My Un-Funny Valentine

It would appear that I do not have a confirmed Valentine this year, except for McLovin4U, who sent me a wink on Match last night but whom I cannot entertain as a possibility because he's yet another Vegas fanatic. Honestly, I can't wait until my subscription runs out. Whatever, no Valentine is better than last year's a-hole, who sent me an e-card, a couple texts and an arrangement of carnations that arrived at my office after I'd left for the day. He then went off the radar for the remainder of the evening (a time period during which I later learned he took his other girlfriend out to dinner).

This year, I'll be attending someone else's engagement party on V-day, and although I won't be taking a date, I will be getting into the spirit by wearing a rather beautiful pair of red satin shoes with jeweled bows, and that has to count for something. (See right for desktop still life.) They are my new ruby slippers, and if I could break them in enough to tap my heels together three times without wincing in pain, they just might take me somewhere incredible. Somewhere where health insurance is handed out like candy. Somewhere where every lottery ticket is a winner. Somewhere where the temperature at any given moment is 74 degrees and they serve a side of chocolate chips with every meal.

In other news, several things occurred yesterday and the day before:

1. I watched a dried Christmas tree float down the bike lane on Wells Street like a homesick tumbleweed.
2. I went to the dentist for my toothache, which hurts at all times but especially when breeze blows on it. My dentist said she can find nothing amiss and asked if I'm under a lot of stress, then brought up a toothache of mine from several months ago that vanished mysteriously. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe I have been diagnosed with a phantom toothache.
3. I took myself out to breakfast at Nookie's, where I sat near a multi-pierced girl who faintly resembled Angelina Jolie and who carried on a mostly one-sided conversation with her unlikely dining companion, a Nerdy Dude:

Angie Junior: If I can draw really good cartoons, then why shouldn't I, you know?
Nerdy Dude: Seriously.
AJ: And the weird thing about it is, everybody says I look like Angelina Jolie, and everyone says Jeanette looks like Jennifer Aniston, but we don't fight, we're actually the best of friends.
ND: That's so weird.
AJ: Jeanette's a Pisces, so she's really outgoing, which is kind of the opposite of me but not really.
ND: Hmm, interesting.
AJ: I would like to have nice teeth at some point, you know, get some work done on my teeth or maybe get Lasik surgery, even though my mom had complications from it. She couldn't see out of one eye for a long time.
ND: Wow.

P.S. I've loved print media since I was roughly 11 years old, when I first started reading Sassy magazine. (Or, maybe it was a fascination born out of running around Granddaddy's office at the Louisville Courier-Journal as a child and getting black ink on my socks. Or reading my mom's Redbooks while she was in Jazzercise.) Magazines have always been my most reliable bedtime companions, and I can hardly bring myself to throw away my Vanity Fairs even when they weigh 20 pounds and I've read every page. I once thought to myself: I want to write for a magazine. And that's what I did. But last night, I met with CNN's Ali Velshi, who just wrote a book about the recession titled Gimme My Money Back: Your Guide to Beating the Financial Crisis. I knew I was expected to ask him a question, so I said, "Ali, I work in print media. When do you think I might be able to get a new job?" His response: "Get a new career." So, I'm taking suggestions. If you can think of a line of work for which I might be suited, please let me know. And please don't say Waffle House.

See Here: Sassy Water

The next time you come over to my apartment, I'm totally whipping you up a batch of Sassy Water. I just made my second-ever pitcher of it, and it's so refreshing I think everyone should give it a whirl. The only problem is that it's so summery-looking, which is contrary to pretty much everything else. But the chance to offer someone a "glass of sass" is so pleasing that I'm just going to overlook the seasonality thing. Here's the recipe. It's from the Flat Belly Diet, a book my mom and I were recently lured into buying from the end-of-the-aisle discount selection at Target:

8 cups water
1 cucumber, sliced
1 lemon, sliced
1 tsp freshly grated ginger root
12 mint leaves
chill overnight
(see right: Sassy Water reclines upon my desk)

In other news, Black Beauty was towed last Sunday sometime after 3AM, which was the last time I laid eyes on her. Such a thing has NEVER previously occurred. I hated everything about it, from walking outside the next morning to find zero transportation to Graham's birthday brunch, to extracting $180 from the ATM to cover costs, to taking a cab to an underground trailer on Lower Wacker Drive to retrieve her. My friend Jeff accompanied me on that mission, and luckily he was able to find some entertainment:

Jeff (to counter lady at Chicago Central Impoundment trailer): Ahem. Um. Have you ever been on TV before?
Counter Lady: No.
Jeff: Really? You look so familiar.
Counter Lady: Oh, I was on the news one time when they was filming down here.
Jeff: Oh.
Counter Lady: Maybe you're thinking about Jon & Kate Plus Eight. Me and Kate have the exact same haircut.
Jeff (eyeing haircut dubiously): Oh.

As we drove away, Jeff mused, "She said Jon & Kate Plus Eight. But I really thought I saw her on Springer once."

Later that day, I drove by an actual hot dog tent sale at the Vienna Beef factory on Damen Ave. Now that, I thought, is not Flat-Belly-approved.

No Way No How

All week I've been in Louisville. I came down here to go to my sister Claire's Peacock warehouse sale and hang out with my other sister Liv one more time before she flees to Italy for six months. I planned to head back to Chicago five days ago. Then came the ice storm. It was no joke:



So, first some snow happened. Then a lot of ice. Then more snow. I got up at 6:30AM on the first morning of the citywide TOTAL FREAKOUT AND EMERGENCY SHUTDOWN and went into my mom's room to whine:

Me: Mom, I have to get internet access! Right now!
Mom (in sleepy voice): Well, I don't know what to tell you.
Me: I have to go to the coffee shop!
Mom: It's slick out there. You don't have to go anywhere.
Me: I'm leaving. I'll just drive up there. I can make it.
Liv (entering room): What's going on? How are we ever going to get out of here?
Me (panicked): Yeah, we have to get out of here!
Mom: Ya'll need to stop it. I've been up five minutes and you're already stressing me out.

The day went by, and more ice came. Mom, Liv and I watched American Idol that night and then we went to bed. The lights flickered. "Oh no," Liv said down the hall in her room. "It's only a matter of time," I whispered, so quiet no one could hear. At 3:30AM the lights went out for good, and ever since then we've been camping out at my Aunt Jenny and Uncle Mike's house, which is great because they have lightening fast internet access. They also have a dog named Henry who is highly decorative but who has always been a biter. He hangs out in the kitchen most of the time, so if you want a glass of water you have to ask Uncle Mike to get it. Our friend Cecily, a jewelry designer visiting from California, stayed there with us last night, and when she saw the sign on the kitchen door that says, "Beware of dog. Stay out of kitchen," she thought it was a joke. She got a bite.

P.S. The other day when every road was covered in snow and ice and there were downed trees and power lines blocking our progress at every turn, we drove to the hardware store to get some keys made. (The key story is a whole separate situation and I don't think you'd be all that interested.) Anyway, at St. Matthews Hardware, a man asked us if we were looking for sleds.

Man: Lookin' fer sleds?
Us: Nope. We're not sledding. We need keys. Are you sledding?
Man: Aw hell, I ain't goin' sleddin.' No way no how, dammit.

I'm Just Not That Into Them

Not that I'm a member of Match.com or have ever given out my credit card number to meet straight men online, but...is it rude to e-mail a stranger whose profile you've just read after receiving a wink from him and say, "Dude, that's just too many exclamation points?" I mean, is it over the top to comment upon the punctuation of someone with whom you've never actually communicated?

Please review this sample Match.com profile I've created to illustrate my point. It is compiled from actual excerpts, a 100% cut-and-paste job:

MR. EVERYCHITOWNGUY
Go Cubs!

I am looking for a girl who likes to laugh! Hard! I'm a total beachbum!!! I LOVE Vegas and I've been there 27 times since I turned 21! I also love MIAMI!!! I have a medium build and dark hair and dark eyes! I'm a selfish prick! A hot, rich, pampered intellectual!! I am a very good looking successful greek male who lives on the mag mile who enjoys all the finer things in life and am hoping I find a woman who is very attractive clean intellegent and also enjoys all the wonderful things that life has to offer!!!

Well, maybe I added one or two extra exclamations, but you get the gist.

In other word-related news, I learned a new adjective on The Bachelor last night: amazing. Well, I already knew the word since it's been in heavy rotation as the favored expression of mindless enthusiasm for several years, but I discovered it can now be used with even greater frequency than ever before. So many things can be AMAZING. Helicopter rides. Jason's bod. Levels of bitchiness. Plaster busts. Legoland.

Anywho, I really need to concentrate on this historic inauguration now. GOBAMA!

P.S. Last night I dreamed I accidentally ate a little bite of a real goldfish. It was pretty gross. I think it happened because I cooked salmon for dinner, and even though salmon is an undeniably healthful superfood, it's nearly impossible to get that smell out of one's apartment.

Brain Games

I just had the most fascinating conversations with two employees at my gym, Equinox in Lincoln Park. I went there not so much to work out (which of course was an added benefit), but to bask in the presence of actual humanoids. One of the gym employees asked me about my headphones, which gave me a chance to explain that my Ultimate Ears UE-5 Pros were made from casts of my inner ears and provide the most superior sound quality imaginable (and no, they're not hearing aids). I initiated the other conversation at the concession stand:

Me: You know what I wish you guys would get?
Concession stand guy: What?
Me: Those G2 drinks from Gatorade.
Him: Yeah, I think we're getting them.
Me: Only 25 calories per serving!
Him: People have been asking about those.
Me: They're really good.

It was so stimulating! I mean, that's the most words I've exchanged with anyone face-to-face for 48 hours.

I'm spending way too much time kicking it solo in my new capacity as Freelance Writer. I know I need to keep my brain sharp for the moment when the economy leaps to life like a newborn foal and job offers flow toward me in abundance (no pressure, B.H.O.), so here are some activities I plan to start engaging in more frequently:

1. Driving. Chicago's pothole plight works wonders for one's reflexes. Just try driving down Sheridan Road--especially the blocks with defunct streetlights--in the dark, in a blizzard. It's kind of like playing Minesweeper, but with your whole car at stake.
2. Puzzles. I used to love working puzzles, and they provide surprisingly inexpensive entertainment, except I might need to buy a new table for the purpose. Never mind, I forgot about my card table.
3. Cooking. As soon as Bob the Landlord fixes my dishwasher, I'm totally getting back to cooking. When I arrived at my apartment after an outing today, I noticed the place smells like grilled cheese. That's because I've been subsisting almost exclusively on grilled cheese sandwiches...on whole-grain, high-fiber bread, but still.
4. TV. In particular, The Real World: Brooklyn. Finally, a cast whose collective hobbies cannot be summed up in one word: tanning. This season's strangers are so non-hottie-oriented and diverse in their sexual orientations, it promises to be a truly mind-expanding ride.
5. Bubbles. I keep a bottle of bubbles on top of my refrigerator at all times, and sometimes I open the back door and blow a few into the courtyard. I'm not positive it's increasing my brainpower, but it certainly is soothing.

The Case of the Defrosting Steaks

Yesterday there was a box sitting in the front hall of my apartment building which clearly contained dry ice and Omaha Steaks. It was addressed to my downstairs neighbor, Cade, for whom I'm always walking on the outside edges of my feet because I don't want to torture him in the same way my upstairs neighbor tortures me. The box had a notice taped to it: "Contents Extremely Perishable! Freeze Immediately Upon Delivery!" Well, the steaks were still sitting there this morning, so I carried them up and placed them outside my neighbor's door, hoping he'd find them on his way to work. He didn't. My anxiety about those rapidly thawing hunks of meat rose throughout the day to the point that I was going on hourly peek-over-the-rail missions to see if the box was still there. I didn't know if I should, like, knock on his door, or try to intercept him in the back stairwell, or maybe even track down his work number via Bob the Landlord. Eventually, I came up with a plan to bring the steaks into my apartment if they had not moved by 7PM, stow them in my freezer, and compose a note to Cade politely explaning the situation. Promptly at 7:00, I peeked over the rail. Whew. He found them.

So, did everyone catch the season premiere of The Bachelor earlier this week? (Mid-episode text from Tim: "If I see that guy and his son run dramatically towards each other again with their arms spread like hookers' legs, I'll vomit into a box and send it to him.") I hope you at least tuned in for the touching one-hour portion of the show during which each girl was shown individually teetering her way out of a limo, trembling in her satin Caché dress as she approached irresistible single dad Jason (who is surprisingly beardless for someone from Seattle) to share their first precious words. Most of the conversations can be summed up as follows:

Girl: You're beautiful!
Jason: No, you're beautiful!
Girl: You're so beautiful!
Jason: Seriously, you're BEAUTIFUL!
Girl: Cool, see you inside.

I started to get a little sad, watching it. I just wish someone could see into my soul like that.

A Miniature Horse, Of Course

Today I spent the entire day reading an entire book. Nothing too intellectual, just a frothy novel about a champagne vineyard in France and three sisters who couldn't get along until a Gypsy showed up and straightened them out. The most intriguing character was their pet, a dwarf miniature horse named Cochon (French for pig). Having never heard of dwarf miniature horses (tinier, even, than a regular miniature horse), I immediately Googled them and learned they are sometimes put into service in the manner of seeing eye dogs. Fascinating. I always think about how fun it might (or might not) be to get a puppy, but I think I could definitely be the talk of the neighborhood with a dwarf miniature horse following me around on his little hooves.

Anyway, I needed to take it easy today because for the past week I've been kickin' it in Kentucky, gettin' buzzed on bourbon balls, shootin' the s$%! with a variety of family members and researchin' a new breed of cool kids who appear to be taking over the town: Hillbilly Hipsters (my own term, don't you love it?). I tell you what, they're a slightly standoffish crowd, and I pretty much feel like an uptight supernerd around them. I never did come up with quite the right outfit to properly infiltrate (my hair is waaaayyy too shiny for that scene), but I did manage to take some pretty revealing notes, which you won't find here since I'd rather work them into a story for a paying media outlet.

While in Louisville I had one breakfast at my favorite restaurant, Waffle House. Atmosphere-wise, that place has really taken it up a notch since the smoking ban kicked in. One new thing I discovered at Waffle House is that I don't need to order the double waffle, ever. It's just too much dough. I also noticed a line of fine print on the menu that I'd never seen before: "Thank you! You had a choice and you chose Waffle House. Please send comments to..." followed by an address. I always try to comment whenever possible, so I started thinking about what I might say. Basically, I'd be full of compliments. Good waffles. Crispy hash browns. Exceptionally friendly service. I like watching the line cooks work the grill. My only advice would be that Top 40 music should not be allowed on Waffle House juke boxes. Only oldies and country.

Meanwhile, I defy you all to lead me to a more outstanding fast food establishment than the Chick-fil-A at exit 172 off I-65 in Lafayette, Indiana. I mean, give me a break. It's fabulosity defined. Sparkling clean, with delectable waffle fries and employees who seem genuinely delighted to be serving up chicken sandwiches. It's also a great place to stock up on my favorite low-fat mayonnaise packets, which I carry in my purse at all times. They're not open on Sundays because the Chick-fil-A corporation believes in a day of rest, so I sometimes have to reschedule my drive to a Monday morning so I don't miss out.

P.S. The highlight of Christmas Day was when my sister Claire brought one of those spiky head massagers to dinner at my grandparents' house. In a rare episode of bonding among all factions of the family, we passed it up and down the 20-seat table, each person massaging the next one's head. Even Sammy, our golden retriever, got his head raked. It was a very warm moment.

30 Going On 13

Last weekend, I was watching the enchanting Jennifer Garner flick 13 Going On 30 (it was part of a movie marathon that included two other favorites guaranteed to drive any man away, In Her Shoes and Something's Gotta Give), and thinking I really ought to star in the sequel, 30 Going On 13.

When I was 13, I was a very powerful eighth-grader at Crosby Middle School. I was the number-one flute player in the school (duh), and my band teacher and I even had a special whistle. (Mr. Dennis Anderson was possibly the best teacher of my entire public school career and beyond, and I sincerely wish I'd called him up and told him that before it was too late.) My on-again, off-again love interest was a bad boy named Brandon with a floppy blond bowl-cut, and I never found his antics anything but 100% amusing. Most of our romance played out in the back of Jefferson County Schools bus #411, but he was an excellent folder of notes and he did jump off my parents' balcony to impress me once.

Anywho, if I could lend my 30-year-old brain to my 13-year-old self for a week or so, there are a few things I could easily accomplish:

1. Since my most cherished activity of all time is staring out the window, I would stage a walkout at Crosby Middle School, a stinking brown blob of a building designed in the '70s when the presence of windows was considered a menacing distraction for students. Little did those idiot architects know how many perfectly coherent sentences I would dream up while staring out of windows later in life.

2. I would provide myself with many deadly comebacks and various other knee-as-weapon moves to use on the vast array of young men who found it endlessly entertaining to suggest I was on the fast track to a successful career at Hooter's.

3. I would strongly advise myself against being dragged to Christian rock concerts and stadium revivals by various friends' mothers, who clearly thought I needed Saving. I mean, how close did I come to being brainwashed?! Well, not very.

4. I would throw away any jars of Noxema facial cleansing mousse that may have been lying around our house at the time. Noxema is the most drying chemical agent on earth.

P.S. I am SO MEAN to telemarketers who mispronounce my name. It really gets me going.

Telemarketer: (Long crackling pause): "Hello, is this Mrs. A-muh-lee Drew-key?"
Me: "No."
Telemarketer: "With whom am I speaking?"
Me: "Amalie Drury."
Telemarketer: "Well, Mrs. Drew-key,"
Me: "I'm sorry, but do you see a "k" anywhere in the spelling of my name?"
Telemarketer: "I see D-R-U-R-..."
Me: "So why do you keep saying it with a K? And what makes you think I'm married?"
Telemarketer: "I'm sorry, Mrs. Dur, I mean Drew..."
Me: "I think you've got the wrong person, and furthermore, I don't have enough cell phone minutes to indulge this conversation. Adios."

A Manifesto Kind of Mood

Watching Jerry Maguire always puts me in a bit of a manifesto mood. You should have heard me up on my high horse last night, going on about high-rise living in a conversation with Jeff over a turkey burger at Marge's on Sedgwick. (Stay tuned for more on this topic in Jeff's upcoming book, Cool vs. Comfort: The Eternal Architectural Conundrum.) My passionate speech about the existential issues involved with living like stacked ants in overly imposing glass boxes reminded me of the intensity with which I used to approach my neighbor on Cherokee Road in Louisville to speak to him about his leaf-blower. Basically, I wanted him to:

1. Not blow leaves and sticks upon my freshly washed car, which was parked near his residence.
2. Not blow leaves when people were trying to get married in peace at the church across the street.
3. Not blow leaves when I was trying to study for the GRE.

The Quote of the Month goes to my friend Tim, who noted (upon having inadvertently attended the Magnificent Mile Lights Festival on Michigan Avenue):

"It looks like the suburbs exploded down there. Everyone was wearing Lucky jeans."

P.S. I go to a lot of trouble to text big words like "galavanting" and "cumulonimbus clouds," so please don't write back if your text vocabulary is limited to the letters R and U.

P.P.S. Happy birthday to my mammy!

I Am My Own Housewife

Today was my first official day at home, since I abruptly became someone who Works From Home. (Photo: Working from home.)

I awoke and asked myself, What now? Well, I said to me, you might as well make yourself an egg, just like always.

I turned on the TV and searched my DVR recordings for something to watch. I decided on last night’s episode of The Hills, which I couldn't view during its normal airtime due to the draining, gut-wrenching emotion of the Britney Spears documentary, which I’d watched for two hours beforehand.

About seven minutes into The Hills, my brain began to shut down. I snatched the remote and pressed the “last” button switch to TV in real time. What do you think was on? The Hills. The very same episode. The very same moment in the very same episode, the one where Spencer chastises Stephanie about visiting their Nana. Poor Nana. What toolbags she has for grandchildren.

Later, I proceeded to my gym, Equinox, one of the loveliest places to kill an hour or two while boosting one’s sense of self-righteousness. It was noon. I warily assessed the other worker-outers, assigning each of them an excuse to explain why they might have time to do lunges in the middle of the day.

At Whole Foods, I filled a cardboard cup with spicy gumbo. I waited patiently for chicken cutlets at the meat counter.

Back at my apartment, I said to myself, You ought to dust those baseboards. You should mop (without moping, mind you), and later, you’ll throw away that super-sized box of oatmeal that expired in 07. You can replace it with a box of Quaker’s new Weight Control oatmeal.

Meanwhile, who decides to market a product using the term “Weight Control?” There is a similar tagline for a certain section of the menu at the Cheesecake Factory, I’ve noticed. Weight Management. As if anyone wants to announce to a group of dining companions and the waiter: “Yes, I’d like the Weight Management Pear and Endive Salad, please.” Yeah. And a box of tampons, while you’re at it.