned how important it is to have a strong mind and a soft heart. (Thanks Maya Angelou.)

I'm sure that's not everything, but it's something. Something to get you from there to here.

And so we're here.

Yes, 2010 is going to be a good year. And if it's not entirely good? Well, then I'm going to learn a couple things along the way.

Cheers!

if i were a boy

2009-06-24T22:13:00.008-05:00

As I rode the train home last night from work, I couldn't help but get caught up in the conversation three twenty-something boys were having next to me. They were debating who was the most unique super-hero. Was it Batman because he put his super-hero costume on over his daily clothes, vs Spider Man and Superman who seemed to have it always underneath? And which one had the coolest alter-ego? (As if there's any question that it's not Bruce Wayne, right!?) And even which one had the best comic book background? In all honesty, I was sort of fascinated and it took a certain degree of willpower to restrain myself from jumping into the debate.

Now, if this had been three twenty-something girls, you can only imagine what they'd most likely been talking about. Boys. Boys. And probably more boys. Why Chris hadn't texted yet. What Matt meant when he said "I'll call you later". Why Jason was acting strangely. What outfit should be worn on the date with Nate. Whether or not Bryan would wait til this weekend to call. . .

I mean, I can't help but thinking that we're all a little crazy. Always talking about our feelings. Always overanalyzing what was said (and what it really meant). Always being expected to share every detail of every interaction with our twenty closest friends. Most of the time, being a girl is pretty darn amazing. But, girls, you have to admit it, sometimes it's just plain exhausting.

Which is why I guess I sort of pride myself on being a bit of both. It's the best of both worlds, I'd like to believe.

I mean, I'm a girl when I take two hours to get ready. Because I'm having fun trying out new make-up tricks. Or because my hair doesn't look quite right. Or because I just can't find the right thing to wear. Or decide between the three pair of black heels I have sitting in front of me. But I'm a boy when I throw on tennies, a t-shirt and a baseball hat and call it a day. Without thinking twice.

I'm a girl when I turn up the speakers and sing my lungs out to Britney Spears, Taylor Swift or (embarrassingly) Miley Cyrus/Hannah Montana. But I'm a boy when I'd rather see the newest X-Men movie than a chick flick having to do with weddings. Or love. Or bridesmaids. Or feelings. Or relationships. Or Matthew McConaughey.

I'm a boy when I don't want anyone to interrupt me during the game. And when I start talking sports stats. When I'd rather watch ESPN than another E! special about Speidi or Jessica Simpson. And especially when I'm on the football field and my flag football team is down with 2 minutes left in the game. But I'm a girl when the camera zooms in on Tom Brady and I can't help but swoon.

I'm a girl when I flirt with the boys at the bar. When I'm secretly flattered that he's obviously a bit nervous when he asks for my number. Or when he eventually calls to ask me out. But I'm a boy when I meet someone that I find attractive and interesting and I just want to be the one to take the situation in my hands and call him up.

I'm a girl when I'm in the kitchen baking up a storm. And whenever I watch Casablanca or When Harry Met Sally. Or listen to sappy country songs. I'm a girl when I start to tear up at weddings. When I sit by a toddler on the train and can't help but think about being a mom in the future. And I'm a girl when nothing seems to help but a glass of wine and a good cry.

But I'm a boy when I go two weeks without plucking my eyebrows or painting my nails. I'm a boy when I order a bratwurst and don't care who sees me do it. And when I'm counting down the days until I leave for a camping trip because I love the idea of roughing it for the weekend. I'm a boy when I'm challenged to a dare and my pride won't let me back down. And when I'd rather drink a can of beer than a fancy martini. Even at a cocktail party.

I can't imagine always being girlie; I actually like being a tomboy most of the time. I like being tough enough to take whatever you're going to throw at me, but vulnerable enough to admit when I can't. I like putting on a fancy dress and being told I'm pretty, but I'd much rather put my hair in a ponytail and be told I'm fun. I like going out to a nice dinner every once in a while, but most of the time I'd be just as happy with ordering a pizza.

I'd like to debate the relative uniqueness of super-heros, but I'm probably going to spend a lot of time analyzing what my new guy's text meant. And why he waited two days to send it.

At the end of the day, though, I think Beyonce might be on to something.

to do: update blog

2009-04-22T14:18:00.007-05:00

Confession: I'm addicted to to-do lists. I mean, seriously addicted. I've even been known to, on occasion, have a to-do list that has, as a line item: "make tomorrow's to-do list". A to-do list within a to-do list! What sort of twilight zone world am I living in? There's just something so satisfying about crossing off items from the list. I get a sort of demented pleasure from it. I wish I was lying, but that's just the way I am. I'm a planner. I'm an accomplisher. I have an anal Type A personality. (I mean, I organize my closet by color and type - dresses, shirts by sleeve length, pants, etc - of clothing for crying out loud.) I like there always to be an order to things. If I can anticipate, I'll always be ready. I'll never caught off guard.

And that's reassuring. Sometimes.

A couple things have happened to me (well, rather, around me) lately that have me second guessing the validity of having a plan. First, I got an email from a friend of mine who is in the middle of a 6-month trek with her husband through New Zealand. Both had great jobs, close family and friends, a nice apartment; the works. But they pressed pause on their life in Chicago and decided to explore for a while. They went without a real plan other than to make their way around NZ and make any money that they could, picking up odd jobs along the way. An approach that I admired when I first heard of it, but, secretly, it scared me shitless. And now every time I read their blog I can't help but be jealous.

Second, one of my dearest friends got into the summer publishing program at NYC. (Congrats, Lyd!) So, she's picking up in a couple weeks and moving out to New York for the summer to chase down her dream job in publishing. When she first told me she got in she was excited, sure. But she was also really nervous. You know that nervousness that sets in when you realize you don't know what you're doing or where it's leading? Yeah, that's the one. I couldn't help but commiserate with her. These things are exciting, but they're scary.

And, finally, I just said goodbye to one of my co-workers who left for Europe on Tuesday to bike around the continent for 6 months. He knows where he's flying into and he know when and where he's flying out of. The rest he'll figure out as he goes. And if he's got to sleep on the side of the road a couple nights? Well, he's looking forward to that. The planner in me was screaming: but you don't know what's going to happen!

But that's the thing. We have no way of knowing the end. We can't predict what's going to happen. We can't plan for everything. Life's just not like that. Sometimes we just need to leap and trust that the net will appear. Or, better yet, leap and believe that somewhere along the fall, we'll spread our own wings and take off. Take off to new heights we could have barely dreamed of before.

And if it's a little bit scary? Well, sometimes that's the only way you know you're doing it right.

bracketology

2009-03-19T15:11:00.004-05:00

Alright, class. Pencils down.

After all the hemming and hawing. After all the scratching off and erasing. And after all the second guessing. It's time to turn in your brackets. March Madness has officially begun. Which means all across the nation people are sitting at their desks, ESPN.com set on automatic refresh, brackets and highlighters in hand, anxiously chatting with co-workers about their picks, ready (well, as ready as they can be) for what comes next. Ready for the madness. And as we sit anticipating the first tip off, we're enjoying that familiar feeling that comes each March. That feeling of mastery. That premonition that this year we got it right.

Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but enjoy that feeling while it lasts. 48 hours from now (or for some of us 6 hours from now), you'll be staring at your bracket wondering how you ever got it so wrong. Seriously considering ripping your bracket to shreds. Wishing you wouldn't have listened to Barack-etology quite so intently. Wondering why you ever thought Michigan State could make it to the Final Four after nearly losing to the Hoosiers a few short weeks ago. Begging to get your $10 back from the office pool. But that, my friends, is the thing I love most about March Madness. The madness itself.

You see, when it comes down to it, it's not entirely about the team that's the most talented. Or the most prepared. Or the most experienced. Sure, it's a little bit of all those things, but (and here's what we tend to overlook when filling out our brackets) there's also an element of sheer luck. It's that luck - that on any given day, any team can win or lose to any other team - that drives us all, well, mad. Even the best and brightest of us can't predict what's going to happen. Not me. Not you. Not Digger. Not Jay. Not Bobby. Not even Dicky V. No one can. In fact sometimes (much to my dismay) it seems like when it comes to March Madness, the more you know, the less you know.

Everyone "knows" that at least one #12 seed always seems to upset a #5 seed. In fact, 31 times since 1985, they have pulled an upset in the first round. And, up until last year, everyone "knew" that all four #1 seeds never make it to the final four. But, really, what we know is the past. This year and this tournament is the present. This tournament is another chance to make history. To re-write what we all "know" about March Madness. And another chance for me to finally win the office pool.

Unfortuantely, I'll likely lose again this year. Lose to the woman in production who doesn't know a three-pointer from a technical foul. Lose to my roommate who will base her choices on school mascots. Or number of letters in the team name. Or the color of their jerseys.

But that's the best part. We all know that we could do just as well flipping a coin, but yet we fill out our brackets carefully each year. Each year we look with pride on our masterpiece. At least until tip-off.

And now, just so you can share in what I'm sure will be my misery, my 2009 picks:

Final Four: MSU, Pitt, UNC, Mizzou
Final Game: MSU, UNC
Champion: UNC

What can I say? Go HEELS!?

happily ever after?

2009-03-13T09:13:00.002-05:00

Over the last six months, on my way to and from the gym in the wee hours of the morning, I have had the following encounters:

A gigantic, disgusting rat ran in between my legs, mid stride. His enormous feet pitter-pattering over my gym shoes and his God-knows-where-it's-been-fur grazing my ankle. Skin to skin. I screamed.
A seemingly sweet bunny rabbit ran across my path, a couple yards ahead, stopping half-way over the sidewalk. He looked my direction and, instead of continuing on his way, stared me down and began to run directly towards me. I (after seriously considering a game of chicken with him) leaped out of the way.
A ferocious, vulture-like looking bird dive-bombed me, walking out of my front door, from the electric wires up above. I, no joke, dropped to the ground to avoid his aerial attack.
A owner-accompanied, typically mild-manner dog pounced up on me as I walked by. His head, literally, was face to face with mine. The nails of his front feet left (albeit very tiny) marks on my face and shoulders for the rest of the day. I've never walked by another dog without wincing since.

And, finally, this morning as I drearily walked my tired self to Bally's, I just barely missed a falling acorn thrown (I swear directly at me) from the squirrel perched on the branch above.

It got me to wondering . . . what kind of paradoxical fairytale world am I living in when animals are attacking me rather than helping me sing my morning song and do my chores?

And (I'm almost scared to ask, but) what does that mean for my Prince Charming?

if a tree falls in the forest . . .

2009-03-12T17:36:00.006-05:00

When I was younger, I really, truly, with all my heart believed that I was going to be famous. I wasn't 100% sure of what exactly I was going to be famous for, but I was going to be famous nonetheless. And so I put my heart and soul into every activity I thought would someday be my ticket to notoriety. When I was the only girl playing on my YMCA basketball team in 3rd grade, I thought I'd be the first girl in the NBA. . . When I was roller skating in my basement to my favorite Mariah Carey song, I thought I was going to be an gold medal-winning Olympic figure skater. . . When I was belting out my solo as Ms. Lana the Ladybug in our 4th grade musical, I thought I was going to be a pop singer. . . When I was sitting behind my makeshift news desk, reciting the news (very informative, I'm sure, as it was typically from yesterday's paper that I had pulled out of our recycling bin), I thought I was going to be the next Barbara Walters. . . When I . . . you get the picture, right?

Clearly, I didn't have a confidence problem as a child. Quite the opposite, actually. Maybe my parents instilled in me just a little too strongly that I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up. Or maybe I read "The Little Engine that Could" and took it's lesson to heart too many times. But, whatever the reason, I firmly believed that I could accomplish anything I set my mind to. And, come to think of it, I still find myself wanting to hold steadfast to this mantra even as my 25 year-old, jaded current self. I mean, why not?

But there was one little problem with my plan to be famous. See, I could stand alone on stage in front of a packed auditorium and sing my lungs out. I could recite a perfect speech in front of crowds of strangers. I could deliver a stellar sports report to a throng of stuffed animals. But, heaven forbid my parents wanted to hear me rehearse. Or my best friend wanted to hear me sing. I'd clam up. There was something terrifying to me about performing in front of just one or two people. Especially when those people were the closest people to me. What if I made a mistake? What if I didn't do my best? What if they didn't like it? The opinion of strangers never seemed to mean as much, or cut as deep, as that from people who knew me the best.

I actually thought I had overcome this fear as I grew up. That I had become comfortable sharing with those people closest to me. But starting this blog has showed me that I may not be all that different than my 10 year-old self. You see, I've been doing this for a month and I half now, but I've only told two people in the entire world that I'm doing it. (Thanks, LGC!) Not even my best friend has any clue. And it's not that I'm trying to hide it. I'm just terrified. Terrified that I'll share it and people won't like what they see. That it'll be a failure. It's like if I keep it to myself then it's success only depends on what I think about it. (Easy audience, right?) I can be famous in my own mind. But if I share it, I have no control over what happens next. Will they even read it? And, if they read it, will they like it? Or will they just tell me they like it because they're my friends and that's what they're supposed to do? Will they secretly wonder why I ever thought I had anything important enough to say to write it down? Much less post it for all the world potentially to see?

Those are all questions that I don't have the answers to. But I think that's okay. Because as the famous question goes, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, will it make a sound? If a girl blogs and blogs about everything on her mind and no one's there to read it, will it ever make a difference?

So, here goes nothing.

Welcome, friends, to my blog. To my mind. To my other third.

active > passive

2009-03-09T21:21:00.005-05:00

I've always had a sort of fondness for the English language. For writing. For words. I just love how certain words just seem to spring into life the moment you write them on the page. Like you can't imagine them ever sitting still and waiting on something to happen. Regardless of their actual meaning, there's something about some words in the English language that just seems so alive. Demonstrative. Enigma. Superfluous. Abominable. Indubitably. They just make me think. No one could ever accuse demonstrative of being shy. Indubitably will never be lost in the crowd. These words have personality and pizzaz. Spirit and energy. They may be misunderstood, but they're never boring.

It's not just this (admittedly a little unique) fascination with words that got me so caught up in the English language. It's so much more. The Chief Creative Director at our advertising agency has always stressed to writers the importance of the active voice. As he ascertains, an active voice always beats a passive voice. (Insert a brief flashback to 3rd grade here: In sentences written in the active voice, the subject performs the action expressed in the verb. The subject acts. On the other hand, in sentences written in the passive voice, the subject receives the action expressed by the verb. The subject is acted upon.) And although he's usually using this mantra to teach some copywriter how to clean up his or her copy, I think he's actually on to something a whole lot bigger. Acting is always better than waiting. Doing is always better than letting something happen. Active always beats passive.

I must admit, that's much easier in theory than it is in real life. Living your life's moments in an active voice sometimes calls for a lot more courage than we think we have. It calls for jumping without knowing whether or not there's a net to catch us. It's following our heart, even when our head can't quite keep up. It's, quite frankly, sometimes really scary. Every time you act, there's a chance that your action can spin out of control. That your action can cause a reaction that you weren't prepared for. That your action may make it impossible to ever go back. That you may fail.

But I have to believe there's something beautiful in that. I have to believe that doing beats being done to. I have to believe that it's better to regret something you did than it is to regret waiting for something to happen. I have to believe that "I lived my life." always beats "My life was lived." That active always beats passive.

Sure, it's enigmatic. But it's never boring.

tying the knot

2009-02-27T08:34:00.001-06:00

Us Weekly, ESPN and Perez Hilton are all reporting that the New England Patriots QB (and unarguably largest overall stud in the known world) Tom Brady and his uber-gorgeous, Victoria's Secret Angel girlfriend Giesele Bundchen were married last night in Santa Monica, CA.

Let's take a moment for all the single women in America . . . (sigh) . . . Tom, if you're listening, that's the sound of our collective hearts breaking.

my favorite marvin

2009-02-26T22:54:00.002-06:00

There hasn't been a phrase I've loved to hear more over the past 10 years than the sweet, sweet sound of "Manning to Harrison for the reception". And boy have we heard it over and over again through-out those years.

But, we've learned this week that Harrison and the Colts, confined by a strict salary cap, were unable to reach an agreement on his contract. The result? The organization granted his request for free agency. To be honest, it's the right call to make. Because, at the end of the day, a sports team is a business. And businesses have bottom lines. As the last two years have shown us, Harrison is past his prime. From a numbers perspective, he's not worth it. But that doesn't quite make it any easier to see him go. To imagine him not in the blue and white. Not quietly sitting on the sidelines or just as quietly receiving passes from Manning.

It's unique to find a duo like Peyton and Marvin. A twosome so in-sync, so methodical, so consistent that you can't seem to picture it working any other way. A pair that passed and surpassed many greats before them. And, what's more, they did it without batting an eyelash. While we, the fans, celebrated and cheered and screamed our lungs out, for these two, it was all in a days work. There's something respectable about that. Especially in today's society. While other players in the game are arrogant, flashy and self-promoting, Marvin has spent his 13 years in the NFL rather subtly, behind a veil of privacy. During the Colts last regular season home game against the Titans back in December, Harrison made his 1,102nd career catch, moving him into second place on the all-time list. While a packed Lucas Oil Stadium erupted cheers, Marvin simply made his way back to the sideline and over to the bench, with the ball tucked neatly under his arm.

And that has made him all the more intriguing to me. It's like the less he shared, the more I could fill in with my ideas about what qualities the all-pro possessed. Despite his recent attempted homicide suit, I still look at him as the same hard-working, respectful receiver I've grown so fond of watching on the field. I've transferred his game time persona to my reality. A reality that I hate to see leave the team. Even if I know it's for the better.

So this week and especially now, with the deadline to free agency just moments away, we've said goodbye to Marvin Harrison. Said goodbye to half of the greatest duo in Colts history. But I wish him the best of luck outside of the blue and white. No matter where he ends up in the end, he'll always be part of the Indianapolis Colts to me.

Go horse!

mind if i tagalong®?

2009-02-24T10:15:00.006-06:00

On the way into work this morning, I walked by a group of Girl Scout's selling cookies in the lobby. These girls had put up signs in attempts to lure passerby's to their table. (And, ultimately, to the irresistible taste of those iconic cookies.) One particular sign caught my eye:

People, you need to buy some cookies!
You'll love them!!
Even penguins love them.
(Insert picture of a penguin eating a Trefoil here.)

I think someone in this troop has a future in advertising, don't you?

i like big buts

2009-02-19T21:52:00.010-06:00

(yes, big buts. not big butts.)

I had been planning a girl's night out at the movies for weeks. I had emailed 30 of my closest girl friends and requested that they save the date. I had stalked Fandango religiously, waiting for tickets to go on sale. We were going to see He's Just Not That Into You. (I mean $11.50 is a small price to pay for therapy like this, right!?) Because whether we're married or single. In a relationship or in something more complicated. I knew we could all agree that we've had a HJNTIY moment. We've all been there. We've all hoped for a phone call. We've all made excuses for someone. We've all, despite our better judgement, thought that we were the exception to the rule. And we've all lived to tell the tale.

So, buttery popcorn in hand, I anxiously awaited what I believed would be a refreshing, albeit a little painful, look at modern day dating. What I got (spoiler alert) was a Hollywood-inspired romantic comedy where, overall, the boy falls in love with the girl in the end. But wait! Isn't this movie called "He's Just Not That Into You"? Yes, I thought so.

What I loved about the book (yes, sadly I've read a majority of the chapters) was that it was resilient. It didn't let up on the message that if a guy doesn't act interested, it's probably because he's not. And won't ever be. So move on, sister. The book stressed that you are too great to be wasting your time on a guy that isn't spending the time on you. You're not going to convince him that you're wonderful. You shouldn't have to! If he doesn't get it, then it's his loss. And while that's quite a dose of tough love, it's what we need to hear.

But that's exactly where the movie let me down. Instead of walking away with that empowering message of resolution, the movie sent all of us single gals away with the message that if you hold on long enough, he'll come around. The very antithesis of everything the book had taught us! What made the book so revolutionary was that it didn't make excuses. It didn't watch out for our feelings. And it absolutely didn't tell us what we wanted to hear. It told us the cold, hard truth. The truth we like to think we're the exception to whenever possible. But like Greg so rightly reminded us in the book: we are not the exception to the rule. Apparently in Hollywood, that message is better told as: if you try hard enough, if you believe in it enough, you'll eventually be the exception.

It was the same way with Sex and the City. I mean, Big showed Carrie in every single way imaginable that was just not that into her and yet somehow they ended up happily ever after in the end. And they wonder why we, as otherwise intelligent girls, seem to always have a "but" on hand when it comes to the boys in our lives. "I know he doesn't call until Friday night at 12am, but that's just because he's so busy with work right now." "Sure, he hasn't asked me out on a date yet, but that's because he's scared of ruining our friendship." "No, he says he can't date me right now, but I know it's because he's still hurt from his last relationship."

In the end, the movie wasn't awful and it did have it's moments of hilarity, but I certainly didn't get the therapy I was bargaining for. Far from it. So, if you're going to hold on to anything from HJNTIY, hold on to the saying itself. Sure, it's hard to hear at times, but the quicker you learn to accept it and move on, the healthier and happier you'll be. And remember . . . you are not the exception to the rule. I repeat, you are not the exception. You are exceptional, but you are not the exception.

Words to live by.

the wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round

2009-02-17T21:22:00.003-06:00

I was emailed a story earlier this week about a town in Arizona that was replanning and rebuilding its bus routes. During the process, a few bus huts were accidently placed on a street the bus didn't even travel down. Realizing their mistake, the city put up signs all over these huts informing potential riders that the huts were off course and the bus would not even be coming. Oddly enough, people waited anyway. The signs were right in front of them and they didn't see them. Or didn't read them. Or chose to ignore them. And it got me to thinking, how often are we just like these people? Waiting for something (or someone) that will never come around and choosing to ignore the signs right in front of our faces? How often do we see the signs and think that they are there by mistake? Think that the figurative bus will come eventually. And won't we be lucky (or, dare I saw it, deserving for waiting that long) when it does come! Probably a little too often than any of us would like to admit. Maybe we should trust that the city knows what it's doing and move on to the next bus hut before we waste our time waiting. Trust that we're better off moving somewhere, anywhere, than we are just staying still. Maybe instead of waiting, we need to start moving. Even it it's just on our own two feet. Because I have to believe that getting there the hard way is always better than just waiting. Always.

mighty casey has struck out

2009-02-10T13:23:00.005-06:00

Remember when you were in high school and your parents would come in your room for a talk? Not just any old chat, but "the talk". You know, the one that came after you did something wrong and got caught. From the moment they opened your door and walked in, you dreaded what came next. The words that did more than any punishment could. "I'm disappointed in you." If you weren't feeling guilty about what you had done before, you sure were now. (And then some!) I would have rather heard just about anything else. I'm angry. I'm upset. I'm furious. But disappointed? That one trumped any amount of wrath.

You see, the thing about anger is that inherently it's directed at someone. It's an outward emotion. It goes somewhere. Yes, the person experiencing it can feel a little hot and bothered, but it doesn't necessary affect them internally. It doesn't hurt them. At least not the way disappointment does. Disappointment is different. Disappointment is felt deep within. It changes the person experiencing it because, inherently, their expectations of someone have just come tumbling down. What they knew as true, has just been revealed as false. It hurts them.

And suddenly something that was all about me would be catapulted into something that affected those who cared about me. Something I, as a teenager, didn't want to think much about. Quite frankly, I think it's something we all still would rather not think about at times.

When the first allegations of A-Rod's steroid use came out on Saturday, I expected to feel upset with him. How could someone so talented and fortunate risk it all by experimenting with illegal substances? How could he be so naive? So irresponsible? So stupid? I expected to write him off for the rest of his career, as someone who had every opportunity to be one of the greats, but instead chose to tarnish his reputation and his success. I mean first an affair with Madonna and now this? What a chump! But as I sat watching (and re-watching for the umpteenth time) his interview on ESPN last night, it wasn't anger I felt towards him at all. It was disappointment. It was as if his admission made me not only think about him differently, but made me second guess how I looked at all current "greats". Who else was lying when asked if they had ever used performance enhancing drugs? Who could I trust? Who was worthy of my admiration? Of my support? I was disappointed in him. I felt a little bit hurt to be honest. And I don't think I'm alone in this. All the articles I've read and broadcasts I've seen seem to all have an air of disappointment in them as well. I don't know if it's that we expected it more from Barry Bonds or Roger Clemens. Or that A-Rod seemed like the poster boy for the current era of baseball. Or that maybe it's just spreading wider than we wanted to think it would. But no one seems angry with Alex, not even the commissioner, himself. We're, collectively, disappointed. Let down. Hurt. And I wonder if, like my teenage self, A-Rod's feeling like that's the worst punishment in the world right now?

the graveyard of partially-read books

2009-02-08T13:27:00.007-06:00

I've been trying so desperately hard to read Jane Eyre the past couple of weeks. And I'm on page 23. 23! Every so often I pick it up ready to dive in and be, well, inspired. Somehow moved. But instead I have a feeling that it will sit on my night-stand a couple more weeks, before it ultimately joins the other partially-read books in my bookshelf. Now that I mention it, the number of unfinished books in that shelf is becoming more and more daunting. And it makes me wonder why it's so easy for me to walk away, mid-story, from book after book? If I'm honest with myself, I think it all has to do with my reasons for reading them in the first place. For instance, I started reading Jane Eyre because of the movie Definitely Maybe. In it, Isla Fisher's character, April, owned numerous copies of the book and re-read it every year. Each year finding something new that fascinated her. That spoke to her. That helped her make a little more sense of her life. And something about that seemed so charming. So I chose to read it in hopes that it would speak to me. That it would help me make some sense of my life. But, instead, I find myself tripping over Charlotte Bronte's writing style and utterly bored with each passing page. It certainly isn't speaking to me in any special way. And maybe it never will. In all likelihood, it will remain a partially-read attempt at finding some hidden truth. A never quite what I thought it would be. An almost. And that's okay, too. Maybe my not liking Jane Eyre reveals a truth in and of itself. The things we truly enjoy are the things we appreciate for what they are. Not for what we want them to be. Or for what we hope they could be. And this isn't just books, of course. It's everything. We can't make something (or someone) into what it's not. We can't expect things to live up to our expectations. It just doesn't work that way. Maybe when we start to accept that, we become a bit happier. And maybe our lives, as well as our bookshelves, become filled with the things that are exactly right for us just the way they are.

a rose by any other name would smell as sweet

2009-02-04T22:27:00.005-06:00

Archibald Leach, Norma Jean Baker, Marion Morrison, Francess Gumm. . . Some of the most famous people in Hollywood history. But what's that you say? You don't recognize these names? Well perhaps these sound more familiar; Cary Grant, Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne and Judy Garland. Could Marion Morrison have achieved as much fame as John Wayne? Perhaps. Could that name have stood for the epitome of Western allure and appeal? It's possible. But we'll never know. Somewhere along the line, Marion Morrison just wasn't good enough. And he became John Wayne. And John Wayne became the star.

It brings to mind a question that's been on my thoughts a lot lately: who am I and who am I trying to become? It seems like you can't know one without the other. You can't possibly know how to get to the latter if you don't know exactly where the former is. e.e. cummings said that "it takes a lot of courage to grow up and become who you really are." It seems like we spend the better part of our "growing up" years trying to be someone else. Someone smarter. Someone prettier. Someone who's got it all together. Someone better than we see ourselves. But, I think when it comes down to it, you'll always be a better you than anyone else.

So, in the end, growing up is learning to accept what you are and resigning with good grace all that you're not. It's embracing yourself for all that you are. The good and the not-quite-so-good. It's acknowledging the strengths as well as the weaknesses. And building on both. It's having enough courage to step out into the world and be the best Archibald Leach you can be. Instead of hiding behind Cary Grant.

anything can be

2009-02-03T13:36:00.001-06:00

Listen to the mustn'ts, child.

Listen to the don'ts.

Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts.

Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me . . .

Anything can happen, child.

Anything can be.

- Shel Silverstein

who i am

2009-02-03T00:11:00.003-06:00

I am curious. About questions I don’t have the answers to. About what’s happening in the cubicle next to me. About the events of history, especially the mysterious and unsolved ones. About affection and dating and soul-mates and unrequited love. About what’s in store for me. About how the same piece of art can be inspiring or depressing, priceless or worthless, a masterpiece or simply colors on a page, all depending on how you look at it. On how you see it.

I love making people laugh. And I love-love being told I’m funny. I tease more than I should. Especially when it comes to members of the opposite sex. But when it comes down to it, I just want there always to be something to laugh about, even if it’s at my own expense.

I’m a sports nut. And a little bit (okay, in all honesty, a lota’ bit) of a tomboy. I tried to convince our high-school football coach that he should give me a shot at quarterback. He thought I was joking. And I suppose I was. Sort of.

I interrupt. Often because I think I know what’s coming next. Usually, though, I’m wrong.

I am strong-willed. I like to think it’s just a healthy dose of confidence, but I’m afraid it’s also a bit of stubbornness. I have a tendency to want things my way. And I usually don’t realize it until it’s too late.

I need at least two tries every time I parallel park. Even though I’ve lived in the city for over three years.

I am naïve. Sometimes this is the very best thing about me. You’d be surprised how wonderful the world can seem when you forget all the things that make you jaded and, instead, approach things with a child-like innocence. But, then again, sometimes it’s not a good thing at all.

I sing along to every song I know. Regardless of who’s around to hear me.

I am a little bit strange. And sometimes difficult. But I am always going to be there if you need me. I am good at giving advice and getting better at just shutting up and listening. I am rarely late. I am a firm believer in putting on pajamas as soon as I get home from work. In being willing to share, but keeping some things to yourself. And in the power of a hug.

I am still figuring myself out, although I like to think I have a pretty good start. I am growing up. Sometimes the hard way. Sometimes against my will. But always, always up.

the other third

2009-02-02T13:11:00.000-06:00

I tend to believe that, much like baseball, life is predetermined in a way. You're guaranteed to have some wins and you're bound to have some losses. That's just the way it is. Black and white. But then there's this whole area of grey that's sort of up to us to figure out.

And that's where this blog comes in. It's not really about the catastrophic failures. And it's even less about the astonishing successes. It's more about the in between. The almosts. The not-quites. The struggles. The questions. The messiness. In a way, it's the other third, to quote Mr. Lasorda. Because I'd like to think that this, despite the often seemingly mundaeness of it all, is where our lives really happen. It's what determines who we are more than any given victory or defeat can.

So, I can't guarantee much of anything. I'd hate to promise defeat and I can't warrant success. But I will tell you that you'll find a little bit of everything in between here. It'd likely be a little messy. And it might not always make complete sense. But remember, it's part of a bigger picture. It's my grey area. It's my other third. And it's where my life is.