Wednesday, December 19, 2007

‘Tis the Seasonal Depression

This morning my mom called at 7:35am. She said, “Don’t forget to call your grandma for her birthday…” because you know, I’m really just an over-sized, independent two-year-old incapable of keeping a calendar.

Then she said, “Did I wake you up?”

And I said, “Yes. But I should have gotten out of bed 20 minutes ago anyway.”

And she said, “ ‘Tis the season.”

... Apparently to not find a good reason to get out of bed in the morning.

I did something else today that -- I think -- in a year and a half, I have done exactly one other time. I canceled my training session with TR. I feel bad. But, I’m tired. And I have a headache. And I know that if I workout I will feel better. But, I do not care. I just want to go home. And pick up that stupid, creepy doll from that crazy doll woman who keeps closing her store early. Cause apparently dolls are in such mad demand that she can open her store for approximately 45 minutes, three days a week and still turn a profit.

Ah. Life.

Monday, December 17, 2007

Sound of Silence

Do you hear that?


That’s because I finally stopped racking my brain.

Why? You ask.

Because I am D-O-N-E.

Say it with me now.


Done. Done. Done.

Stick a fork in me. Or something.

That’s right, all of my Christmas gifts are purchased, so if I didn’t buy for you already, you’re not getting anything. So sorry.

On Sunday, Team Lou and Lou’s Sister joined forces, armed themselves with cell phones and laptops, and made online purchases for the following: Dad (wine decanter and wine book); Mom (sweater); Grandma (flowers for her birthday, which is Wednesday); Mom’s fiancé (two books); and Mom’s fiancé’s daughter (something off of her wedding registry). I know, I ruined the surprise for all ya’ll, but they don’t read the blog.

In one cross-country (Chicago to Hoboken) hour and a half long phone call we took care of everyone. Except for the people who read this blog. Sarah was pretty easy, but again, I was completely stuck on what to buy MM. Plus, and let’s be frank here, he and I haven’t been together that long. I struggle with the appropriate amount of money to spend more than anything, even though that’s a moot point when you have NO IDEA WHAT TO BUY SOMEONE.

I almost convinced myself that a lame-o sweater was the way to go. I spent my lunch hour wandering through Nordstrom’s, completely uninspired. Then, on a whim, I walked into another store, and as I continued meandering while desperately grasping at gift ideas (anything!), it hit me.

Sure it’s possible that I fabricated the conversation I think I had with him a few months ago when I believe he said that this particular item is something he might want. I figured he could use it regardless. Or take it back. Whatever he’ll probably think it’s crazy or stupid or inappropriate or all three and some other adjectives.

But, hey. I’m D-O-N-E. And that’s good enough for me.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

The Show Must Go

Saturday morning in Chicago was (three words) snowy, overcast, cold.

It’s rare I run alone. I prefer to run with Meg… it’s a good chance for us to vent our man problems. It’s all very Sex and the City meets that Nike commercial with those two women running along a lakefront and there's a city skyline in the background. Was that Nike? No? Hmm… Unfortunately, on Saturday morning Meg was sick and unable to come outside and play. I convinced myself that, more than anything, I needed to get a run in… snow, cold, gray, nastiness, alone, miserable… no matter what. And besides, I could listen to my iPod and run to Britney Spears (if that’s not incentive, I don’t know what is). Come hell, high water, or blizzard-like conditions, I was going to run.

I told myself 20 minutes… just 20 minutes… and see how it goes. At 43 minutes I figured I might as well shoot for a nice round five mile run. Of course I didn’t exactly know how far I had done, and I knew I was going a bit slow – you know with the ankle high snow and all – so I figured one hour would suffice. Nevermind that I had to clean my apartment and myself, and attempt to look presentable before MM came over to pick me up in like an hour to go out to the suburb where he grew up so I could meet his mom for the very first time ever.

Me? Concerned? No. I was jamming to Britney bitch.

Self-indulgence? Or avoidance tactic?

I suppose we’ll never know.

So then what else?

Well, for the remainder of Saturday, when I wasn’t congratulating myself on my display of badassery, I was either a) attempting to get MM to shower me with praise for said badassery or b) attempting to get MM to explain why he thinks his mother liked me (other than because I’m fabulous and a bona fide badass, as displayed on Saturday morning when I ran five miles “blizzard-like” conditions). Why don’t boyfriends understand when one says, “Did so-and-so like me?” it actually means that they are to ask so-and-so, “Did you like Lou?” They are then to engage in a full-on conversation about all the things likable about yours truly, and report the convesation back ver-ba-tim like 100 times at least. Rinse. Repeat.

God. Women sometimes.

Did I mention that I finally registered for the Flying Pig Half Marathon in Cincinnati on May 4? Well. Now you know.

Friday, December 14, 2007

La La Land

Sometimes I forget that I’m the only one that hears my thoughts. As evidence by my liberal use of pronouns. Like outta da blue, I’ll say to @ something along the lines of: We should just put it over there.


Over where?

Of course, for the last 20 minutes I’ve been mulling over something in my head and that sentence makes perfect sense to me. Why weren’t you in mah brainz readin mah thots?

So this sucks (well, for me): my beloved co-worker/part-time (*cough*fulltime*cough*) therapist/bro extraordinaire, @ (really, you knew who I was talking about) is leaving me to go on to bigger/better things. Greener pastures if you will. I’ve already spent a decent portion of the day lying on the floor next to her desk bemoaning what is to come.

That’s right. Lying on the floor. At the office. I’m not proud. At least I wasn’t curled up in the fetal position, people. You should expect far less of me.

Anyway. This is it. Our last day as co-workers in our department, spending eight hours of our day together, 10 feet away from one another. Sure… she’s only moving upstairs a coupla floors, and we will be able to utilize the gmail chat (and the awesome new emoticon that, for me, expresses complete and utter breakdown :’(. See the apostrophe? It’s a tear.)

Bear with me here. Also, we’ll still be going to the same gym provided I don’t jump ship, and she’ll still live three blocks away from me, and have keys to my house so she can pop in whenevs. You know. It won’t be that different. But still.

It sucks (well, for me).

Other stuff has been happening too. MM’s birthday was this week. Oh God. Our first foray into gift giving. That’s a little nerve-racking, right?

I got him a cookbook.

No seriously, I did. He wanted it (which actually made me feel super-not-at-all-creative, like, aren’t I supposed to just inherently know what he wants? Because you know I know him and all that crap? Yes, no?).

Then I took him out for wholesome fun all day Wednesday: free concert at the Cultural Center, lunch at Burrito Beach, The Golden Compass, and dinner at my beloved, Heartland Café, during which I made all kinds of unwholesome noises as I ate my favorite hummus on the face of this earth (Oh My God… Ummm… Oh God… that’s soooo good… and so on and so forth).

There’s more, but I have some places to go, people to see. You know.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Fabreze No More

File this one under "Shit you don't care about, but I feel compelled to share." Of course, you could file my entire blog under that. Regardless...

I can open my back door! Which means... I might actually start doing laundry again one of these days!


Did I mention that my apartment building's management decided to knock down the back porches and stairs? They nailed a 2x4 across my back door, apparently so if I got a hankering to throw myself off the second floor, it wouldn't be so... accessible. Note to self: according to my co-worker (the one who graciously informs me when I need to get my roots done), jumping out of a fourth floor window would not kill me. I imagine this applies to the second floor.

Anyway, the back porch is D-O-N-E! And now that I don't need to go out the front door, through the street, behind the building via the alley to get to the laundry room, I may actually clean some clothes. Hell to the -- wait for it -- yeah.

Thursday, December 06, 2007

To Join is To Join

Last night, Meg and I were going to run three or four miles in the neighborhood. It was a bad idea. Estimated temperature: -4 billion degrees. Treacherous running conditions included sidewalks that business owners hadn't bothered to toss a handful of salt on, much less shovel. I feared breaking my neck, or worse… my face. So, Meg and I, in need of some catching up time, decided to go on a 40 or so minute walk instead.

Sadly, this idea was also ill-fated.

By the time we parted ways, my thighs felt as though they would shatter if tapped with a small mallet. That's right, go ahead, hit my so-cold-they-sting-legs with a hammer; we'll see what happens.

This prompted me to say, "Meg, I should just join your gym, then we can work out together, but we don't have to run in this crap." Of course, she thought it was a grand idea (who doesn't want to work out with Lou?). And considering that I've been pissed off at my gym about the amount of money I pay a month to be a member, I have started to think it might be a good idea.

I realize I get on this "I must switch gyms" kick every couple of months. My gym, we’ll refer to it here as Gym A, is solid, but over-priced. Meg’s Gym, Gym B, is (according to Yelp) not over-priced, but over-crowded, and apparently (according to Yelp) often experiences a shortage of towels (I use approximately one to four towels per gym visit -- go ahead judge me -- so this is unfortunate). And Gym B just also happens to be MM’s gym, which makes me feel weird about the whole thing – similar to how I felt a year and a half ago when I told @ I was probably going to join Gym A, which she had been a member of for several months.

“Uh… so I’m thinking about joining your gym… not that I’m following you there or anything… uh… we don’t have to work out together… I just thought I should probably tell you…”

Or something like that.

Here’s the problem. My life revolves around a straight line drawn from where I live to where I work. I prefer that every place I go, every thing I do, be either clustered around where I live or where I work or (OR!) directly adjacent to the line between the two. Blame it on not driving. Blame it on Chicago’s sometimes dicey transit system that makes multiple stops and transfers nightmarish. Blame it on my laziness.

Anyway, Gym A is near my work. Gym B is adjacent to the line.

Maybe wanting to change gyms right now is akin to last Saturday night before I went to the bar when I picked up scissors and for a second (a second!) I entertained the idea of cutting bangs right then and there. A sign of restlessness, perhaps? Something we can blame on ‘tis the season?

I’m all about blame lately.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Placing Blame

That right there is a Pocket.
A whaaaaat? That's right... a Pocket.

If you don't live in Illinois, you don't have this tasty I've-almost-convinced-myself-I'm-eating-a-salad meal option.

I blame this woman for bringing Pockets into my world. And, I blame Meg with convincing me to give it a try. I also blame Meg for helping me realize that two Ranch dressings are far superior to one. And, (though he doesn't know it), I blame MM for my purchase of the soda.

The cookie though (top left)... that was all me.

Maybe I'll re-name this blog, A View of What I Ate Today.