'Tis the SeasANN to be Jolly

Ever since the age of 19- my first Christmas out of high school and therefore void of a two week "Christmas Break"- I've had to force myself into the holiday spirit. Those two weeks off, full of nothingness and pajamas and snowfall, were Christmas to me. But now, at 25, getting into the "Christmas mood" has been a pain in the ass.

That's not to say that I don't love Christmastime. In fact, I WANT to love it so much more. I'd love to savor the twinkling lights, walk leisurely through a delicate snowfall, and listen to obnoxious Christmas songs on an endless loop. But things like work and bills and chores get in the way- the same things that get in the way the other 11 months of the year- which just makes it feel like the other 11 months of the year. I always find myself saying "It doesn't feel like Christmas yet." And I'm afraid that it'll never feel like Christmas again until I get my two week vacation back. Sometimes I come across the occasional inkling of holiday spirit with an especially good hot chocolate or watching Fraggle Rock's Spirit of the Bells, but the feeling is fleeting and the all-inclusive warmth of the season still escapes me. Well not this year readers! Join me as I raise a defiant fist in the air and painfully force myself to reclaim this holiest of holidays!

Step #1 Visit Walgreens' seasonal aisle
Seems simple enough (because it is) but it really does the trick. I happened to have a few minutes to kill the other day and found myself wandering the aisles of my local Walgreens. As I rounded the corner to the seasonal aisle, I was expecting to find the usual garland and ornaments (which I did), but I also found a rush of holiday memories I forgot I had. Apparently, in my brain, Reeses Peanutbutter Cups in the shape of bells= Christmas. As I found a bag sitting on a shelf, I began to vaguely remember the delectable little treats in a glass dish on our kitchen table during the holidays. Lovely little morsels dressed in red, green, and gold foil. Before I knew it, I was gently caressing the bag of Reeses with the tenderness one might caress an old baby blanket, softly saying "awww" and creeping people out. Just that little spark gave me the indescribable excitement of recalling something I hadn't remembered in so long.



Step #2 Watch every holiday movie in existence
Now, to be fair, I know time is a scarce commodity during the holidays and most of us don't have hours to dedicate to cheeseball holiday movies. However, I have found that renting these movies, watching them late at night, getting way too comfortable on the couch with your Snuggie, and falling asleep for a majority of the movie still works just fine. This way, you still catch the beginning and the very end as you awake from your impromptu nap, and those are the most important parts anyway, right? We all already know Scrooge is visited by three ghosts, George Baily is visited by Clarence, and Clark W. Griswold is visited by Cousin Eddie. However, the very essence of the movie is always at the end. We find out what happens every time a bell rings, Scrooge de-humbugs for Tiny Tim, and the Griswold's get the bonus needed to build that pool. See? Nap+Movie= maximum viewing efficiency.

Understandably, some of you may want to actually view a movie in its entirety. In this case, it's essential to weed out the lame ones and watch the ones that will warm your heart. The following list contains the only holiday movies worth seeing.

1. It's a Wonderful Life- duh. I'm a huge fan of old movies. Especially ones that refer to unmarried women as "old maids"

2. National Lampoons Christmas Vacation- it's a classic (plus Sara has a thing for Clark Griswold)

3. A Muppet Christmas Carol- the Dicken's classic made even awesomer with masterful muppetry

4. A Christmas Story AKA a biographical depiction of my dad's childhood

5. The Christmas Toy- another Henson favorite that my mom recorded onto VHS when it aired on TV, 1980's commercials included

6. Elf- a recent addition to the list but all the worthy and heartwarming

And that's it. I'm sure my somewhat abbreviated list will spark controversy in that there's no Miracle on 34th Street or White Christmas or other more lame Christmas movies, but I don't care. A girl can only fall asleep to so many movies.


Step #3 Make REAL hot chocolate
If making hot chocolate for you involves water, a packet full of a fine brown dust, and a microwave, then you oughta be ashamed of yourself. Making delicious velvety hot chocolate from scratch can involve as little as two ingredients and do as much as help you to reclaim your culinary dignity. First, warm milk (skim, 2%, whole- your choice) in a small saucepan. When the milk begins to bubble ever so slightly, whisk in a handful of chocolate chips or chop up half of a chocolate bar until melted and VIOLA. No processed brown powder involved. Once you've mastered this simple technique, you can really get creative and add some chopped Andes Mints, or a teaspoon of vanilla extract and cinnamon, or even a splash of rum (I wouldn't know anything about this though). Holiday in a cup!


Step #4 Slip on the ice
I know you probably don't want to do this, but it's bound to happen (at least to me anyway) so you may as well enjoy every terrifying moment of it as though it were a holiday gift you weren't expecting. And if, by the grace of God, you don't slip on the ice, the holidays are prime viewing time to watch others slip. I had the fortune to do so last winter. It was moments after my friend Rick and I had just snickered at the man in front of us teetering dangerously on a patch of ice when Rick himself slipped on that SAME ice. Like icing on a cake (get it? icing?), Rick also spilled the soft drink he had just purchased all over himself. It was the greatest.



Step #5 Sweat in your winter coat

The moment the holiday season truly struck me this year wasn't when I heard the Salvation Army ringing bells on Michigan Avenue or when the Daley Plaza tree was lit, but when I wandered through a crowded store wearing a coat that had promptly turned into an oven. It was hot, it was crowded, it was Christmas.

Step # 6 Catch a cold/sinus infection/flu

It's your choice really- there's so many to choose from. Sara went with the sinus infection this year, just to spice things up a little. I was thinking of waiting until January or February to get one. Whichever you choose, nothing says holidays like lying corpselike on the couch with a bottle of Nyquil and breathing heavily through your mouth.

Step #7 Gain 25-30 pounds

Now, I don't mean to brag or anything, but I can pretty much do this step with my eyes closed ANY time of the year. So around the holiday season when everyday presents a new treat to enjoy, gaining weight is about as easy as stuffing your face with cookies and candies all day long. Actually, it's EXACTLY that easy. And nothing says holidays like looking back on pictures of yourself when your face appears to be nothing but a bloated likeness of your former self. Embrace it people.

And there you have it- my seven easy steps to recapturing the essence that is Christmas. Of course, these are loose guidelines so feel free to omit some (except #7, it's gonna happen) and add others. And, yes, I realize Christmas is in two days and no one can possibly begin to complete almost any of these steps in that time. The truth is, I began writing this blog over a week ago and haven't had a chance to finish it until now...while I'm at work...at 6:30am. So I suppose if there's any actual value in today's blog, it's that maybe my new Christmas spirit means being frazzled and tired to the point of insanity, broke to the point of tears, and eventually having a marathon baking session until the point of pure bliss. I wouldn't call it "Christmas New and Improved", let's just call it Christmas 2.5.

Sweet Home Shikaakwa

I was closing in on my hour of cardio at the gym when the voting was being broadcast. I knew there were another 15 minutes or so until the results were announced and, get this, I KEPT DOING CARDIO UNTIL THE ANNOUNCEMENT. That's how excited I was to witness Chicago's historic win for the 2016 Summer Olympics. My usual routine involves staring at the clock and watching the seconds crawl slowly and painfully by as I wait for the sweet moment when my workout is done and I'm free of the shackles of the treadmill. But I was so excited to see my beloved city take the gold that I kept up the cardio. If that's not love then I don't know what is. And then I think we all know what happened. Chicago's collective ego took a huge hit as the President of the IOC with his fancy European accent (and a bit of snootiness, if I may say) uttered rather tersely and emotionless, "Chicago will be eliminated." I read an article in regards to the Olympics titled, "Used to Losing, Chicagoans Still Wounded" which suggested that the Second City identifies with frequently losing. Chicago used to losing? What's that supposed to mean? I immediately felt defensive of my beloved city. It's like the idea that you can make fun of your family because they're your own but nobody else can. Just back off people! I mean, what has Rio de Janeiro got that Chicago doesn't? A reputation for men with mustaches? Nope. A rich history full of organized crime and corruption? Uh-uh. A baseball team with no World Series wins in over a hundred years? Not even close! Rod Blagojevich? They wish! The fact is, Rio de Janerio is a snooze compared to sweet home Chicago. Not convinced? Read on...

1. HOT DOGS
Hey Rio de Janeiro, I dare you to beat Chicago's hot dog awesomeness! Scared? You should be!!!! People like to gush over Chicago's magnificent architecture but if I want to look at something beautifully designed, I find me a Chicago hot dog. And then I eat it. There was a time in my life when I actually ate hot dogs with ketchup. I know, I'm not proud to admit it and my dad would regularly badger me shouting in a strained voice, "You can't put ketchup on a hot dog!" How right you were father. My first bite into a Chicago-style dog and I was sold. Anthony Bourdain, famed food critic and close personal friend of mine (ok, I only met him once) even named Hot Doug's, a Chicago gourmet hot dog stand, as one of his top ten places to eat in the world. THE WORLD. I think the capital letters speak for themselves. And no one is more fully devoted to the hot dog than Sara. If she's not eating a hot dog, then she's probably talking about eating one. So yeah Rio, we got the hot dog covered.

2. FALL
You know, the season after summer? Well Rio's average annual temperature is 73.5 degrees. The lowest temperature ever recorded in Rio's history was 40 degrees in 1928. However, it's rare that the temperature ever drops below 50 degrees. Boring!! You can kiss the picturesque autumnal reds, oranges, and browns that practically sprinkle the city with color and life and signify the start of a new month, or a new school year, or even a new sports season goodbye if you live in Rio. Yes, it gets cold in Chicago, very cold. And most people whine about it for four months (myself included), but that's why the title of this entry isn't named "Winter." Fall means new sweaters and scarves, a reason to get cozy with a book on the couch, and time for tea! There's a very crisp woodsy smell to fall, especially on a cloudy day, that will forever give me butterflies in my stomach at the thought of a new school year, no matter how old I get. I love the slight nip in the air that leaves the tip of my nose cold. I love that every tree is practically begging for its picture to be taken. I love that I can drink a White Chocolate Mocha without guilt because fall makes it feel right. I love that every day is a good hair day because the humidity is gone. And I love that it all happens in Chicago. Beaches are nice and all, but I need some seasons.

3. CULTURE
Chicago is practically bursting at the seams with museums, theaters, and festivals. Every year is packed with events like Taste of Chicago, Jazz Fest, Blues Fest, Lollapolooza, and the Chicago Film Fest. Perhaps you're an indoors-y museum-y type of person? We've got a little something called the Field Museum or the Museum of Science and Industry or The Shedd Aquarium or the Adler Planetarium. Ever hear of 'em? Thought so. What's Rio got? Carnivale? Big deal. Chicago has a celebration every June called Gay Pride Parade, and I will wager my next paycheck that there is far more feathers and body glitter at Gay Pride than at Carnivale. There's also probably a lot more partial nudity and religious protesters. And so what if Rio's National Library is ranked 8th largest in the world? No one is visiting Rio for its libraries. They're visiting for Canivale, and we've already established that Gay Pride Parade is better than Carnivale. So, by the transitive property, people are visiting Rio but wishing they were at Gay Pride.

4. SPORTS
I know frighteningly little about sports but I know enough to be positive that Chicago is and always will be the quintessential sports town. From what I can deduce, the Cubs, Sox and Bears comprise what is considered to be the Holy Trinity of which all Chicagoans devoutly worship. There are three centers of worship in the city- Cellular Field, Wrigley Field, and Soldier Field. Obviously, it is mentally and spiritually impossible to support both the Cubs and the Sox without spontaneously combusting or alienating family and friends, but the everlasting Spirit of Baseball creates an unbreakable bond between all fans while also forging a lifelong, generations-old rift between Cubs fans and Sox fans. It's uncomfortable. However, when the Apocalypse is upon us and we stand before the pearly gates on our Judgement Day, we know Cubs fans will be ushered into the welcoming arms of Heaven while Sox fans will be damned to the fiery depths of hell. Or so I'm told. My last name is Lindsay and therefore I am a Cubs fan FOR LIFE. Ya see? I don't know the first thing about baseball but my blood runs Cubby blue. That's dangerously blind passion, Chicago-style. If there's any city in the world to host a sporting event, it's Chicago.

5. HISTORY
In the most technical sense, Rio de Janeiro has a solid 272 years of history on Chicago. But Chicago's historical richness can't be measured in years. From the Great Chicago Fire to the Haymarket Affair to the World's Columbian Exposition, Chicago's history is full of rivalries and tragedies and triumphs and losses. Our history has molded our neighborhoods and lent to our endless traditions. I guess I'm biased because my own Grandpa Joe was a Chicago cop and my Papa helped to build the Hancock Building with his own two hands. I get misty eyed every time I stop to think that I not only live in this beautiful city but that my family is so thoroughly ingrained in it. And ok, maybe my personal family history has little to do with Chicago's bid for the 2016 Olympics, but I can't manage to separate the two histories. They're one and the same to me. And if I'm forced to brings facts into this historical argument, we need only to look to the origin of each city's name to understand Chicago's superiority. Founded at Guanabara Bay, Rio de Janeiro (or "January River") was named thus by Portuguese explorers because it was believed the bay was a mouth to a big river...which it's not. EMBARRASSING. The name Chicago is derived from a French rendering of the Native American word "shikaakwa," meaning wild onion. Wild Onion? DELICIOUS.

If only the International Olympic Committee had asked my opinion first, maybe we wouldn't be in this mess. Maybe Chicago would be well on it's way to becoming a world class city and host to the 2016 Summer Olympics instead of boring ol' exotic Rio. I guess in the meantime, Chicago will just have to remain the greatest culinary, autumnal, cultural, athletic, and historical city in the world.

Ann- New and Improved!

I would be remiss in my duties as world's most awesome blogger if I didn't address the fact that it's been awhile since I've blogged. A LONG while. While there is no legitimate excuse for leaving my readers longing for more Life Without a Bulla, I do have my reasons. For starters, I struggled to find a topic. After nine months, I'm still grappling with the fact that I'm no longer a student. I've yet to adjust to the idea that my week consists of work. And only work. SO MUCH WORK. This foreign monotony left me confused and uninspired. So, I attempted to infuse creativity and newness (and some 'oldness') into my life again. And, whad'ya know? It worked. The following is Summer 2009, Ann Style.

All Work and No Playdoh Makes Ann a Dull Girl

I pose this question to my readers: Is there anything that Aldi DOESN'T have?

88 cent boxes of turkey sausage links? check
$1 cartons of strawberries? check
Any food in existence found in canned form? check
A 24 color variety box of Playdough for $9.99? CHECK

And with that being said, I think we all know where this entry will be taking us. It goes without saying that I didn't hesitate to throw that box of Playdoh in my cart next to my turkey sausage and canned corn. And it was, perhaps, one of the best purchases I made all year. Moments after getting home, I was on my living room floor with 24 colors and endless possibilities. The smell...the touch...I was hypnotized. It didn't take long for Sara to join me.

But being 24 years old and playing with Playdoh brought about an odd juxtaposition. The last time I played with Playdoh, I was probably around eight or nine and my biggest concern at the time was not getting blamed for making Gracie eat the purple balls of Playdoh which she was somehow led to believe were grapes. Other stresses included making sure I had the latest collection of Limited Too clothing, campaigning for an American Girl doll (Kirsten) and memorizing the words to "A Whole New World" from Disney's Aladdin.

But as I rolled out the dough for my Playdoh Pizza, different thoughts went through my mind this time, like "Is there a job where I can get paid to make Playdoh food?" and "When are my library books due?" and "Is there enough dishwashing liquid left to mop the floors?" So no, I didn't completely revert back to the carefree playfulness of an eight year old, but I still found the whole process familiar and therapeutic. Playdoh Therapy. Click the link below and take a moment to enjoy the awesomeness...

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=130477&id=503606263&l=6142711dc1

Polly-Ann-a

And now for the 'oldness.' I was recently transported back in time with a trip to my mom's house. After pulling out a box of one of my favorite old toys, I spent a solid hour with Grace and Sara "playing" Polly Pockets. I'm talking vintage Polly Pockets. Not your sissy 3 inch Polly Pockets today. Back when "choking hazard" wasn't slapped on every toy. Of course, memories quickly came flooding back to me as we organized the Pollys and tried to remember the names we had given each one. There was Alice, the chef, the two Anitas (I guess naming wasn't our forte) and a 20+ other characters I couldn't remember.

But after a few minutes I began to realize that I wasn't quite sure how to play with Polly Pockets. Granted, I'm at an age where I probably shouldn't know how to play with toys like Polly, but not only that, I couldn't remember how I used to play with Polly. How did I pass the hours with these inanimate objects? What did my Pollys say and do? And what happened to the Ann that played with those toys? Oh right... she plays with Playdoh now.

Art Institute-a-paloozza

I live in what I would argue to be one of the greatest cities in America. There's fine dining, exciting nightlife, free street fairs and festivals, great sports teams (well- kinda), and more theaters and museums than you can shake a stick at (for those English majors out there, I realize I just ended that sentence with a preposition but I don't care! It's my blog!). Yet, I visit these museums a dismal ONCE a year- if that! I know, I'm embarrassed. So I've begun what I hope to be a revival, of sorts.

One lovely Thursday evening, Gracie and I took advantage of the Art Instutute's free night (of course). Having been to the Art Institute quite a few times, I was most excited to visit the Institute's new Modern Wing. I figured we'd breeze through most of the Institute, having seen it all before. To my surprise however, I quickly became enraptured by all its old standbys I'd seen a million times. I think of it as similar to watching a movie you haven't seen since you were little. You think you'll love the movie for all the reasons you loved it when you were little. And that's true. But there's always the element of surprise after watching it as an adult. You find yourself exclaiming, "Weird, I remember this part! I just never knew what it meant..." You realize there were jokes that you never caught onto when you were younger (I seem to have this experience EVERY year with National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation). You wonder why you ever loved the movie as a child because obviously you weren't comprehending half of it. So it's still the same movie you once loved, but different at the same time. It's strangely new and... familiar.

Such was my experience at the Art Institute. I got everything I expected from the visit but viewed through a different filter. Paintings I once glanced over were the ones I loved the most this time. And Grace and I found the most fascinating piece of the night tucked away in the Art Institute's "basement." In a deserted section housing mostly ancient Indian and African artifacts was a necklace from THOUSANDS of years ago. My brain is incapable of comprehending that date. What business did a woman from 1000 BC have wearing a necklace?!? What purpose did it serve? Did it indicate status? Was it a gift? Or was she just a girl looking to spruce up an outfit? It was an experience that created an eerie connection for me because I WEAR NECKLACES TOO. Is this creeping anyone else out??

Necklaces aside, it was a productive and enlightening visit (take a peak at http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=141296&id=503606263&l=f7d4f02a2f. Note- this album also includes my trip to Ye Olde Bristol Renaissance Faire. LIFE CHANGING) With the Art Institute being only a bus ride away, I plan to make more regular visits. The same goes for The Field Museum, The Shedd Aquarium, Lincoln Park Zoo and The Chicago History Museum. On their respective free days of course...

Giant Sandwiches and Bridges Yunz!

After two years of her attending the University of Pittsburgh, I decided maybe it was time to pay Gracie a visit at her college campus. So in late August, Sara, Grace and I all hopped on a plane with ten thousand of Grace's suitcases and made our way to the City of Bridges. Pittsburgh is a lovely city full of unexpected hills and a mediocre mass transit system, albeit much cleaner than the CTA. I liked Pittsburgh for it's ambiguity. Is it Midwestern? Or does its relation to the Appalachian Mountains categorize it as eastern? I was reminded of Chicago's Midwestern qualities in that there were obnoxious herds of footballs fans roaming the streets, shouting obscenities and urinating publicly. On the other hand, Pittsburgh certainly has its own distinctive qualities too. For example, Pittsburghers have a local dialect called 'Pittsburghese' in which they use the term "yunz," the Pittsburgh equivalent of "y'all." Admittedly, I never actually heard the term used but there certainly were lots of T-Shirts and stores that advertised it enthusiastically.

As I said, this was the summer of culture, and so we visited Pittsburgh's Carnegie Museum of Art and its neighboring Museum of Natural History. Again, I was mesmerized and fascinated. We spent hours wandering the Museum's strangely deserted halls and faced the dangers of quickly plummeting blood sugar. I shall now describe our trip in full detail...through pictures! Let your eyes do the listening....

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=141300&id=503606263&l=d6896bea5e

In the end, it was a fun, exhausting, and hilarious three days. Pittsburgh certainly has its charm, but I will always consider Chicago to be superior to any city I visit. I suppose I just prefer my publicly urinating football fans to be wearing a Bears jersey. But 'youse guys' knew that already.

So, you see? My blogging absence wasn't without reason. I needed to recharge my batteries, discover new things, and eat a giant sandwich in Pittsburgh! And I urge you to do the same (especially the sandwich part). So visit a museum, book a flight somewhere you've never been, or just make a Playdoh Pizza.

Broke, Scared, and Desperate: My Life on Student Loans

It's official. My student loans are now in repayment. This is depressing for two reasons. 1. This means that I have graduated more than 6 months ago. It also means I have been job-searching for six months...with no success. 2. It makes me broke. SUPER broke.


The thing is- my private loan payments are relatively (I stress relatively) low compared to other people I know, and my federal loans are currently in deferment for one year because I qualify for an economic hardship (Yay?). But none of that really matters because before my loans were in repayment, I was already teetering dangerously on the edge broke-dom. Simple math will tell you that low paying job + rent = trouble. Now factor in student loans and that's some kind of crazy equation I don't even wanna think about. Of course I did and still do live comfortably. But 'pre-loan repayment Ann' could order her favorite iced decaf tripio in a Venti cup from Starbucks without feeling guilty. The current 'loan repayment Ann' shops at Aldi. Old Ann would treat herself to a movie currently playing in theaters. Current Ann only sees free screenings offered by marketing companies for movies she doesn't even care to see. Old Ann would buy $5 Garnier shampoo. Current Ann buys $1 Suave and mops the floors using dishwashing soap. Old Ann would buy toilet paper in bulk. Current Ann will occasionally take a roll of toilet paper from the gym to bide time before buying more. I'm not proud of my behavior people! So, until some genius employer realizes what they're missing out on and hires me, I've devised a list of things to make a few extra bucks.


1. GET SENT MONEY WITHOUT DOING ANYTHING. This seems like the most obvious way to earn extra cash. I accept cash, check, money order and all major credit cards. You might think that I'd be ashamed to blatantly ask such for such charity but no, I'm not. If you offer, I will accept. This also goes for major businesses. The way I see it, there are some major corporations out there who have financially benefited from my endorsements, and I haven't seen a penny! The following entities should consider paying me for my patronage and contribution to their livelihood: Target, Subway, Disney, Taco Bell, Aldi, the city of London, YoBerri, Queen Elizabeth I, Borders Books, anyone who grows watermelons, OPI Nail Polish, and Daniel Radcliffe and the rest of the Harry Potter cast.


2. GET SPONSORED. Okay, I understand some of you might be a bit leery about sending cold hard cash and receiving nothing in return (besides my gratitude and you can't put a price on that!) so I have developed an alternative plan. If you have a small business you would like advertised, I will be happy to wear its logo on my T-Shirt, paste a sticker on my purse, sport a temporary tattoo, or even just find opportunities to mention it frequently in casual conversation. Even if you don't have a business to advertise, I'd be happy to just promote a general idea or particular thought you'd like to be made known. For instance, I hate Velcro. Maybe I'd want to spread the word about the atrocities of Velcro. A casual conversation could go thusly:


Me: "Hey Amanda, cute shoes."
Amanda: "Thanks, I got them at Aldo."
Me: "Wow, you know what I like about Aldo?"
Amanda: "What?"
Me: "They don't use Velcro on their shoes! You'll never find Velcro on Aldo shoes."
Amanada: "Well gee, what's so bad about Velcro?"
Me: "What's so bad? More like, is there anything good? Have you ever heard the sound Velcro makes? It's enough to make your ears bleed. And talk about unfashionable! Yeesh! No siree- no Velcro for me.
Amanda: "I had no idea! But you've sure got me convinced. Velcro stinks!"


Imagine the possibilities...


3. GROW A GARDEN. Refusing to buy Ramen for its attractive cheapness (think of all the sodium!), I'm sure I spend hundreds of dollars a year on fruits and vegetables. Why pay for something I can do on my own? However, an apartment in the city of Chicago doesn't allow much space for gardening (or much of anything else for that matter). So that would require someone to lend me their backyard for free in which to grow said garden. In addition, I would also need to someone to lend me their green thumb.


4. GET A BIKE. Well, I should say- get a better bike. I have a 12 speed bike meant for 6th graders (literally, it's Grace's bike from when she was 12) sitting in my apartment building's foyer unused save for one ride about two weeks ago. My bus pass had expired and determined not to spend an extra $2.25 on a bus ride, I dusted off the old bike to ride up to a soccer field about two miles away where Eric was playing a game. Of course, the tires needed air and the closest place was a FANCY bike shop a few blocks up. I once saw a bike in the window going for $700!! My plan was to sneak to the air station, pilfer the air, and flee without being seen on my ridiculous children's bike. Unfortunately, I couldn't figure out the air pump for the life of me so I had to ask a clerk for help. His conversation with me went as follows:


Clerk: "Are you gonna attempt to ride this?"
Me: "Um, yes. I know it's for 12 year olds."
Clerk: "Nothing about this bike looks comfortable."
Me: "Oh, it's not."



And then I walked off in shame. Having a grown up bike would not only save me embarrassment, ridicule, a sore ass, and bruises on the palms of my hands, but also God knows how many dollars on bus passes. Actually, I know how many dollars. A CTA week pass is $23. That's $92 a month! That could be used for, well, student loans!


5. SELL MY EGGS. It seems drastic, I know, but Sara and I both are very attracted to prospect of $5,000 to $10,000 in our pockets. The way I see it, if it's advertised on the CTA, it must be legitimate. Yes, there's talk of a long, painful, and invasive process, and not to mention the psychological effects of knowing there's a child in my likeness roaming the planet but that's worth about eight grand, right? Just ask any twenty-something woman if she's ever Googled "Egg Donation" and I think you might be surprised. As an alternative, I would also consider surrogacy- for the right price.


6. GET PUBLISHED. What I mean to say is 'Get published and get paid for it." Anyone can publish a blog (though probably not with the finesse and hilarity of mine) but not everyone gets paid for it. My readers may not believe this but- I don't actually get paid for blogging. I know- I think it's ludicrous too. So, I need to find opportunities that allow me to do what I do best- write thought provoking and earnest prose- AND receive compensation for it. I've decided to specifically direct my efforts to The Onion. For those of you unfamiliar with The Onion, it's a weekly nationwide satirical newspaper that's uproariously funny and just plain awesome. To get an idea of what I mean, visit http://www.theonion.com/. With that in mind, I have written a mock article similar to what one might find on the pages of my beloved Onion.

Scientists Develop 'Romantic Comedy' Theory

CHICAGO- Scientists at the University of Chicago's Center for Sociological Studies have developed what they've dubbed the "Romantic Comedy Sequential Equation." In a press conference on Wednesday, the scientists and media alike have hailed the discovery as "groundbreaking," "earth-shattering" and other similarly geological descriptives. The study aims to dissect and explain the long unknown Romantic Comedy, or RomCom for short, succession of events.


"We've spent years decoding the intricacies and plot twists of hundreds upon hundreds of RomComs. Some said it couldn't be done, but my colleagues and I have developed what we believe is a solid base for future RomCom dissection," said Dr. Ian Pinkerton at Wednesday's press conference. When asked to elaborate on the theory, Dr. Pinkerton explained, "Essentially, Romantic Comedy Sequential Equation can be applied to most RomCom's and prove true. In laymen's terms, the equation states, if boy meets girl, boy will fall in love with said girl, boy will lose girl in a series of unfortunate and often hilarious circumstances, and boy will then win girl back. The equation allows room for minor variables such as the 'cooky friend' or 'persistent ex."


Dr. Pinkerton and his collegues cite classic RomComs like When Harry Met Sally, Pretty Woman, and Sleepless in Seattle as evidence to support the theory. In what's known as the Meg Ryan Effect, audiences will come to know a particular actress only for RomCom roles. Actresses Julia Roberts and Jennifer Aniston have come to suffer from a mild variety of this effect.



However, Dr. Pinkerton stresses that the study and resulting equation is still only considered a theory. "Films like The Breakup have really thrown us for a loop. In this instance, we see the complete obliteration of 'boy wins girl.' While these films are still categorized as RomCom, we firmly believe they are, in fact, a species all their own," states Pinkerton. Until such a distinction is made, the Romantic Comedy Sequential Equation will not be labeled as fact. Dr. Pinkerton's next pursuit will be improving upon the existing Meryl Streep Nominations to Wins Ratio.

7. APPEAL TO A HIGHER POWER. Oprah. The fact of the matter is, Oprah has loads of cash and I would wager that she wouldn't miss a measly few thousand dollars. I'm not even talking spending cash, just student loan cash! And with my powers of persuasion, I think I can make it happen. But here's the secret- she always wants to help people who've had some kind of hardship like illness or loss or blah blah blah. Frankly, aside from the whole broke thing, things have been going pretty well for me. So I will just own up to the fact that I don't really deserve the money per se, but it certainly wouldn't go unappreciated and, she will, in turn, appreciate my honesty and frankness. Isn't being shackled to the mediocrity of middle class enough to warrant a helping hand? I think so Oprah.


8. ROB A BANK. I recently saw Public Enemies, starring the incomparable Mr. Depp as John Dilinger and I liked what I saw. It's not my first choice, but if push comes to shove- you may soon know me as the Blogging Bandit.


9. GET A MASTER'S DEGREE. Getting a Master's Degree doesn't directly supply me with money but it does aid me in circumventing my current student loans. If I were to go back to school, they would defer my loans until I've completed my degree. Some of you might be asking, "But aren't you only creating more student loans for the future?" The answer- yeah, for sure. But- that's another time and another blog.


10. GET A JOB. This should probably be number one on the list seeing as how it's the most likely to happen. However, as the days go on, it continues to seem more unlikely, but it's not for lack of trying. So if you know someone who's looking to hire an Ann like me, I would appreciate it. And even though my degree is in Public Relations, I'm actually quite skilled at a number of things such as writing (duh), taking naps, reading books, painting nails (mostly my own), sipping tea, baking, and watching Arrested Development on DVD. I have a current resume and references available upon request. Obviously, if I were to get a job, numbers one through nine can be disregarded- except maybe number one, I'm still up for that.

I'm happily accepting further suggestions or money saving tips. I'm also accepting money.

To the Millie I hardly knew but will never forget

This past month my family lost a dear friend-Millie. Usually when speaking of someone who has passed, it's customary to highlight their accomplishments and attributes. I'd love to reflect on Millie's life and give her the kind of dedication I know she deserves. But for my sisters and I, we only knew Millie as our babysitter. I never asked where she went to school, where she grew up, or what she did for 40+ years of her life before she babysat us. All I knew was that Millie would be there when I got home from school. So in honor and remembrance of Millie, the following is the life of the Millie I knew.


1. Millie was deathly afraid of snakes. Millie grew up in the south- this much I deduced from her thick southern accent. I've since been told it was somewhere in the Virginias. I can only assume a traumatic childhood confrontation led to her irrational and lifelong fear of snakes. I don't quite know how Sara and I came across this information, but we treated it like gold. A trip to the Dollar Tree later, and we were in possession of two rubber snakes. We then used these props to terrorize Millie and exploit her fear as often as possible. Knowing that Millie would make Sara drink her milk, Sara would wrap the rubber snake around the gallon of milk to scare Millie off. So intense was her fear that the very sight of snakes, rubber or otherwise, sent her screaming. I once wrapped the snake around a jug of juice, and then politely asked for a cup of juice. Sara and I spiraled the snake around the doorknob and ding-dong ditched our own house. We laughed, she cried, and a good time was had by all (except Millie).


2. Millie was family. Sort of... My Grandpa Joe had a sister. His sister married a man who shall remain nameless due to his 'sketchy' history and subsequent ex-con status. She passed away. John Doe married Millie. Got it? She was my great-half-aunt-ish.


3. Millie liked to fatten up the kiddies. Well, Gracie specifically. Everyday after kindergarten, Millie would take Grace to the McDonalds down the street. Grace would have a Happy Meal that included French Fries, a Cheeseburger, and a Chocolate Shake- she was 5 years old. Practically being in a food induced coma, Grace would fall asleep on the couch while Millie caught up on her soaps. Occasionally, my sisters and I would walk up to the local restaurant, The Purple Onion, with Millie and Grandma Anna. It was approximately a ten minute walk, but Millie and Grandma (or 'Gramaw Annie' as Millie referred to her) would pick berries from questionable bushes along the way as though we were preparing for a long winter ahead. They would then INSIST that we ate the berries. Sara and I would adamantly avoid them, but Grace was too young to know better. Once at The Purple Onion, Millie would tear open a few servings of Half & Half and have Gracie drink them, exclaiming, "Yeah, you can drink it!" Well sure, you can drink it, but it's up for debate whether a 5 year old should down a few shots of Half & Half.


4. Millie was perpetually 29 years old. It seemed like every day I would ask Millie her age. Even as a six year old, it was obvious to me that Millie was an older woman. She wore T-shirts with cats on them and could drink coffee at any time of the day. Plus, she was friends with my Grandma so I assumed they must do old lady things together, like read The National Enquirer and smoke Virginia Slims Ultra Light Regulars. But everytime I asked her age, Millie would reply,"I'm 29 darlin'. "


5. I once drove Millie's car. It was an accident, and I was six. Here's what happened: It was the first week or two at our new school and Sara was in third grade, I was in first and Grace was about 3. Sara missed the bus home so Millie, Grace, and I had to leave our new house to pick up Sara. When we all returned home, we quickly realized that we were locked out. Millie didn't have a key yet, and none of us knew the code for our garage door (We later found out it was 1234). We were stuck outside until one of my parents could get home to open the door. The blistering August sun began to bother Grace and me so Millie turned on her car's air conditioner and had us sit inside. I was six and curious so, of course, I yanked on the shiftstick and put it in reverse. Slowly, at a snail's pace, we began rolling backwards. Soon enough, the moving car caught Millie's eye and she darted to the car, ran alongside my window, and frantically tried to motion at the emergency brake. I was screaming, Grace was screaming, and Millie was screaming. The car was probably moving at all of two miles per hour, but at the time I thought I was accelerating violently into my friend Diana's house. Eventually I found the emergency brake, and Millie had us wait outside. Of course, I never told Millie I pulled the stickshift- I acted confused and said I kicked it.



6. Millie may have been a hooker. This nugget of information comes from my Grandma. It was after Millie had already begun babysitting us when my Grandma casually mentioned to my Mom, "She was a hooker ya know?" Of course her days as lady of the night were years ago. Perhaps she was mixed up in the wrong crowd when she met her John Doe, but decided to start anew with a family. I urge you to consider the source (my Grandma). The details are sketchy.

And that's what I knew of Millie. She was what you'd call a tough cookie. She never hesitated to speak her mind and often did so loudly. She was also a warm, loving woman who cared about my sisters and I like we were her own, and had a boisterous scratchy laugh that I'll never forget. She spent her last days at her home in Las Vegas. She moved out to Vegas after Gracie grew up because the weather made her feel good, and she loved the atmosphere. When she passed away of stomach cancer she was 29 (okay, 77).

They didn't have my size: The story of a size 11 shoe

I wear a size 11 shoe. For those of you unfamiliar with women's shoe sizes, let me explain: that's HUGE. ENORMOUS. It's so abnormally large that most retailers don't carry sizes past a 10 or 10.5. On more than one occasion I have happened across the world's most perfect pair of shoes- fashionable, dainty, versatile, and affordable, only to be told, "I'm sorry, we don't carry that size." Sometimes it is said with pity but more often it's said in the same manner as 'we don't serve your kind here,' as though I should be ashamed of my big clunking feet. Or even more ridiculous, it's said as though I CHOSE to have the feet of the elusive Sasquatch. But I implore you shoemakers of the world as I shake a defiant fist in the air, am I not human? If I am hurt, do I not bleed?

So rare is it to find a size 11 or, god forbid, a size 12 shoe, that the Nordstrom Rack store has an annual event for women with my particular...burden. Each summer, Nordstrom Rack hoists a huge blue sign that reads "LARGE SHOE SALE" in their storefront window. You might think this sign to mean a shoe sale of large proportions but you would be wrong. It is, in fact, a sale consisting solely (pun!) of large sized shoes. While I appreciate the effort Nordstrom Rack, I would be more appreciative if large sized shoes (especially sale shoes!) were always made available. Of course there are those few retailers that manufacture and sell shoes on a regular basis for women like myself. These retailers generally stock a scant few size 11 shoes and the big-footed women of the world are left to the unspoken battle of being the first to snatch those few coveted pairs. Rather than unite with them, I am forced to turn my back on my fellow Sasquatches as I run wildly from the store, drunk on power and the adrenaline rush of finding my size.

Perhaps more frightening are shoe sizes 12 and up. I truly lie awake at night wondering where those lowly and unfortunate size 12 wearing souls (pun #2!!) even begin to search for a decent pair of shoes. I know of only one store that stocks women's shoe sizes 12 and up, and the selection is dismal. Unfortunately, I have discovered from years of personal experience that the size of the shoe is directly proportional to the incidence of Velcro. For example, a delicate size 6 will find little to no Velcro present on a shoe. Their shoes will be only the most fashion-forward and always in stock. A size 12, on the other hand, would be hard pressed to find a shoe WITHOUT Velcro. I suppose shoemakers assume that large footed women are also mildly retarded with clumsy and beefy fingers not suited for tying a shoelace. Size 12 shoes are often stocked in the dimly lit cavernous halls of a shoe store, left safely out of sight along with the shoehorns and clearance socks. My sister (a mere size 6) often complains that she's usually forced to buy the display pair of shoes. Oh how horribly painful and unfortunate it must be! (note: read preceding sentence with sarcasm) I am then forced to give her a solid smack to the face and remind her that a size 11 shoe would NEVER be a display pair because they're simply to immense and unappealing.

I distinctly remember when I first realized that my feet were abnormally large for my size. It was Ms. McKay's fourth grade class, and we were studying the moon. Each student was to head to the front of the class where Ms. McKay had placed a scale. We were then instructed to step on the scale, and she would announce our weight in front of the class. Being discreet and tactful wasn't Ms. McKay's style. Having once completed an assignment about symmetry that required me to sketch the other half of Abe Lincoln's portrait, Ms. McKay deemed my sketch inadequate in front of the class by scoffing, "Well Ann, it looks like he has a rash." She practically spat the words in my face as I looked on flabbergasted. I mumbled something about his beard and went sheepishly to my seat. And so went our moon project. After learning my weight (90 lbs), I then computed my 'moon weight' (something less than 90 lbs). Midway through the computations, I came to the frightening realization that I was a solid 30 lbs heavier than my friend Stephanie, and I knew the reason why: my shoes. Fourth graders just don't wear a size 9 shoe, but I did. I was convinced the two bricks on my feet I called shoes added at least 15-20 lbs to my weight. Nevermind the fact that Stephanie was a twig, and I towered a good six inches above her, I declared a second shoe-free weigh-in. Ms. McKay did not oblige.

From there on out my life has been filled with astonished expressions and awkward pedicures. On a positive note, I never lose a swimming race with these flippers. I would be amiss in my shoe story if I didn't mention my standard 'dad joke' that "I'll never fall over!" Sure, my friends can never borrow my shoes without looking like a six year old playing dress up in their mom's shoes but in all honesty, I've never been self-conscious about my feet (even though I probably should be). My feet have become my trademark. Cindy Crawford has her mole, Angelie Jolie has her lips, and I have my size 11 feet. Besides, my Grandma Anna always said that having big feet meant you'll be rich. She never explained much beyond that but I never asked her to. Wanna know why? Oprah wears a size 10.5 shoe.

The Princess and the 2"x4"

She tossed from right to left, exasperated. Forcing her eyes closed, she began counting sheep. One...two...three...four...oh, this is stupid, she thought. She rolled from the center of the bed to the far left side, finding only minimal relief. Something was keeping her up all night.

I don't understand, she thought anxiously. The bed looks comfortable. And it truly was a grand bed with pillows stacked high in tones of gold, jeweled purple and green. A lush comforter hugged the bed, creating a soft cloud of royal blue. It practically lured the young woman with promises of a blissful night's sleep and happy dreams. It was a bed made for a princess.


OR SO I THOUGHT.


However, I wish it were only a tiny pea keeping me up at night. I would KILL for a pea. According to my sister, they're practically the sprinkles of the vegetable world. And who doesn't like sprinkles?!? Instead, it was a 2"x4" that kept me restless. Or rather, eight 2"x4" 's.


It all began about a month ago. Well... let me clarify, it all began about 50 years ago. My mom and aunt are close in age, much like Sara and me. Growing up on the Chicago's southwest side, my mom shared a room with her younger sister, Lori. In the modest room was a set of twin size beds meant for bunking. My mom claimed the coveted top bunk, decorating the spacious headboard with a picture of Paul McCartney while Lori was relegated to the bottom bunk. Lori, being the rambunctious young girl she was, frequently kicked the bottom of my mom's mattress in playful jest. Giggles would follow and eventually, they would both drift into a sound night's sleep. Oh sisterly love!!


Fast forward 40 years, and Sara and I would use those same beds as our own, this time fashioned side-by-side rather than bunked. Our beds were decked out in various stuffed animals and pretty pink comforters to match our equally pink room. Each night, Grace would move from her room (don't ask me how the youngest daughter got her OWN room), and place a small mattress between our two beds, determined not to be left out. We three talked and joked into the night. Of course there were giggles and snickers every night as we, too, fell soundly asleep.


Years passed and we each moved into and decorated our own bedrooms. And with those new rooms came new beds. I upgraded my tiny little twin to a regal queen. Perhaps, this was my undoing. I never knew a bad night's sleep in my queen. There was room to toss and turn, lay diagonally, hell, even lay horizontally if I wanted to. But did I appreciate this gift from God? No! I slept a mere 7 hours a night and left the bed unused and alone the rest of the day. If only my 24 year old self could have told that ignorant 13 year old to cherish the sweet serenity of a queen size bed. Read in bed!! Paint you nails in bed!! For God's sake, take a nap on that bed! But alas, it was all gone before it was ever appreciated.


At age nineteen, when I moved to the city, I was catapulted back to reality when I pulled the ol' twin size bed from storage for use in my new room. I think the first few weeks of twin-sized life were clouded by the euphoria I felt about living downtown. When I sobered up, I realized my bed was much too small for a nineteen year old. There was also the fact that my roomate's cat would help me welcome each morning by sitting on my face and licking my ponytail, but in all fairness, I can't blame the bed for that. Then, I deluded myself into believing that a nice set of bedding would remedy my bed situation. So, I made a trip to Target and bought comfy-looking pillows which only crowded my bed even more and made for one hell of a subway ride home. Soon, I accepted the bed for what it was: an old, worn out, sorry excuse for a bed that still had a snowflake sticker stuck on the headboard that I put there when I was eight with a half-gnawed bedpost compliments of Warren The Cat.

And as if to come full circle, Sara and I found a cozy little place in the Chicago's Lakeview neighborhood a year later, with one tiny exception- it was a one bedroom. Yep, as though it were written for a sitcom, Sara and I were forced to return to out original side-by-side arrangement in our original twin size beds. Like Lucy and Desi or Ozzie and Harriet, we would wish each other a goodnight and retreat to our prospective beds. Unlike a sitcom, hilarity did not ensue.

I suffered with that bed for four excruciating years. Even after moving to a bigger place and getting my own room, I couldn't manage to drop the clams necessary for a new bed. Then, when I turned 24, I drew the line. 24 isn't what most would consider a milestone birthday, but it happened to be the year I graduated from college. I could longer brush off a couchless apartment and twin size bed with a chuckle and the 'poor college student' bit. Poor I was but college student I am no more. I committed to months of saving my hard earned cash and purchased a FULL SIZE MATTRESS.

Notice I only said 'mattress' and not box spring. You see, a box spring costs extra and I was convinced I could make do without one. I bought a bed frame that allowed for a box-springless mattress (or so I thought), and spent a solid three hours assembling it with Eric. We laughed, we cried, but we mostly just cried and cursed IKEA. We completed the bed frame just in time for the mattress to be delivered.

"It's HERE!!!!" I shrieked when the knock on the door came. "Right this way," I said with a exaggerated sweep of my arm to motion where the kind gentlemen could leave the mattress. I proudly pointed to my newly assembled bed frame and said, "Just right on the frame please," with a huge smile.

"Oh...you can't just use the frame. Where's the box spring? Or the wooden slats to make it a platform bed?" the delivery man asked with just a twinge of pity in his voice. The overwhelming feeling of exasperation and frustration must have shown on my face. I briefly tried to argue with the delivery man and convince him that bed frame would hold up just fine without a box spring or flats.

"Well, yeah but your mattress will sink in the middle. It's not good for the mattress," he reasoned. Not good for the mattress? What did I care about the health of the mattress? Needing to place blame on someone other than myself, I gave him a 'tude and asked, "Ok, well then what am I supposed to do?"

Perhaps sensing that I was teetering dangerously on the edge of insanity, he politely suggested I visit Home Depot and purchase a sheet of plywood to create a makeshift platform. Knowing that purchasing the sheet of plywood would require exact measurements on my part, I came up with the genius idea of using eight 2"x4"s placed horizontally across the bed frame's center beam., thus creating a series of wooden slats with which to support the mattress.

Visiting the Home Depot down the street proved fruitless in that their giant saw-thingy was not in working order. A friendly employee suggested me and my 'husband' (I just went with it) just purchase the 10 foot beams of wood and use our own saw and cut them ourselves. I informed her that neither I nor my husband was in possession of a saw, or a backyard or a garage in which to cut it for that matter.

"You don't have a saw?!" she asked and turned to Eric incredulously and slightly disgusted, as if she thought less of him because of it. Pitying us, she directed us the next closest Home Depot. Upon reaching our second Home Depot, we were helped my a man who was clearly unenthusiastic about 'talking wood' with two people who couldn't possibly know less about wood. Balsa wood is the only type I'm familiar with and, according to my eighth grade Industrial Arts class, it wouldn't work well to support a full size mattress.

Of course, when time came to cut the wood, I had forgotten the ONLY measurement that I was required to remember: the width of the bed frame. I was NOT leaving that Home Depot without my 2"x4"s so I went with the first number that came to my mind, 53 inches. And, really, what difference does an inch make, am I right? I won't tell you if I was right because I wouldn't want to bore my readers with the minute details of the story. Let's just say that the 2"x4"s pretty much got the job done.

And as expected, it felt like I was sleeping on 2"x4"s. I tried to convince myself that it would be good for the back, but then I realized I was starting to sound like my grandma. Solution: Featherbed Mattress Pad. Result: Better than sleeping on a cloud. So, 50 years later, I had a great night's sleep.

No Hablo Espanol

Random Fact: Sweet Potatoes are the candy of the vegetable world.

I'd spent practically the whole vacation nodding and smiling, understanding little to none of what was actually being said. I would raise my eyebrows in interest as if to say, "I'm listening," and then politely turn to Eric for a translation.

"They said you have nice hair," he would whisper to me.

"Oh...GRACIAS!" I would shout in their general direction as though they were hearing impaired as well as Spanish-speaking. I usually tuned out during conversations, relying solely on Eric to provide me with the necessary information. Towards the end of the vacation however, I began to catch on to fragments of sentences and random words I remembered from my high school Spanish classes.

"Make a left here!!" I once shouted excitedly in a quiet car when I recognized the word izquierda. My reaction was much like a small child's when they become elated at the opportunity to show off their smarts.

"That car is blue!! Look mommy!! A blue car!!"

"That's right dear," his mother might say, proud of her son's astuteness. With me, the habit wasn't nearly as endearing. So, the vacation to Texas to meet Eric's family and attend his brother's wedding lit a spark in me to learn Spanish. I had always envied people who were bilingual and envisioned learning Spanish would change my life.

It must have been a weak spark because a solid year passed after returning home before I made any attempt at learning the language. I reasoned that I was mostly busy with school and work and didn't have the time or money to invest in classes and lessons. Since graduating though, I still don't have the money but I certainly have the time. So, the thought of another day spent overcoming my mind-numbing boredom is what drove me to the bookstore in search of instructional books.

I live in Chicago's Boystown neighborhood and my local bookstore has a wide selection of fiction, nonfiction, children's books, local authors, and gay erotica. It's a cozy store so packed with books that it's almost impossible to move through the shelves without knocking something over. I quickly found a massive shelf full of a series of books called "Everything About..." Everything You Need to Know About Religion OR Everything You Need to Know About Anatomy OR Everything You Need to Know About Golf. I found the book titled Everything You Need to Know About Spanish Grammar and lingered just a while longer, looking for any supplemental material. After an accidental turn into the Gay Erotica section, I decided it was time to checkout and be on my way.

This would be a piece of el pastel, right? Read a few pages, memorize a few words, tape a few notecards around my house and I would be bilingual in no time. And I was ALWAYS being approached by lost Spanish-speaking women on the street asking for directions. And I can guarantee you that I don't look Hipspanic. If you don't know what I look like, reference my picture in the 'Whozits and Whatnots Galore' blog (I'm the one on the right). Besides, I took three years of Spanish in high school. Surely, those lessons would come flooding back to me in a wave of recognition and understanding. Incorrecto, mis amigos.

It dawned on me that while I may have been in the Spanish Honor Society, I skipped the induction ceremony for a Dave Matthew's Band concert. Now that I think of it, the only vivid memory I have of sitting in Spanish Class was being told by my neighboring classmate that my toes are freakishly long and should be called "Tingoes" (a cruel combination of 'fingers' and 'toes'). And my only real exposure to Spanish outside of Eric's house was poorly bartering with vendors during two family vacations to Mexico, and our usual birthday trips to Chi-Chi's Mexican Dining. Chi Chi's was a classy 'unlimited chips and salsa' kind of establishment that made you stand on a chair and dance while the servers sang Happy Birthday. It wasn't until high school Spanish Class that I learned the Spanish version of Happy Birthday was not sung to the tune of La Cucaracha. Those dinners usually ended with my Mom's enormous van pulled over in a parking lot because Gracie had gotten sick in the back seat. At first we thought it was just a fluke but when the tradition continued, we started ordering Grace peanut butter and jelly sandwiches off the kid's menu. (In a non-Spanish related note, Grace has admitted that she would occasionally lick the brown faux-leather carseat, knowing full well that she had vomited on it in the past.)


I also thought that my role in our high school's production of West Side Story would have had a lasting effect on my connection with the Spanish language. You see, I played the role of Consuelo, a saucy but compassionate Puerto Rican who worked alongside Maria and Anita in the local dress shop and who also appeared to be a bit loose back on the island. My role, along with the other Sharks, required intensive Spanish lessons with one of the school's Spanish teachers in order to make our portrayal of Puerto Rican immigrants living on the mean streets of New York City more raw and gritty. We would spend fifteen, even TWENTY minutes with the tutor learning mostly Spanish explicatives that the Sharks of the 1960's may have shouted at the Jets, our rival gang.

"BASURA!!!" we shouted in unison.

"Vaya Tiburones!!" was our rallying cry.

"Marchese!" we ordered.

"I like to be in A-MER-EE-CA!!" we sung in unison.

But the fun of the show wasn't about perfecting a Spanish accent. It was about costumes and beehive hairdos and covering ourselves in bronzer in an attempt to look Puerto Rican.

Sure, we all attempted to imitate Spanish accents to the best of our ability, resulting in a veritable hodgepodge of sounds that was surely difficult to understand, painful to watch, and quite possibly even offensive to any native Spanish speakers in the audience. My friend Rick probably had the most trouble with the accent, rolling r's when it wasn't called for, accenting the wrong syllables, and sometimes sounding more like Fantasy Island's Tattoo than he did Spanish. There was one particular line that required Rick to say the name 'Beatrice,' and try as he might, the name sounded more like 'Batteries' when showtime rolled around.

So perhaps my memory of my adventures in Spanish was cloudy. And when I cracked open my Everything You need to Know About Spanish Grammar book, my suspicions were confirmed. It would seem 'everything I need to know' required a much larger book.

At first, I was actually optimisstic. Masculine and feminine nouns? Got it. Rules of possession? Check. Indefinite and definite articles? Okay... Demonstrative pronouns? Ummm.... Past Participle Verb Conjugation? Que?? Soy arturdido. I closed the book at page forty and never looked back. The thing is, it's so much WORK. It would require studying and memorizing and patience- UGH. I won't lie, I had planned on writing this blog weeks ago when I actually bought the dumb book but had nothing subtantiative to say when I gave up a week into it.

So here's the deal, I figured writing about my plan to actually commit to learning Spanish would, in turn, hold me accountable to learning it. Once I click the little "Publish Post" button at the bottom of the screen, there's no looking back. People will ask me how goes the Spanish and I can't lie! Well, I can lie....but I won't (wink). Sooo, here it goes... I'm gonna click it...right....NOW!!!!!

Poor Sport

Random Fact: Two and a Half Men and Tyler Perry's House of Payne are tied for the worst shows currently on television.

“Just ten more seconds! C’mon, ten little seconds! TEN!…” Nicole shouted enthusiastically.

“NINE!”
I can do this
“EIGHT!”
Ok, a little shaky but I got this
“SEVEN!”
Deep breath Ann
“SIX!”
Oh my god, we’re only at six?
“FIVE!!”
What am I doing to myself?
“FOUR!!”
This is the worst pain ever!
“THREE!!”
I swear I’ll just get right up and walk out of here.
“TWO!!! Almost there, you can do it!!”
Just shut up Nicole, SHUT UP!
“ONE!! And release, nice job everyone,” she smiled encouragingly.
THANK YOU GOD.

I collapsed to the ground, arms shaking, heart pounding, and really pissed. Class was about five minutes in, and I was already regretting it. I like to think I make good use of my gym membership and take classes there regularly. Spinning, Muscle Pump, swimming laps, or even a good run on the treadmill—I’m determined to get my money’s worth. However, I also work at a spa that offers Yoga and Core Fusion classes, the latter of which I happen to avoid like the plague. Try as I might, Core Fusion never gets any easier and I usually vow to never take the class again. On several occasions, my legs are so sore the following day that walking is painful, and I end up looking like a baby zebra learning to take its first steps. There's something unnatural about a class that does that to a person so I usually protest it on moral grounds.

However on this particular day, Sara tricked- no, conned- no, HARASSED me into trying Exhale's newest torture technique, Core Fusion Sport. Our menu describes Core Fusion Sport in the following fashion:

A total body workout that is designed to help improve performance in sports while reducing risk of sports related injuries. Using a combination of lateral and twisting movements, this barreless one-hour class will chisel and firm the arms, shoulders, legs, and glutes while focusing on your core-- the center of your strength.

With words like firm and chisel, I couldn’t help but be a little interested. It had been quite some time since I’d taken a Core Fusion class and I probably forgot how much I loathed it. That coupled with Sara’s incessant nagging (“Sport! Sport! Sport!”), I caved and agreed to a Friday afternoon class. When Friday finally rolled around, I packed up my workout gear and headed to work for my early morning (6:15am!!) shift. After my shift ended at 2:15pm, it was Sport time. However, my confidence began to wane as my blood sugar began to drop mid afternoon. When it was nearing class time, my attitude (or Ann-itude as Sara likes to call it) was rapidly turning sour. While Sara wanted to Sport, I wanted to nap. I had every intention of ditching class and heading home to my waiting couch, but Sara laid on a guilt trip for the record books. Begrudgingly, I Sported. I’ve since come up with a more accurate description of Core Fusion Sport:

This one hour class is designed to slowly and effectively turn your body’s major muscle groups into soft putty. Feel your knees buckle and your heart pound frighteningly in your chest while you struggle to maintain your last shred of dignity and your classmates look on in horror. Time will practically seem to stand still as you fumble with your weights, lose your balance, and silently cry to yourself.

I offered my revised version for our menu but management wasn’t interested. Admittedly, I may have eaten a Chocolate cupcake with Guinness frosting before class which could have added to my sluggish mood. And, let’s not forget I was at work at 6:15am people!! Plus, I’d be lying if I said the spastic gene didn’t run in the Lindsay family. My dad often notes that with three daughters, he assumed at least one of us would have been athletically inclined. No such luck.

Perhaps the epitome of our spasticity was at a neighbor’s Labor Day BBQ. A friendly game of volleyball was organized amongst the kids of the neighborhood as the adults sat leisurely and enjoyed the weather and an afternoon off. I chose not to join the game, knowing my volleyball skills certainly weren't up to par. Sara, however, must have been feeling confident and decided to give it a whirl. Just as Sara's turn to serve approached, there happened to be a lull in the adult conversation so their attention turned to the game. Sara positioned herself, stepped her left foot back to gain momentum, and gave the volleyball a grand vertical heave into the air. As the ball made it's way back towards her, she reached her arm high behind her head in preparation for a strong serve. It looked promising. My Dad held his breath as he waited for the ball to make contact with her hand. The ball certainly made contact... with her face. Apparently, her timing was slightly off and her hand missed the ball entirely, landing instead on her upturned face. My Dad lowered his head in an all too familiar shame.

In an effort to foster a sense of athleticism, we were enrolled in a variety of dance, gymnastic, and even karate classes throughout our adolescent years, at none of which we really excelled. That’s not to say we didn’t enjoy our time on a balance beam or learning roundhouse punches, but our lack of coordination usually caught up to us and left us at the end of the pack. Karate was the last of our athletic endeavors, and then my mom smartened up. She enrolled us in Art Class.

Sure, Sara tried her hand at golf, and it ended with a golf club to her throat and an incident with an errant swing that left my Dad with a few fractured bones in his hand. And my Dad and I used to toss a football around until I jammed my finger and wanted nothing more to do with it. We tried baseball and again, jammed finger. Basketball in gym class, jammed finger. I took it as a sign to avoid sports for awhile.

I'm happy to say that Core Fusion Sport concluded without incident except for being sore to the point of immobility the following day. Ok, so maybe I won't be joining a baseball league or even a kickball team anytime soon but at least I'm not terrified of anything ending in 'ball' anymore. Well, not as terrified.

The Itsy Bitsy Spider... was the size of a house cat.

Random Fact: The "close door" button in elevators is a lie.

I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and snapped in my retainer for the night, my usual routine. My space heather hummed in the background as I cozied myself in my twin size bed. And then things got confusing- lizards and other various reptiles and big fat hairy spiders. I’m talkin’ spiders the size of house cats. The first time I encountered the spiders, they had no reptilian companions and I awoke feeling anxious and terrified. The second time that week the spiders made an appearance in my dreams, I awoke feeling curious. Spiders again? Couldn’t I be a bit more creative?

I won’t bore you with the details of the dream, mostly because I can’t remember them, but also because I find it boring, PAINFULLY boring, when people recount their dreams. Dreams are only interesting to the person who had them. I find my mind wanders and my eyes glaze over the moment someone starts a sentence “So I had this dream last night…” On that note, I will proceed to write a blog about my dream.

I’m not usually one to buy into the idea of dream interpretations. Dreams, at least for me, seem like a random collection of thoughts and images that mingle together and make no sense. In addition, moments after waking up I’ve most likely forgotten my entire dream. I frantically grasp onto the little nuggets of dream I can recall, but to no avail. Unless of course that dream involves house cat sized spiders. Even more than the grotesque creatures themselves, I was perturbed that I dreamt of them twice in one week. So, I decided perhaps I would entertain this notion of dream interpretation.

As a general rule, I find those who swear by dream interpretations, tea leaf readings, or astrological signs to be untrustworthy. The same goes for those who watch Medium. Here’s the thing, if the Chicago Tribune lists my daily horoscope, am I to believe that every Sagittarius in the country, or at least Chicago and the surrounding suburbs, will have the same day as me? I think not.

A past job interview only supported my beliefs. About a year ago, I was looking to expand my horizons and began searching for a new job. Having worked in a salon as a receptionist for four years, customer service had become my forte My search began shortly after the New Year and I was delusional about resolutions and a ‘new me.’ So, I began searching more alternative spas that I would have otherwise described as phooey. I happened across a spa nearby called Karyn’s and landed myself an interview. As I visited Karyn’s website to prepare for my interview, I found her services and offerings a tad unconventional but brushed it off.

On the day of the interview, I met with Barbara, a woman with short curly hair and a tendency to cut me off as I was answering her interview questions. She apparently was good friends with Karyn herself and would be my direct supervisor were I to be hired. She asked the obligatory questions about my strengths and weaknesses or why I’d be a good fit at Karyn’s.

“Well, with my years of customer service experience, I’ve become quite adept at--“ I paused because Barbara had given me a look. She tilted her chin up and looked down her nose at me with squinted eyes and a slight smile. It was a look that said I’ve got you all figured out.

“What’s your birthday sweetie?” she interrupted and asked it as if she already knew the answer. She was the type of woman who referred to everyone as sweetie or hun. I found it obnoxious but thought it best to keep to myself on a job interview.

“Um… November 26th,” I replied, slightly confused about the question’s significance.

“Hmm… Sagittarius,” Barbara replied with a knowing nod. I needed to hear no more to know that Karyn’s and Ann did not a good match make. I refused to work at an establishment that rated my performance or competence based on whether Mars was in retrograde. I spent the rest of the interview giving half-ass answers with no intent to return. To my surprise though, Karyn’s wanted me to return. When they called to invite me to a second interview, I kindly told them the pay wasn’t what I was looking for and thanked them for the opportunity. They must have been itching for a Sagittarius on staff because they offered me a pay raise on the spot and insisted I come back for a second interview.

In the spirit of open-mindedness, I begrudgingly showed up for my second interview to meet with Karyn. She was itsy bitsy with long black hair and tanned skin and appeared to be in her sixties. She looked nothing like the dozens of pictures of her posted throughout the spa that were evidently taken 30 years prior. She walked with an air of confidence as she proudly showed me around her spa. From colonoscopies to ear candling to raw food— Karyn’s offered it all.

As she brought me upstairs, she paused to stop at a fluffy armchair paired with a large strobe light. She leaned in close and whispered something to what I thought to be a small child in the chair. “It’s ok baby, just relax. That’s right, just relax right here,” she cooed.

“Poor thing,” she turned to me, “she’s thirteen and nearly blind.” How terrible, I thought. However, as I rounded the corner and peered over the chair, I saw not a child, but a cat. Fair enough, I reasoned, some people have a close bond with pets. Who am I to judge? I was more concerned with the strange strobe light flashing continuously at the chair. Almost sensing my confusion, Karyn explained the light, “It’s light therapy. It cures blindness,” she said proudly. Unfortunately, this only made me more confused.

She then led the way towards her office, making various stops along the way to explain a therapy or service that was offered at the spa. Forget massages or facials, apparently Karyn developed a pedicure tub that cures arthritis. Now, I had my doubts about the place before the interview even started, and with this light therapy and pedicure business, I was sure I had a one way ticket to Crazy-Town. Ironically, I was concerned with seeming weird myself and that’s what stopped me from leaving mid-interview. Instead, I followed Karyn around and feigned interest.

We then approached what appeared to be a large, white, plastic coffin-shaped cubical that was standing upright. I no longer remember the name of the machine but Karyn informed of its purpose.

“This has been known to cure 10,000 cases of AIDS and cancer,” she remarked surprisingly casually. I thought the coffin shape a strange choice for a machine with such remarkable powers, but that wasn’t the only flaw that came to mind. I thought it quite selfish of Karyn to keep this technological miracle to herself. Surely, there were people across the world who would have appreciated a head’s up about the cure to cancer. And isn’t there some talk about wanting to cure AIDS too? At the very least I’m sure she would have been handsomely rewarded for her plastic coffin.

Still, I raised my eyebrows and slightly tilted my head as if to say Wow, you don’t say… all the while planning an escape route in my head. What’s strange is that the plastic coffin didn’t frighten me as much as the prospect of having to turn down an offer of employment. Always a people pleaser, I was once dangerously close to purchasing a timeshare simply because I was so uncomfortable with the pressure of saying no. So, I imagined myself answering questions about colonoscopies and tending to the blind cat simply because I wanted to avoid what was sure to be an awkward conversation.


She then led me into her office and motioned for me to take a seat across from her. The moment I sat down we were joined by several more of her furry friends who apparently were free to roam the spa as they pleased. She continued to conduct the interview as I sat with two dogs on my lap, one of them a poodle the size of a small pony.


"I've been on a raw food diet for 30 years. I'm 63 years old," she boasted. Her tone suggested I was supposed to be impressed with her age so I played along. However, she absolutely looked to be in her sixties in my opinion. The remainder of the interview continued in this fashion. She would spew a slue of facts about herself that she found particularly impressive.

"I've been on the Oprah Show," she said. I smiled and nodded.


"I'm sending a pilot to the Food Network," she beamed. I smiled and nodded.


"I haven't had allergies for more than 15 years," she bragged. I smiled and nodded.


The one thing we didn't discuss in the interview were my qualifications for the job. However, something told me that this wasn't the type of establishment that was interested in facts and statistics. As the moments crawled by and I began tuning out Karyn's incessant talking, I tried to reason with myself into accepting the job. Expand your horizons Ann! A colonoscopy sounds like fun! Who doesn't love a good poodle? I was determined to convince myself into taking a risk. Forever a creature of habit, I wanted to make good on my New Year's resolution of becoming a 'new me.' So when Karyn said I'd make a great addition to the team, I smiled and nodded. I shook her hand and the deal was done. Barbara would call with details.

As I said goodbye and she showed me out of her office, she casually added, "Oh, and there's no meat allowed on the premises." Show me a pedicure that helps arthritis and I'll bite. A coffin that cures AIDS? Sure! But "no meat on the premises"? You mean I can't bring a turkey sandwich to lunch? A girl's gotta draw the line somewhere. So I smiled and nodded and never looked back.

So, after an experience like Karyn's, you can understand my hesitation towards the more unconventional beliefs of astrology and even dream dictionaries. But the spiders twice in one week irked me so I gave it a go. As it turns out, while being a symbol of femininity, spiders are also a symbol of "creativity due to the intricate webs they spin," according to dreammoods.com. OK, so what about the lizards? Apparently, those too symbolize "emerging creativity, renewal, and revitalization." With all the new bloginess lately and the millions of ideas I've got swirling around in my head but don't know how to put into action, perhaps I'm just someone who recently graduated college and is confused about what to do with her life but is itching to do something, ANYTHING, creative and imaginative. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Ok, so maybe I'll be a bit more open from now on to astrology and even Medium. But you still can't take away my turkey sandwich.

Gather 'round Boys and Girls, It's Storytime!

Random Fact: There’s nothing more immensely satisfying than to cut Styrofoam with scissors.

From time to time, I’d like to use this blog as a showcase for a series of short stories written by and starring moi. I figured this week was as good as any to begin the storyfest seeing as how I spent most of it lying on my new couch, doing absolutely nothing, therefore leaving me nothing new to write about. While I’d like to say I was simply celebrating the couch’s existence by spending as much time with it as possible, that’s not entirely true. Instead, I was lucky enough to catch my second cold for the month of February, and this one was a fighter. Lying lifeless on the couch had a bright side though. It gave me time to marinate with a few story ideas and become well-versed in several varieties of cough drops (I recommend Halls Natural Harvest Peach with the soothing honey center). So pop in your favorite cough drop and enjoy.

Squiggle Penn and Teller

In the 1990’s there was a squiggle pen craze. You may have missed this fad as it targeted a very specific demographic: grade school girls. Every Claire’s Boutique and KB Toys were fully stocked with these goofy pens that had no other purpose than to make your handwriting look a little sloppy. Essentially, the pens were equipped with a teeny tiny motor (or something else equally scientific-y) that caused the pens to vibrate and squiggle when turned on. If that weren’t exciting enough, the ink color was interchangeable to coordinate with perhaps your outfit or mood. Naturally, my sisters and I owned several of these ridiculous pens.

I’m sure we quickly grew bored of the pens, and this may have led Sara to make the decision she did. It began on a boring afternoon in fall or winter, a Saturday most likely.

Each Saturday began the same way. My Dad would wake my sisters and I up at what I was sure was 6am but was more likely 9am or so. He needed only to knock on one bedroom door because we all three chose to sleep stuffed into the same pink bedroom even though we lived in a house that technically had four working bedrooms. He would then proceed to yank the blankets off each of our tiny sleeping bodies and maniacally laugh as we awoke from our peaceful slumber… or so it seemed to me at the time. And then came his favorite part of the Saturday morning routine, the chore time dance. He’d enthusiastically yell, “It’s chore time! (pronounced ‘cho’ time)” and then clap his hands and do an odd version of the cabbage patch while singing the beat to MC Hammer’s hit, “Hammertime.” We would begrudgingly climb out of bed and put on our designated ‘weekend clothes,’ a sweatpant suit.

After the dancing stopped and the chores were finished, we were free to spend the day as we pleased. I like to think we were industrious children who spent playtime wisely. Occasionally we would gather all our jewelry and place it on our kitchen counter with clear Tupperware placed over it to form a faux glass case. One of us would then choose a particular piece and describe its winning attributes as the other acted surprised and impressed as though we were on the Home Shopping Network. “You’ll notice the intricate detailing on these purple plastic beads,” I might say. “Why yes, I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” Sara would reply. “Well, it’s a Claire’s Boutique original and today it can be yours for just four easy payments of $49.98 when you use our flexpay option,” I’d say. “What a bargain!” Sara would exclaim.

Sure, we were a little strange, but no one could say we weren’t creative. And in the same spirit of creativity, Sara also had a passion for Legos. She would eagerly dive into a bucket of multi-colored Legos and build to her heart’s content for hours on end. Grace and I would generally sit back as Sara tediously and laboriously constructed the Lego house we waited to play with. With two floors, kitchen cabinets, a hot tub, and a patio, these Lego houses were more lavish than my current apartment.

On this particular afternoon, shear boredom and perhaps a rebellious streak caused Sara to begin experimenting, so to speak. As I made my way down the stairs, I heard Sara call my name.

“Annie,” she beckoned somewhat secretively, “Come here!”

I found Sara in our front room kneeling in front of the fireplace. I joined her on my knees about two feet away. I can picture the green and pink flowered carpet under my legs as I leaned forward to find out what her mischievous smile was all about.

“What?” I anxiously whispered. Had she found something hidden in the fireplace? Was she about to share a secret with me? I leaned in even closer.

“Ok, watch this!” she excitedly said. What proceeded to happen has forever been seared into my memory. Sara held up one of our many squiggle pens as if to display a much practiced magic trick. She gingerly removed the ink from the pen and in its place, dropped a small yellow cylindrical Lego into the pen’s ink shaft. With an animated smile on her face and flourish of her hand, she flipped the pen’s switch, and it began to vibrate and squiggle. She then happily and willingly STUCK THE PEN UP HER NOSE and dramatically tossed her head back. When she brought her head back down and pulled the pen from out of her nose, we both simultaneously realized that the Lego was no longer in the pen’s ink shaft but instead was inside her nose. As we locked eyes, I smiled and Sara immediately screamed, “It’s stuck up my nose! IT’S STUCK UP MY NOSE!” as she darted to the kitchen to find my dad.

She continued to shout, “Dad, there’s a Lego up nose! It’s stuck up my nose!” We found my dad sweeping in the kitchen while Gracie ate lunch. He was flabbergasted, believing Sara had managed to wedge a full-sized brick Lego up her. Gracie sat at the kitchen table looking at Sara in bewilderment. I followed Sara close behind, wide eyed with a massive smile painted on my face. I secretly hoped this would require a doctor’s removal.

My dad decided not to waste much time asking how the Lego had gotten up her nose, but instead instructed her to “BLOW!” Sure enough, the yellow Lego went soaring into the Kleenex clutched in Sara’s hand. And in a moment’s notice, my dreams were dashed and our Saturday was back to normal.

Strangely, it wasn’t until now that I decided to ask Sara just how she came up with her infamous disappearing Lego illusion. She readily ‘fessed up to having stuck the squiggle pen up her nose for kicks on several other occasions. The Lego was “just an addition to an already ridiculous act. To be honest, I’m more embarrassed about the sweatpants.” Really, though?

Over the years, Sara has continued to spit in the face of logic and rebel at the notion of conventionalism. She’s an odd little nugget, but it makes for good blogging. And while I’m sure this particular blog thoroughly embarrassed her, she “nose” I love her.

Sitting Pretty

Random Fact: My least favorite person is Andrew Dice Clay.

Each week, I assume my millions of readers enjoy my blog from the comfort of their own home. After a long day at the office, what better way to unwind than to slip into a pair of your most comfortable jammies, brew a steaming cup of tea with a touch of golden honey, wrap an old and reliable blanket around your weary shoulders, and settle into a favorite nook on your expansive and welcoming couch while reading your favorite blog. Your couch practically beckons you, “SIT ON ME,” and you gladly oblige. Once seated, you laugh aloud to your heart’s content while reading Life Without a Bulla, and the stresses of your day seem a distant memory as your eyelids feel heavy and the couch’s comfort lulls you into a blissful nap.

I however, have never been afforded such a luxury. Sure, I’ve got more jammies than I care to count, and the tea selection in my kitchen cabinets is overwhelming, to say the least (Celestial Seasonings, you owe me one). As for blankets, my apartment is equipped with blankets of every size, shape, and style to handle the harsh, biting winters that the Windy City and my poorly insulated apartment dishes out. Then what’s stopping me from experiencing the joys of my blog just as my beloved fans do, you ask? A COUCH, my dear readers, a couch.

From the moment I left home at age nineteen to move to the big city, there has been a distinct and painful absence from my life. No, I haven’t been ‘couchless’ for the past four and a half years, but I have had a turbulent, on again off again relationship with couches. My first apartment in Chicago’s ‘Loop’ was fitted with an old brown couch that my roommate and best friend Rick brought from his last pad. It wasn’t fancy by any means, but it got the job done. And as my current couchless self reflects on that brown lump, I realize I may have taken it for granted. It was reliable and loyal, complete with a matching recliner. It gave me ‘lulus’ when I was sick and provided a home for friends who needed a place to sleep. In fact, it was home to my creepy pervert roommate’s toothless and bruised mom when she and her five year old son decided to stay with us indefinitely in our two bedroom apartment. As a sign of gratitude for a place to sleep, she insisted I borrow her Opium perfume as often as I liked. I just wanted my couch back. If you’re reading this brown couch, I’m sorry.

As I moved to Lakeview a year later, my true couchless years began. For months, I sat on my carpeted living room floor, feeling like a squatter in my own home. I propped assorted throw pillows against the wall to create the illusion of a couch. As I sat on the floor and fiddled with the rabbit ears antenna on my 17 inch television, I took inventory of my life. I knew the life of a college student wasn’t supposed to be glamorous, but I was sure that my current status was borderline poverty. So, Sara and I worked a little magic and convinced my mom to purchase a fancy new futon from Wal-Mart as an early Christmas gift. Four hours and a lot of arguing later, Sara and I had built a futon (disclaimer: As her sister, I am obligated to include Sara in the futon building effort. In reality, Sara spent two of the four hours watching E! and half-assing it. Love you sis).

However, our smiles quickly faded as the futon began to slowly dismantle and eventually break. Perhaps, we were too enthusiastic and careless in our sitting, or maybe four hours of construction time still resulted in a substandard futon. I don’t know, I’m not a carpenter. But I do know now that the futon is only the dim-witted cousin of the couch, and does not deserve the same regard. So after only months of futon life, we were once again squatters.

This lifestyle continued for a YEAR in my new apartment as well. However, rather than sitting directly on our hard-wood floors, I resourcefully used our old futon mattress pad and our reliable assorted throw pillows as a faux couch. Essentially, we were still sitting on the floor, but the luxurious arrangement I had created lent to the sense of being in an exotic Middle Eastern harem (minus the concubines), or so I pretended. In reality, the futon mattress was no thicker than two inches, and I had just gotten used to the butt numbness one feels after sitting on a hard wood floor for too long.

But then, a turn of events. God turned his smiling face on my sister and me. A spare couch at my mom’s house. Sara’s friend’s pickup truck. Two guys with big couch-moving muscles and an afternoon off. KISMET. After years of waiting, it only took an afternoon to change my life. At first, I worried that perhaps I couldn’t adjust to a couch. Much like Tom Hanks’ character in Castaway still chooses to sleep on the bedroom floor after being rescued, would I still prefer the solid ‘comfort’ of the ground? Did I remember how to sit on a couch at all?

As it turns out, no- I do not prefer my hard wood floors to a couch and sitting proved to be effortless. In fact, I write this very blog from the comfort of my couch with a steaming cup of tea and a warm blanket. Now let me tell you a little story about my twin size bed…