of tights and tight situations

The last two weeks have gotten away from me again! That wasn't planned. It's been busy at work, and I've done overtime nearly every day this month. But that's okay! Gotta save up those comp hours for honeymoon, right?

So I just want to talk about how much I love and adore tights. I was first introduced to sweater tights when I moved to Chicago, wearing them for insulation under my jeans. (Sweater tights are basically like long underwear that you don't mind other people seeing.) The sweater tights were brown and pink striped a la Wicked Witch of the East, and I actually wore them for Halloween this year. But aside from my witch tights, I also have just normal solid tights in black, brown, fuschia, teal, patterns, etc. I mean, my tights drawer is getting a little out of control. In an awesome way.

My former colleagues did not quite appreciate my great taste in legwear, but luckily I've moved into a much more artsy office. It's funny, but business-types really are different from writer/designer-types. My epiphany moment was when I was complimented on my outfit of knee-length maroon skirt, grey tights, black shirt and sweater -- the same outfit which had prompted several former colleagues to inform me that I looked like a grandma. I don't know what that really means about the way my office dresses, but we definitely don't look like an off-shoot of Joseph A. Brooks Brothers of Benetton. (Not that we can afford to shop at those places anyway...)

An upside to living in DC is that my tights-flaunting time frame has expanded considerably from approximately three weeks in the fall and two weeks in the "spring" aka June. Chicago gets cold so quickly that, most of the time, my tights were hidden under a pant leg. But here, it's been perfect tights weather since September! Months and months of tights!

But the downside to sheathing one's legs in transparent stretchy material is that the stuf catches on absolutely everything. I was quite distraught this morning when my new comfy aubergine tights (from Target!) snagged on THE BOTTOM OF MY DESK WTF. After a brief flurry of consultation with Internet and colleagues, I went out during lunch to buy an emergency bottle of clear nail polish.

This is what transpired after I huffed and puffed back into the office. To be fair, I also bought an empanada at the DC Holiday Market, so part of it was me trying to walk and eat at the same time. Def not b/c I haven't gone to the gym since I moved from Chicago. But I digress.

Me [to our intern]: Greg, can you open this for me?
Greg: Sure. What is it?
Me: Nail polish.
Greg [looking perplexed, but too polite to ask]: Uhh okay. [tries unsuccessfully to get the cap off] I don't know, I think it's stuck or something.
Me: Right. Which is why I asked you to open it.
Greg [doubtfully looking at the nail polish]: I think you need to run it under hot water or bang it on something.
Me: Um. It's okay, thanks for trying. [suddenly realizing that Greg must think I'm a huge slacker for having nail polish at work] Oh! This isn't for my nails. I'm not giving myself a manicure over here! What! Ha! I need it for my tights.
Greg: Oh. Right. [very awkward pause] What are tights?
Hilary (my amazing awesome and very well-dressed work spouse): Tights. Stockings. You know. Hosiery. Come on, you know what tights are.
Greg: Well, no, actually, I don't.
Me: [still trying convince him of my non-slackerly-ness] NAIL POLISH FIX TIGHTS.
Greg: You know, I'm going to just go back to writing this essay...

Our intern is learning a lot. I'm sure this is something he will look back with fondness, perhaps chuckle over how completely sane and normal his co-workers were.

Well, it's been a while

I'm sure by now whoever stumbles upon this little page is either lost, or perhaps is a curious old friend wondering if I ever bother to update this thing anymore. Either way, hello, welcome and welcome back.

In a way, I suppose I am welcoming myself back, too. It's been quite a while since I last wrote, and I really have no excuses. Well, maybe a couple. June 2011 really took us all for a spin, and I haven't felt much like writing since.

Long story short: in the space of 3 weeks, I got a new job, got engaged, and got really bad news about a family member's health. I feel like I've squeezed more life into the last few months than I have in the last couple of years combined.

And it's funny, but it's like..all of these things that happen act as a sort of sieve, you know? Like everyone I know is a rock or a pebble or a speck of dust, all being shuffled through this net. It's really let me see who my Big Rocks are, whether it's just an "Are you still alive?" text or forcibly dragging me out to a bridal salon to pick out a dress. Each gesture, big or small, really does matter. Really. I know on the outside I might be panicked or pissed off or even apathetic...but they really do matter. So, not to get all sappy and gross, but...thank you. I know I haven't been the best at getting back in touch (or getting on gchat...OKAY OKAY I GET IT, I'm not on gchat very much even though I keep saying I will). Honestly, sometimes I just feel too fretful to talk. Some people are really good writers when they're sad or upset; I prefer to get overemotional while watching horrible television. (Yeah, I watched a lot of L&O: SVU. Yeah, it's made me cry. More than once. You wanna fight???) But really -- thanks.

So I guess the latest updates are: I quite like my new job, and am doing my best to become indispensable so I don't get laid off if the government shuts down. Tyler has moved to VA, so it's been good seeing him on a regular basis. Health issues...well, I don't want to jinx anything, but it does seem that the worst is behind us. My bridesmaids are keeping me on track with the wedding planning, bless them. I think I am an inherently lazy bride, and laziness + life craziness = one really apathetic bride. But I'm happy to report that I do have a wedding dress and all my girls have their dresses ordered! And Tyler and I did a cake tasting a few weeks ago, which I scheduled all by myself, thank you very much. Turns out this whole thing can be kind of fun! (Tyler: "I think that we should periodically pretend that we're engaged and planning a wedding so we can go get free cake.") (No, but seriously. It was delightful.)

I can't believe it's already the last month of 2011, especially with everything that's happened. I've been thinking about what I want to write in my year in review post, which is actually what prompted me to get on this blog tonight. It's been so long since I've thought about blogging, and it was kind of a pleasant return to normalcy. I found myself trying to remember things that happened in March or April, and testing out different phrases to see how they sounded.

In hindsight, I probably should not have done it aloud on the Metro during rush hour, but whatever, I still wasn't the creepiest person in the car. DC is full of freaks, yo.

new place, new job, new things

Well, a lot has changed since I last posted. For one thing, that post on June 10 was apparently the last one I would do as a single woman (engaged June 11), an Chicagoland employee (last day June 24) and Evanston tenant (moved to DC July 13). And I guess you could say it was the last time my future plans were truly my own. Now it's shared with many people, more people than I'd ever imagined.

I don't mean that in an overly dramatic way or anything like that. The two months have just been...a lot. But I'm alive! I'm renting a bedroom in a charming little townhouse with a retired couple who are just as nice as could be. I'm within walking distance of a metro stop, a grocery store, a shopping mall, and a church. My new job is great, I really like my co-workers, and its location is definitely exciting.

But I miss the Midwest. I think about it every day: the weather; the landscape; the people; the pace. I know I grew up here in NoVA, but the Midwest really was where I felt like home. Well, w/o my family and friends there, but you know what I mean. There was kind of a peace there that I never found in DC, what with all the endless political drama next door and all these transient ambitions walking around, each one as faceless as the next. I can't tell anyone apart here, everyone's wearing the same Banana Republic shirt and non-descript slacks. And things are just so go-go-go, all the time. I look at my Facebook profile picture and can hardly believe that leaping, joyous creature was me a scant two months ago.

Okay, so now I am being overly dramatic. So sue me. If you need to know, either you already do, or you know how to contact me. Nothing personal or any details are going on this blog, so if you want to ask or talk about anything, please message me privately. Just wanted you to know that I am indeed alive and kicking. And I haven't lost my ring yet, though I came close twice (scarily clumsy...).

Oh, and a note to DC tourists who insist on traveling around rush hour time: stand right, walk left. This clueless little family accidentally took up both sides of the escalator going down into the metro stop. Very careless. Almost started a riot.

And I kind of want to cut my hair.

and so it is done

And so it is done: my boss has been told, my 2 weeks notice has been given, and I'm set to move back to DC and start my new job July. What a whirlwind the last few weeks have been!

Of course, I'm excited about the new job and getting to see my friends and family again, but it's not without some sadness to be leaving Chicago, which I still consider the best city in the world. After all, this is really where I came into my own as an adult. It's where I got my first real job; leased and maintained an apartment; bought furniture; learned how to cook; fell in love. Why would I ever want to leave a place that holds so many memories of fond achievements and challenges overcome? It's the first place where I was really and truly on my own, and I can't help but have a special place in my heart for it. Kind of like a first real love, maybe.

I think the most difficult part is the realization that, well...this move to DC might be for the long-run. I never planned to move back to Virginia. Never, ever. I've always wanted to live in a big city, always dreamed of high-rises and ample public transportation (I know; I'm a romantic). Chicago fit the bill to the tee. DC never figured into my plans.

But in a way, this job opportunity in DC follows a trend I've noticed throughout the big decisions in my life. After all, I very narrowly did not come to Chicago at all -- my main plan had been to move to New York City, where I had friends. I still don't know why I picked Northwestern over CUNY. It's much like how I don't know why I pulled myself out of Fulbright consideration when I'd spent 2 years fine-tuning my application. Or why I ultimately picked W&M when I'd wanted to go to UVA throughout high school. Or why I decided to date a guy I'd only known for 2 weeks in a brand new city, who very well might've been some sort of serial killer. (I guess he still could be, hmm.) But I just did. And it's not like I was particularly confident about my decisions afterward. There was always a point where I would just be like "What are you doing???? Why?!?!?!!? What makes you think this is a good idea???????"

That same sort of lost, confused and terrified feeling I felt back then is the same one I'm feeling now, but like even more magnified b/c of the fact that things are more than just about me now. It's also about my Possible Serial Killer Man Friend, who had plans of his own. And those plans def did not include the possibility of settling down in the East Coast. I think we grew up a lot in the last few weeks in having to consider one another as individuals and as partners. At least, that's how I felt; he might just be thinking of ways to use it to his advantage for the rest of our lives.

Hypothetical household dialogue:
T: I want a cookie.
V: No. We're going out to dinner with my parents in 3 minutes, and it will spoil your appetite.
T: I WANT A COOKIE NOW.
V: NO.
T: But I moved all this way from Chicago to DC--
V: Okay, okay, here, eat the %*$@*! cookie.

But I digress. Where was I? Right, so it's like this intense anxiety I have about maybe having just totally screwed everything up is a reminder that there are bigger plans than my own. Everything that came out of this deep crazy lost feeling has always worked out better than I'd ever dreamed. And that's a comforting thought. There are my plans and then there are His Plans. And based on the incredible nervousness I have and my inability to really explain why I'm doing what I'm doing, this DC thing is def part of Plans with a gigantic capital P.

That, or it really is a huge mistake, bad idea, really just screwed everything up, etc. Ahhh! Ahhhh!!!!

overheard

I meant to write this a while back but it totally slipped my mind until Tyler requested that I re-tell this story to his family when we visited this past weekend. So here it is:

Several weeks ago, I was shopping at Ann Taylor LOFT because they were having a storewide sale. I picked out a couple of shorts and sweaters to try on and went to the dressing room, where there were two Indian American girls in the stalls next to me. I had noticed them earlier b/c they looked to be about my age and I was totally and completely jealous that they were laughing and shopping together while I foraged the racks by all by my lonesome.

Anyway, they continued their spirited discussions in the dressing room. Being a shameless eavesdropper and having a lot of experience in girl-talk, my ears immediately perked up at the first whiff of gossip. (The tone in which you gossip is universal, I believe.) This is the amazing conversation that took place:

Girl A: So you know how my brother is living with that girl that he's totally not sleeping with? I mean, like everyone knows that they're sleeping together, but they insist that they're just friends?

Girl B: Oh yeah, totally. Are your parents still pissed about that?

A: Oh absolutely. Because they don't believe them for a second! And you know, they're still very traditional Indian, and they really disapprove of the fact that he's living with this girl. I mean, my brother's all like "We have two bedrooms, and we're just friends," but it's like, seriously? My parents aren't stupid.

B: Right, right. Parents always know.

A: Exactly. Always. So anyway, a couple weeks ago, my parents went over to my brother's for dinner. You know, they meet the girl, and my brother's still insisting that they're just friends and everything. So my mom is walking around the apartment, and I guess they have a cabinet of like nice silverware and whatever. So my mom is looking at it, and she's like "Oh, this is a very beautiful spoon." And the girl comes over and is like "Yes, thank you," and they talk about the spoon and my mom just keeps on admiring it. Like she really likes this spoon. But they go on, they have dinner and my parents leave, and everything is fine, right?

B: Uh oh.

A: Right. Well, a couple days after the dinner, the girl goes up to my brother and is like "I'm not accusing your mom or anything, but the thing is, you know that spoon she was looking at when she came over? Well, it's missing and I can't find it anywhere, and I think maybe she might've taken it." And my brother is like "No way, she couldn't have stolen it." And the girl is like "Well, like I said, I don't want to accuse your mom, but I know she really liked it, and now it's gone."

B: No! No way! Nooooo!! She didn't?!?! There's no way!!!!

A: Hang on, just wait! So finally my brother calls my mom a few days ago and is like "Mom, I'm not accusing you of stealing my roommate's spoon, but the fact is, it's missing from our apartment and she remembers that you really liked it." And my mom goes, "Well, I'm not accusing you of sleeping with that girl, but the fact is, if she was really sleeping in her own bed, she would've found that spoon by now."

/end

I. LOVE. IMMIGRANT. PARENTS.

things to eat on a tuesday

Breakfast:
- Vanilla Chobani yogurt (what can I say, it's growing on me) with handful of Quaker Oatmeal Squares cereal
- Smallish banana with peanut butter
- 3 potato chips
- Large cup of coffee

Lunch:
- Large wedge of soppressata
- One chocolate-covered cake donut from Jewel-Osco
- One golden Oreo
- 3 mugs of water (soppressata is, apparently, quite salty. And greasy. And delicious. But I'm going to have to pee for like 5 hours later, which is great b/c I have a 2-hour commute home.)

Currently fantasizing about:
- Baked mezzi rigatoni covered with homemade tomato sauce and melted provolone
- Udon with tempura and poached egg (oh! what I wouldn't give to go to Tachibana!)
- Chocolate mousse cake from Dominick's (must convince Tyler to take me)

Why, yes, I am an adult responsible for all manner of very important things, such as feeding myself. I think the more I grow up, the bolder I become at flagrantly defying food rules. Which is kind of like saying, the more I grow up, the more I eat the way I wanted to eat as a child.

It's just a fatty kind of Tuesday. (A...fat Tuesday! Ha!)

So I need some advice: apparently I had purchased a large tub of cookie dough in May of last year, and I've only consumed about a quarter of it (it's a very large tub; and I know it was last May b/c I mark all my foods with dates). It's been sitting in my freezer all this time, frozen and forgotten until I unearthed it a few days ago in my search for ice cream. Can I still eat this cookie dough, or will it destroy me?

unsettling things at 6am

I was rounding the corner to drop off my trash before work when a man in a bright blue windbreaker suit stopped me in my tracks. He was standing or leaning against the outside of the outermost dumpster, the one I was heading for. I could tell it was a man even though his head and left arm were buried deep inside the container, the lid perched on his right shoulder.

Immediately, the whole headless-man-in-the-park thing from last year flashed through my head. Was this another victim of suburban violence?? Was he still alive? Should I run into the CTA and shout for assistance? I froze, trying to decide what to do.

Then the dumpster lid bobbed.

He was alive. Not a dismembered body, then.

But what on earth was he doing? Maybe he lost something? I swallowed hard and steeled my nerves -- I couldn't miss my bus, after all. And I had to get rid of my heavy, smelly trash bag.

He heard me as I approached and poked his head out of the dumpster. He was a middle-aged white guy, maybe only an inch or two taller than me, with wispy puffs of dark hair in a weird balding pattern. He looked at me, startled, his cheeks disturbingly stuffed full of something. It was clear that he had been eating from out of the dumpster. He held the lid aloft for me to toss in my trash bag. I thanked him and quickly ran to the train stop.

Something about it/him was deeply weird and a little sad. I peeked out at him from behind the safet of the billboards on the train platform. Was that a hint of mental instability in his eyes, in his movements? Or was he embarrassed at being caught in such a peculiar and vulnerable position? Should I have offered him my lunch? He rooted through the dumpster for a little while longer, then the ground behind the dumpster. Then he put something in his paper Whole Foods bag and headed out towards Dempster street.

I turned away, waiting for my train. On the other side of the train tracks was another middle-aged man, dressed plainly in washed out jeans and a practical jacket. He toed the edge of the platform, leaning over the tracks. Then, quite calmly, he pressed a finger first against one nostril and then the other, loudly heaving its contents onto the tracks.

Ummm. GAG. ME.

Between the dumpster diver and the snot spewer, I'm not sure which behavior was more disgusting. Great start to the morning.

sillyheads

For all the crap I write about my exes and all of my questionable dating decisions, it must be said that every guy I've dated has at least been entertaining.

Like my high school boyfriend, Pete. Pete was a nice guy, but we were incredibly ill-suited for each other in that we never had anything to talk about unless we were about to break-up. Looking back, some of my best conversations with Pete were when we were on the brink of ending. If nothing catastrophic was about to happen, he was the kind of guy who'd rather play Megaman than have a conversation, whereas I am the kind of girl who requires a LOT of verbal attention. (Poor Tyler, he can't ever get in a word edgewise.)

But I remember this one time, he came up to me with genuine excitement and said, "I've got a really amazing idea! WHAT IF...we did what Blockbuster does with videos, but we do it with books?? Like we just have all these books that you can rent out for free, but you have to take it back after a certain period of time! Then you wouldn't have to go out and spend money to buy them!!!"

"Pete. It's called a library," I said. Sillyhead. What can I say, he was kind of a genius. I have no doubt he's still out there coming up with brilliant and revolutionary ideas. ("What if you could download music directly to your computer???")

My current romantic attachment is at least two higher ed degrees above Pete, but that hasn't prevented him in the least from being just a little bit off-kilter. Yesterday, I met up with Tyler before his softball game and told him that I had a treat for him. This is the conversation that ensued:

Tyler: Um...I was told I would be given a treat. Where is the treat?
Me: [opens lunchbag] Here you go!
Tyler: [suspiciously] What is that?
Me: Half a sandwich! And a Coke!
Tyler: [crestfallen] Oh.
Me: [worried] Don't you like it? You need sustenance for your game.
Tyler: Well, it's just that when you said "treat," I thought it would be sweet.
Me: The pop is sweet.
Tyler: Okay, honestly, it's b/c when you said "treat," for some reason I had a jelly doughnut pictured in my head, so that's what I was expecting to get.

These boy-children. Sillyheads.

100th post!

Today is a day of milestones! Not only is this my 100th post, but Prince William and Kate Middleton got married; it's finally sunny again in Chicago after 2 weeks of dreary rain; and I went to the tailor for the first time. That last one is what this 100th post will be about, even though I did wake up at 3am to watch the Royal Wedding on CNN. (Tyler has rather seriously threatened me if I try to rehash the wedding to him, and I'm guessing some of you share that sentiment, so I shan't subject you to my pathetic royalist fandom.)

On to my tailoring adventure.

So I'm going to be a bridesmaid for Anna's wedding in July, which I'm pretty excited about. Anna picked a lovely navy silk cocktail dress from BR for us back in November, and some of the girls even managed to get on sale. I got my bridesmaid shoes in an impromptu after-Christmas shopping trip with my family. As many of you know, I'm an OCD-planner, so having everything ready 7 months before the actual wedding was really awesome.

But ah, having everything picked out so far in advance created an unforeseen problem. I joined a gym in January, and all those Zumba classes must've really paid off because when I tried on the dress last month, it looked rather different than it did when I got it in November. My mom would be pleased to note that my arms no longer look hammy. But while thin arms are nice, they don't matter too much if the rest of the dress looks somewhat lacking, particularly in the chest area.

One of my Evanston friends recommended a great tailor who happened to be quite close to my apartment, so today I dropped in to see what could be done about my dress. The tailor was a tiny, middle-aged Korean woman, as nice as could be. Our exchange went something like this:

Tailor: Hello! What can I help you with?
Me: Hi, I need to get this dress tailored.
Tailor: What do you need done?
Me: I have no idea.
Tailor: Well, okay, go try it on and let me see.
[I go to the back room to change. I marvel at how incredibly clean her store is. Seriously. And it smelled really good, too. But I digress.]
Me: Okay.
Tailor: [pinches fabric here and there, examines the fit, etc] Okay, we do this and we do this, we make you a waist. I take it in here and here, you see? Now you have a waist! Looks good, right?
Me: Wow. Yeah, that looks good. Can you do anything about the top?
Tailor: [skeptically] You are very small on top. This dress needs more there to look good.
Me: Yes, I know.
Tailor: So there is nothing I can do for you.
Me: Oh. We can't just take it in or something, make it less baggy...?
Tailor: No, I don't think so. [encouragingly] What you need is a really big push-up bra!!!
Me: Ah. Okay...
Tailor: Get a big one! You can even use tissues, push it together, make sexy. Big bra!!! Push-up!!! You need big push-up!!!

After the receipt was written out and she had impressed upon me several more times of the necessity of a bra + tissue combo for my non-chest, she added, quite kindly, "But you are so cute!" The American half of me wanted to accept and say "Thank you," but the Asian side wanted to deflect and say "No, not at all." So what came out was a weak, strangled, "Oh." (This happens to me almost every time I am complimented. Does this happen to anyone else? Responding half a beat too late, usually with some sort of unintelligible guttural noise?)

So if anyone can recommend a good, gigantic push-up bra, that would be greatly appreciated! I already have the tissues.

queen of the conversation stopper

I was a pretty shy kid growing up, so I've always felt a bit awkward around people. I especially hate networking and all the BS small-talk chit-chat nice-nice convos you have to do with people you don't know. So I guess it's sort of masochistic to choose to do journalism, as so much of it is going up to strangers and trying to nice-nice them into answering probing questions.

This dislike of superficial schmoozing is augmented by my tendency to word-vomit when I get nervous. My discretion goes entirely out the window, and I am no longer able to judge what is funny and what is inappropriate. I once told a VP at our company that he looked as fresh as a peppermint in his pink-striped shirt, after which he said he was going to report me for harassment. (Haven't heard from HR, so can only assume he changed his mind.)

Also, my grasp on discretion is a bit on the weak side as it is, so...fun times ahead in life, I'm sure.

So this post is dedicated to the conversation stoppers of 2011, thus far, that haunt me when I'm trying to fall asleep at night.

Convo stopper #1:
It was during a Lenten Friday, and we were at Sheil's weekly fish fry. Tons of fried fish and shrimp and coleslaw at suggested donation of $3? YES PLEASE. The only thing is, after everyone's gotten their food (and Tyler has destroyed a small community of shrimp), they do these little reflection times and people come up and talk, and sometimes there is music and so forth. Well, on this particular Friday, it was the birthday of one of the NU students, so we all sang happy birthday to her. I've never spoken to her before, but I recognized her as one of the regular readers.

As we were leaving, she was entering through the door that we were exiting out of. Since it was her birthday, I blurted out, very brightly, "Happy birthday!!!!!"

She gave me a startled look and said, and I quote, "Uhhh," before hurriedly rushing past us with this look on her face like I had just propositioned her or something. It was incredibly awkward, but Tyler managed to keep his laughter in until after we'd gone outside.

And since she's a church regular, I keep seeing her at Mass and consequent fish fries. Ughgghghg avoidance strategies are a go!

Convo stopper #2:
Seeing a number of people in ties rushing up and down the stairs at work. Very peculiar. In the coffee room, I ask one of the HR ladies what was going on, if there was a big meeting today or something that I had forgotten about.

HR Lady: Big meeting? No, I think they're just here to do inspections.
Me: Oh, okay. Well, I guess I better be on my best behavior then! Ha ha!
HR Lady: ...Okay! [quickly leaves]

I work with her a lot, and we take yoga class together. No avoidance possible with this one.

Convo stopper #3:
Me: [pulls up pant leg, genuinely thinking he'd be intrigued] Tyler, check out my bruise.
Tyler: Ew, what's wrong with your leg? What did you do?
Me: I think it's from the top of my sock. I had to wear sort of tight socks today b/c it was raining and I was wearing my galoshes. So then I got these marks from it, and I guess it bruised.
Tyler: ...I don't want you to carry my children anymore.
Me: Wait, what?
Tyler: Uhhh do you think I want to tell people "My girlfriend gets bruises from the elastic band on her sock"?? What's wrong with you???

holy week reflections

I've been thinking a bit about this past Lenten season as we enter Holy Week. I had decided to fast for this go-around, which seemed to me to be a progressive step after giving cookies (junior year, high school) and cursing (freshman year, college). I wish I had a "this is what I learned" story or some sort of inspirational religious moment to share with you, but mostly I was grumpy a lot and ate far too much when I got the chance.

Once I ate a giant carrot cake cupcake from Bennison's instead of a real meal. Another morning, I had a whole tub of leftover curried noodles from Dozika and a homemade muffin. One week, I ate through an entire package of bacon by myself, much to Tyler's chagrin (b/c I didn't share, not b/c he thought I was fat) (at least, that better not be the case). This might not sound remarkable, except that Tyler and I eat together every day except Thursday dinner (he has his sports) and Saturday breakfast (I like to do household-y things on Saturday, like laundry, so we usually don't meet up til evening) so...I covered a lot of bacon in just two meals. I'm holding off my annual check-up until some of that gets worked out of my arteries. So you see, I am not exactly what you'd call a model faster.

In fact, I discovered very quickly that I'm absolutely terrible at fasting. I'm a bit ashamed to say that I broke down the very first day when my cubicle neighbor offered me a box of Girl Scout cookies. I think I fasted for a grand total of 3 hours that day, which is probably slightly less than what a normal person does regularly. I developed this routine where I basically ate breakfast as slowly as possible, stretching out a bag of Quaker Oatmeal squares for 6 hours. So really, it's not so much as fasting, as it is just...eating really slowly...which probably isn't the purpose of fasting, as it is an extension of my natural inclenations.

So over the past week or so, I've tried to be better. (I say this as I eat an apple, which I've been doing for the last hour and a half.) Whenever I get hungry in the afternoons, I've tried very hard to think of why I'm fasting in the first place, to mull over spirituality vs a Snickers bar. Sometimes it works; sometimes I find myself covered in croissant crumbs (snack-blackout is similar to a rage-blackout in that way). But there is a certain sort of lightness and cleanliness and clarity I feel in the late afternoons when I do manage to resist the temptations, which is a nice feeling to strive for. This is the last week of fasting, but I'm actually wondering if I might not do it for a little longer. See what happens.

On an unrelated note, I woke up to a wintry mess falling from the sky. Snow adorned grass and car tops and most of my El stop. Slushy ice grossness covered everything else. All I want to know is: WHY. WHY CHICAGO. WHYYYYYY.

bacon makes everything better

You know what pot smells like to me? Wet socks and cooked cabbage. Like a kind of stanky musky smell that's also a little bit green and sweet. I despise wet socks. And I don't particularly care for cooked cabbage.

And I hate, hate, HATE it when my entire freaking building smells like gross wet socks and cooked cabbage and gross disgusting weed. And because it's been grey and raining outside for the last two days, opening a window is not an option so everything is just like...sitting around, stagnant and mixing with the normal gross old-building smell awkwardly like hormones at a middle-school dance.

I hate pot! I hate middle schools! I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!

Ahem. Sorry for the juvenile temper-tantrum, but I don't think it's too much to ask to live in an apartment that doesn't smell Satan's armpit in Detroit during a maple syrup festival near a dog-food factory.

This is where bacon comes in.

Bacon is amazing. It is a wonder-food. It makes everything taste like awesome. To make myself feel better (and b/c I was working from home today), I decided to cook up a few slices of bacon to nibble on while I made inroads into the fascinating world of warehouse accident prevention (our warehouses are super safe! Yay!).

Turns out, when you make bacon in a poorly-ventilated building, everything will then smell like bacon. My entire apartment smells like bacon. The hallway smells like bacon. My coat smells like bacon. My bedsheets smell like bacon, which I actually find kind of disturbing, but hey, at least it doesn't smell like pot.

Bacon. It's the answer to all the world's ills.

townhouse memories

When we first came to the US (as far back as I can remember, anyway), my parents and I shared a townhouse near GMU with a couple of other Taiwanese grad students. I must've been 4 or 5 then. We were in a basement room first, but then moved to a largeish corner room on the second level that faced the street and had its own bathroom.

I think we got that room b/c my parents were the only couple who had a kid. It wasn't weird or anything, since in Taiwan it's pretty common to sleep in the same room with your entire family (at least it was for mine). I was actually a little bit afraid of sleeping in a room by myself until fairly late in elementary school. In Taiwan, my parents had what is like a little studio apartment at my paternal grandparents' home, so we all slept in the same bed (or my dad would sleep on the floor). At my maternal grandparents' home, I always slept with my grandmother in her room. I guess it wasn't as common to have beds then, b/c we always pulled blankets down and spread them on the hardwood floor. She still slept like that until just a year or two ago when she broke her leg and couldn't climb the stairs anymore. They've put beds (very hard beds) in the other bedrooms though.

I remember the townhouse room as being pretty big, with my parents' full size mattress on the floor against one wall, my little twin bed in another corner. My mom also put two big pillows next to my bed in case I rolled off, which did happen once or twice. I once woke up with my head on the air vent b/c I had rolled off both bed and pillows.

The bathroom was small though, and I remember being afraid of flushing the toilet (very loud) and brushing my teeth (disgusting "strawberry" flavored toothbrush that made me want to gag). But mostly I remember the smells of the bathroom after a shower: the warm, wet smell of steam; sharpness of soap and, sometimes, bubble bath; faintly sweet smell of lotion. The drier climate of Virginia made all of us rabid lotion users, and I still keep an eye out for any miracle cream that claims to quench my dry skin woes. My brother and I had really bad eczema as kids; I learned to sleep with my limbs straight out b/c if I slept curled up, in the morning, when I unfurled, the creases in my arms and the backs of my knees would crack open and bleed. My brother more or less manned up through it (which means he's got a fine collection of scars).

So anyway, I remember the smell of lotion and showers as associated with that cozy, blurry time when it was just the three of us living in one room together, when my dad was still a student and I hadn't started school in the US yet.

I was feeling nostalgic and homesick a while back, so I went out and bought a bottle of Vaseline lotion and a little blue tub of Nivea creme. It doesn't smell quite the same though. Maybe they don't use the same fragrance as they did 20 years ago. Maybe you can't bottle up the smell of your parents, ages 30 and 33. But sometimes, when I put Nivea on my face and smooth Vaseline lotion on my arms after a shower, it will smell just right for half a second and I'm 4 years old again.

i like this, but...

Today's post will be dedicated to things I like...but also hate.

1. I like that women and men are, essentially, equal in many facets of life, which is a good thing...but I hate when younger men push their way in front of old ladies in the bus line. I mean, seriously? You're going to let a poor little granny with a little travel cart of groceries wait out in the rain while you hop on the bus so you can call some chick who doesn't even want to talk to you anyway b/c it's around dinner time and she's trying to eat a salad? You're not even going to help the old lady with her cart? Seriously?? Is a little bit of chivalry too much to ask for??!

2. I like that Greek yogurt has twice as much protein as regular yogurt...but why does it have to taste like raw sourdough? But everyone seems to be on this Greek yogurt craze! I've tried a couple of brands and flavors, though, and am determined to find a go-to Greek yogurt b/c that extra protein is for real. I decided to try fasting for Lent, which mostly means I don't eat lunch. The little bit of extra protein in the Greek yogurt really tides me over! Too bad it tastes like old milk...which I guess it is...hmm. Ew. Why is it that most types of dairy is kind of gross if you think about it too hard?

3. I like that my company is trying to be more environmentally-friendly...but I'm sad that we no longer have plastic coffee stirrers, which I used to double as a straw. Yes, I drink coffee through a straw. I, too, scoffed at it when I first saw my friend Anna doing it. And then I tried it and my entire coffee-drinking experience was changed for the better. Try it sometime, if your company hasn't switched to using those skinny wooden popsicle sticks. I've taken to stealing regular drinking straws from the cafeteria...b/c awesome coffee-drinking requires a cylindrical drinking tube made of rainforest burning, ozone-destroying, baby seal-killing plastic. Yum.

me vs dishwasher

I don't know if it's because I'm Asian or because I have deep-abiding trust issues, but I do not trust my dishwasher to do anything other than hold my dishes while they dry.

Yes, I realize that thousands and millions of Americans regularly use their dishwashers and everything comes out squeaky clean and beautiful. But that has not been my experience. Part of it is that my mom, who is Asian and adorable, also has trust issues regarding her dishwasher. (Truth be told, though, she has trust issues with everyone regarding clean dishes. She absolutely hates it when I do the dishes, though it may also be b/c I've broken like 3 of her nice drinking glasses while trying washing them. But I digress.) So I grew up watching my mom do dishes by hand, and so, naturally, when I started living on my own, that's what I did, too.

Turns out I have a lot of the same dishwashing issues as my mom. My boyfriend is a very smart, tidy, and generally careful sort of person, and I still hold my breath whenever he does my dishes. Sometimes I'll be over at his place and I'll re-wash all the dishes in his drying rack b/c a fork will look a little smudgy.

So last night, I made roast lamb and potatoes and homemade bread, and the pans were looking a bit crusty. Normally, I would just wash the dishes, then soak everything else and do a scrub in the morning. But no, I thought, "Tonight I will conquer my fear! According to commercials, dishwashers can take care of day-old lasagna pans; surely it can handle a little roasting pan or two!" I let the pans soak for about half an hour while we watched the Chicago Code (I think the main character looks a lot like Tyler! Not only b/c he's white and has brown hair). Then, Tyler helped me load the dishwasher and set it to "Heavy Washing." I went to bed thinking, "Well, that wasn't so bad! It was pretty easy, actually. This could be something I could get used to! I hope it works."

WELL. I woke up this morning and hastened to the kitchen to check on my dish-cleaning status.

Horrible. It was horrible. The pans were not clean; a bowl had turned over and was filled with brownish gunk; my chopsticks fell through the little grate and was under the dishwasher's blades. I was so unhappy. I couldn't bear to leave the dishes in such an unhappy state, but I had to go to work. So I decided to just let it run again, and hopefully when I get home, things will look a bit more manageable and I can do a real scrubbing.

What am I doing wrong? How is it that like, 95% of America (I'm basing this percentage on the fact that Asians make up only about 4.5% of the total population) can operate a dishwasher properly but I am a total dishwasher fail?!!? I am a college grad! I have a Master's degree! I can put on eye make-up evenly! So WHY can't I get my dishwasher to clean my dishes properly?!?!

So I guess I'm going to stick with washing dishes by hand from here on out, unless someone can explain to me what I'm doing wrong. I know that if I don't run the darn thing occasionally, my plumbing will mold over or explode or whatever. So sometimes I'll put it on rinse and let it get everything swished around. But if Asian moms have one thing right, it's that dishwashers are the devil.

knuckles and gauges

So Young Finance Guy is abroad right now for a business trip and then European vacation which means I'm back to riding the bus until April. In the space of approximately 24 hours, I have had not one, not two, but three (three!) Strange Bus Encounters. Consider:

Encounter #1
Older black guy stares at me intensely for most of morning commute. Turns out that he was lusting after my copy of the RedEye. Strangely enough, that does not make it any less creepy.

Encounter #2
White guy about my age, very tall, very loud, like Jason Segel might be if he were an amateur consultant. I can feel him looking at me from across the aisle as I work on my crossword. He reaches over and taps me on the arm. "Hey, what happened to your knuckles?" he asks.

WELL. A few weeks back, I had skin lesions on the back of my hand sliced off and frozen. Bled everywhere, very gross, still wearing bandages.

Not quite the flirty answer Loudmouth was looking for.

Encounter #3
Loudmouth and a few friends are waiting for the same morning bus as me. He makes a few more comments about my knuckles (so charming), asks my name, promptly loses interest in talking to me when he spots another girl he knows coming off a different bus. "Heyyy! Why didn't you tell me you were taking this bus? Hey, you trying to avoid me? You know, if I had your number, I could have texted you this morning about what bus I'd be on, you know, dialed it in, you could've checked and been like 'Hey, gotta avoid this guy!'" Uber charming! The poor girl rolled her eyes and walked away to call someone on the phone. Loudmouth jokes that she's calling the cops on him. What a gentleman!

So we get on the bus, and Loudmouth's friend with gauges in his ears takes the seat in front of mine. I pull out my book. A few moments later, this conversation ensued:

Gauges: Excuse me, but what are you reading?
Me: [holds up the book: Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood]
Gauges: [visibly crestfallen as he reads the title] Oh.
Me: [goes back to reading]
Gauges: [tries again] Do you read lots of books?
Me: Yes.
Gauges: Yeah, well, I'm looking for some books to read, you know, do you have any recommendations? I'm on like a book kick. [He waits, nervously defiant]
Me: [relenting] I don't know, what kinds of books do you like to read?
Gauges: Well, the last book I read was called "Sex at Dawn" and it was about the development of sexuality in the beginning ages.
Me: Oh. Well, that sounds interesting...
Gauges: I like a lot of non-fiction. Hermann Hesse is my favorite writer, you know, Siddhartha?
Me: Oh, yes. I've never read it though.
Gauges: [determined] Yeah, I like him a lot. Sometimes I just spend hours at the library, you know, just looking through books? I love it. Just love it.
Me: Yes, that's good. Um, well, maybe you'd like Michael Crichton? Lost World, Jurassic Park, Timeline. Guys tend to like that kind of stuf.
Gauges: I'm not really into fiction. I like non-fiction, biographies, stuff that really makes you think. Makes you think deeper.
Me: Oh. I think all I read is fiction.
Gauges: [sounding desperate] I read the whole Twilight series though. I don't know why! I just couldn't put them down, I had to read them all. I thought they were really good.
Me: I didn't read any of them.
Gauges: [disbelief] Why not?
Me: Not really into the whole vampires thing, I guess.
Gauges: Oh. [pause] Wow, this is really not off to a good start.

I could barely keep from laughing, it was all very awkward-high-school, especially since his thought process was very easy to read. After a while, Gauges asked me how old I was, told me that he often spoke with "older people" about these things, then doubled-back and tried to reassure me that he didn't mean that I personally looked old or older, he just wanted to know how old I was. (He's 21.) I did feel sort of bad that I couldn't offer him any book suggestions, and he told me that it was okay, that he was sure we'd see each other on the bus again and to just let him know what I thought of anything. Hilarious. And mostly harmless. Seemed like a nice guy.

choosing one master to serve

I don't often do this, but the timing of these events can't ignored.

I think God is sending me a message.

In the last few weeks, I've fretted a lot about work and my career progression. I like working at my present company very much, but I can't ignore the fact that I am the subordinate person in a two-person department. I look around and it just seems like I have nowhere to go. Sometimes it feels like everyone else is moving along quicker and further than I am on their careers, whether it's at a magazine company, a financial corporation or the federal government. I know a number of people younger than me who are rapidly rising through their company, making twice as much as me and traveling to exotic locales on their company's dime. They're adding stamps to their passport, buying their first home and laying down the foundations for a real adult life. I can only dream of a day where I can buy a house with stairs that I don't have to share with 24 other units. I think it'd be really nice to have my own stairs in a little two-story home.

So I'm not proud of this, but I can't help but be jealous, be a little bitter. I'm jealous that they are on their way in their career, that they have such a clear path ahead of them while I'm floundering here, trying to figure out what it is that I even want to do. I'm bitter that I will probably never make that much money even though I have a master's degree from a top-ranked school and they "only" hold a bachelor's in business and/or have well-placed parents.

And here's the thing: I don't even want their life. Not even a little bit at all. I have no interest in finance or international business or working for the government. I have no desire to work 70 hours a week, where the most I see of my family are in the pictures I keep on my desk or wallet. And I love being with my Gentleman Companion (as H so fondly calls hers) enough that foreign ports don't quite hold the same allure if he can't be there with me. And my parents raised me to be frugal, so I don't even know what I'd do if my income doubled overnight. Honestly, I would probably feel too guilty to spend it.

I had shared some of these thoughts to Tyler as we drove down to Danville on Saturday night. I worried, I fretted, I wondered if me trying to control all these things was contributing to my unhappiness. I even wondered if I should just leave it up to God. Tyler was as supportive as always, but had no answers for me. He has his own set of burdens and worries; this was mine alone.

When we went to church on Sunday, this was the Holy Gospel:

Matthew 6:24-34

Jesus said to his disciples: No one can serve two masters. He will either hate one and love the other, or be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and mammon.

Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are not you more important than they? Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your life-span? Why are you anxious about clothes?

Learn from the way the wild flowers grow. They do not work or spin. But I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was clothed like one of them. If God so clothes the grass of the field, which grows today and is thrown into the oven tomorrow, will he not much more provide for you, O you of little faith? So do not worry and say, ‘What are we to eat?’ or ‘What are we to drink?’or ‘What are we to wear?’ All these things the pagans seek. Your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given you besides. Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself. Sufficient for a day is its own evil.

The Danville priest talked about money and jobs and material goods. He said he spent hours researching the new iPhone and was so frustrated when the launch date kept getting delayed. It was important to him to stay on the cutting edge of technology. "Then I realized: I can't serve God and Verizon," he said. Isn't that the truth.

And here's the other thing: normally, we'd be in Lent right now and would be using different gospels. That means that this particular gospel only comes up every few years. What incredible timing is this, that these words would come just as I was struggling with all these worries and fears?

I was awed and humbled that God would reach out to me in this way, and tried to keep that message in mind as I went back to work yesterday. It's hard to let go of worries, to really relinquish control and trust that everything will work out, though. I began worrying again today -- seeing no future ahead of me, being out-paced by my peers in every field, never being satisfied with my career progression. I was on the cusp of really working myself into feeling hopeless and sorry for myself when I spotted a link on my Facebook newsfeed. A girl I hadn't spoken to since high school had posted a link to her sister's blog. I don't know either girl very well at all, but I clicked on the link anyway. And what was the first thing that caught my eye on her blog?

No one can serve two masters. He will either hate one and love the other, or be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and Money.

Coincidence? Or another gentle reminder that I should not worry so much because God will provide for me? I don't know. But I think these things happened in too close a proximity to be ignored. It's not easy, but I am going to try to not worry so much and trust in His plan for me. My career path will work itself out. And, hopefully, somewhere down the line, it will help to strengthen my faith. I have so much trouble with belief, but I want to, so bad.

mussels and pate

My coworker, Young Finance Guy, invited me and Tyler to double-date with him and his boyfriend for Chicago's Restaurant Week. I don't know if YFG has been to Restaurant Week before, but it was Tyler and my first time going to any sorts of restaurants like these.

For those unfamiliar with the concept, Restaurant Week is basically a week where all these restaurants showcase a couple of their best items (appetizer, entree, dessert) for a flat rate. Most of these places are a bit fancy so, traditionally, Restaurant Week is a way for us peons to get classy food for a bit of a discount.

We decided to go to the Bistro Bordeaux in Evanston, a very charming little French place where actual French people seemed to dine. It's quite small and cozy, with a coat-check near the front. A lone votive candle on each of the tables and a few small wall sconces seemed to be the only sources of light in restaurant. Very dim, very romantic. I'm afraid to say that I didn't take any pictures worth reproducing here b/c I didn't want to ruin the romantic atmosphere with my camera flash. (I have some decency, you know!) So you're just going to have to trust me on how delicious and beautiful everything was.

For the appetizer, I had the Pâté de foie de Volaille, or chicken liver pate.

Oh. My. Goodness. All I have to say is, whoever invented the pâté was either a genius or the devil. There is no in-between. The pâté arrived in a substantial glass clamp jar about the size of my fist, covered in a layer of solid fat sprinkled with chopped chives that you have to break through to get to the delicious rosy-grey liver, as soft as cream cheese. There was enough to spread through at least 2 loaves of bread. I barely got through a quarter of it on my pieces of toasted baguette. It felt a bit wasteful since like...I mean, the solid fat was basically a seal, right, which showed that they made each serving individually. This was not something they just squeezed out of a tube and slapped on a few pieces of bread.

I picked the Moules Frites au Piment d’Espelette for my entree, which was like a ridiculous number of tender mussels cooked in this outrageously yummy wine sauce and topped with shredded turnip and green olives. The wine sauce was so delicious, I could've eaten it like soup. The mussels came with a giant cone of skinny French fries and some sort of garlicky, tangy mayo-type sauce. Just in case my arteries weren't clogged enough from the pâté!

For dessert, Tyler and I shared the Profiteroles au Chocolat and Brioche Bread Pudding. I'm not a huge fan of cream puffs, so I definitely liked the bread pudding better. It was two squares of soft, custardy brioche that seemed to have been torched on one side for an intriguing, bitter, caramel-y edge. It was topped with a dense vanilla ice cream, caramel sauce, pecans and two slices of baked apple.

I almost passed out right there and then. It's actually what I am on my way to do, but I thought I ought to record the experience while it was still fresh in my mind.

On a slightly more historical note, Rahm Emanuel is now the mayor of Chicago. He looks like the type of scary, intense man that you never, ever, ever want to be stranded on a desert island with, b/c he will kill you and eat you with his bare hands so he can come back to rule Chicago. I mean, this guy is that driven. Who knows, maybe that's what this city needs: a guy who, if he really put his mind to it, will figure out how to shoot lasers out of his eyes. Maybe he won't be able to balance the budget, but gosh darn it if he couldn't turn himself into Cyclops.

And now, bed.

personal hell

So I signed up to do this in-office fitness screening that required me to fast for 12 hours and then produce two vials of blood. I was also measured for height (5'1) and weight (3 pounds heavier than at Christmas. Seriously?! But I've been Zumba-ing!)

Afterwards, I decided that my own personal hell would be spending infinity:

- hungry
- having a nurse sticking at me, trying unsuccessfully to find a suitable vein while
- standing on a scale that produces ever-increasing numbers and
- trying on bathing suits

That would just be the worst.

inaugural chicago snow day

Happy First Snow Day Since 1999! (Midwesterners: Hasn't it been fun? And did you know that, in VA, we have at least 3 snow days a year? May be something you guys want to consider having more often.)

I'm not sure exactly how it works, but the snow seemed to like, amplify every single street light last night. Like my room was lit up, bright yellow, all night. Throw in the crazy wind, a little lightning, a little thunder, and it felt a bit like sleeping in a train tunnel.

So what did I do with my snow day?

WELL. I wish I could say I was super productive, like "worked from home" or "shoveled the front walk for elderly neighbors" but that would be 1. a lie and 2. I don't have a shovel, a front walk or elderly neighbors. I'm a little bit ashamed to say that I basically spent all day cleaning out my pantry/closet and eating whatever I find. I realize that sounds kind of gross...and yes, it kind of was. This is what I've done today:

- Roll out of bed and examine the weather situation. Can barely see outside. Still tons of snow falling. Check my work email, respond to a few messages. Log off.

- Find two vacuum-sealed packages of tie dan, delicious little bird eggs sent to me from my mom God only knows when, and they were still yummy. Love that vacuum seal! And the fact that tie dan is basically like tasty, rubberized eggs. Eat two eggs.

- Work out for 20 minutes to "Buff Moms: Beyond Baby Body Workout." This is because I naturally basically have a post-baby body and this workout has actually been very helpful in toning the side-hip-fat area. Also it was like $4 or something at a thrift store, so...yeah.

- Check work email again as I recover, red-faced, from the Baby Mama workout.

- Step on the scale. Weight as expected.

- Shower. Go right back into my pjs, b/c I am a bum.

- Eat a banana while I cook a bowl of Neoguri ramen with one egg. Think affectionately of the last time I saw Neoguri, which was at Steph's apartment in December.

- Curl up on the couch with a blanket and watch an episode of CSI: Las Vegas. Spike is one of the few channels that I still have after downgrading to a cheaper cable package. (No MTV, VH1, TLC, OR the History Channel! How am I going to get my What Not to Wear or Ancient Aliens fix?! Gahhh. But that is a story of woe for another day.)

- Notice a Lindt truffle ball hiding in a pile of coupons on my coffee table. I eat it.

- Remember that I had another package of truffles that I lifted from Tyler's apartment (he doesn't like dark chocolate and was just going to give it away anyway). Dig it out from the back of my fridge. Eat two pieces.

- Remember a Marie Claire article I read about women and their sex numbers, as in, the number of people they've slept with. I look up one of the women they profiled, Lena Chen, who began blogging about her sexual experiences when she was a student at Harvard. Briefly consider interviewing her for Hyphen as some sort of Valentine special for my February column. Then, I thought 1. she's a very good writer, so she'd probably want to write it herself, and 2. she's kind of like a female Tucker Max, and I just don't know how I feel about that.

- Ponder the merits of internet over-share and personal branding. Lena's found pretty steady writing gigs as a result of the popularity of her sex blog. Should I blog about the intimate details of my personal life? ...Would anyone care to read things like "Gave Tyler a package of new socks today. He said thanks"? Not exactly titillating topics.

- While feeling bizarrely depressed about my lack of random sexual encounters, I find a tin of chocolate hazelnut pirouettes that I received from Tyler's mom for my birthday. Debate bringing it to the Super Bowl Party this weekend. Decide that a bunch of smelly gross guys probably don't want to eat frilly girly food. Eat three pirouettes.

- Weigh myself again. Have gained 3 pounds since the morning. Eye the tin of pirouettes longingly, but put it away on top of the fridge. 3 pounds! Since this morning?! Whyyyy.

- Overcome by afternoon lethargy. Feeling kind of sleepy and still irrationally grumpy about not having a very interesting sexual history. Root around in my pantry/closet again and find a stray package of Taiwanese milk tea in a bag next to my new boots. Very odd. But very delicious. The caffeine perks up my brain and I think, "I might not have gone to Harvard or started a national conversation about feminism, but people also don't call me a morally reprehensible whore." Gotta count my blessings, right?

And now I'm here, watching the day turn grey, trying to decide what to eat for dinner, and dreading going back to work tomorrow. All in all, a nice and enjoyable snow day, even if I don't have a sex blog to show for it.

snow in the windy city

In my past three winters in Chicago, I never once saw anything cancelled on account of snow or cold. My first year here, I remember anxiously wondering if I should go to class after a foot of snow fell overnight. After not hearing about any cancellations, I wrapped my face in a scarf and trudged out to Fisk Hall, half-expecting to run into people telling me that class was cancelled.

To my surprise, the kids who grew up in the Midwest were already in class, talking and pulling out their notebooks like it was no big deal. Others who, like me, had not grown up on the outskirts of civilization, were like "WTF IS GOING ON WHY ARE WE HERE." The Georgia girls looked particularly bewildered, but who could blame them? Why would you trade beautiful, peachy Atlanta for a city encrusted in snow and ice, and not in a good way?

After a while, I kind of got used to it. Walking and waiting at bus stops through foot after foot of snow and ice and wind and negative 20-degree days. Nothing was ever closed. Nothing was ever cancelled.

So it's with some trepidation to get an email saying that my office has been closed tomorrow due to the blizzard. Whoa. What?? That kind of scared me! I mean, seriously, how bad is it that offices decided to close tomorrow? Thankfully I took a page from my East Coast friends who went through that awful storm last week by deciding to work from home today instead of risking an hours-long commute home from the office. Best decision ever.

Stay warm, everyone! I'm going to go burrow under a blanket with some chocolate and a glass of wine. Can't wait to watch some White Collar tonight! Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey, omggg.

smells like awkward neighbor

In the last few years, I've discovered that my ability to create awkward conversation is only surpassed by my ability to create irrational worst-case scenarios. (Tyler doesn't pick up my call? Gahhhh that means he's being attacked by ninjas in the produce aisle of Dominick's! Not because he's driving and is trying to be safe. Obviously.) But today's post is about the former.

I walked home after an intense Zumba class this morning because, as it turns out, the Y is like 3 blocks from my apartment. Who knew? Anyway, so the way my apartment building is set up, there are two sets of doors to get in. The first set opens to a teeny foyer so you don't have to wait out in the rain/snow while waiting to get buzzed in through the second set of glass doors. After you get through the second set of doors, there's a very narrow square of carpet where exactly two people (or one person in a puffy coat) can stand, and then immediately beyond that is the stairs. So basically, the entryway is very tight.

I was standing in the foyer, and before I put in my building key, I noticed that it smelled all perfume-y and beautiful. I'd noticed the fragrance before on one or two other occasions, and have not been able to figure out what it is/who wears it, but it smells amazing. Some of you may know a thing or two about my Great Fragrance Searches, and some of you have even generously donated your time/dignity to tromp through department stores with me, and then patiently letting me spritz, and then smell, your wrists, forearms and elbows to help me figure out what perfume I'm trying to find. (Thanks Sunnyyyyy, you're the besttttt.)

So I'm there, breathing deeply and trying to memorize/place the scent. After maybe 3 or 4 minutes, I decide that I've got the scent sufficiently locked into my olfactory memory bank. I turn to put my key in the door and am startled to see that there's a guy on the other side, waiting for me to get out of the way so he can exit the building.

What I should've said was: nothing. I should've just smiled and walked past him, not saying a word about my weird fragrance obsession.

This is what I said instead: "I'm standing out here because someone's perfume smells so good and I'm trying to figure out what it is! I've smelled it before, though! Ha! I'm not crazy! Ha!"

"Oh," the guy said, and then gave me one of those indulgent smiles that you give either very small children ("Your daughter says she wants to be a ladybug when she grows up") or mischievous elderly people ("Grandpa just mooned the neighbors again"). He squeezed by me and left me alone, wondering how I could never quite manage to keep myself from word-vomiting.

So that neighborly encounter didn't go as well as it should have, but whatever. I had more things to worry about, like how I was going to make it up 3 flights of stairs to my apartment with legs that felt heavy, squashy wheels of cheese. (Very slowly, as it turns out, was the way to go.)

zumba your heart out

January has absolutely just flown by, and I only have one blog post to show for it! So much for my unofficial 2011 resolution of blogging more. My goal is to write at least once a week. Obviously I've failed miserably.

But it's a new year, and it's time to do new things so we can give it up after 3 weeks of saying we'll do new things. For instance, I joined a gym. Yes, I am now a card-carrying member of the YMCA. Basically what it comes down to is that I have a bridesmaid dress that I must look good in by July, and Chicago's deep dish, deep-fried everything is making that prospect somewhat dismal. So I joined the Y.

Not only did I join the Y, I actually took a class. No, not a remedial yoga class. A Zumba class.

This all came about because a friend asked me if I'd take in a class with her, and I thought, "It's a new year! I'm doing new things! Yesss let's do this!" In the excitement of doing new things, I completely overlooked the fact that:

1. I am an embarassingly bad dancer.
2. At my peak, I ran a 6-minute half-mile.
3. I can't remember the last time I did something continuously for an hour that didn't involve some sort of sitting or sleeping.

Nevertheless, I showed up for the 8:30 a.m. Zumba class on Saturday. The instructor was a very thin white girl who looked like Mary from Medill, dressed in a tank top and boy shorts, and was basically one back-flip-off-a-car away from being Channing Tatum from "Step Up." It took all of my concentration just to be moving in the same direction as the rest of the class...and it was awesome. I kid you not. It was so much fun, especially since there was such a huge range of age, diversity and dance ability. Some people had the most incredible lightness of step and awesome wiggling abilities, while others (like me) could only hope to be clambering in the right direction. All in all, everyone seemed to be having a really good time. My favorite was this very, very old gentleman who stepped and pivoted happily, sometimes to the beat and sometimes not, choreography be damned.

Who knows, maybe I'll give this up in 2 weeks. But I overheard one older lady say that, since she started the class, she's lost a ton of inches in her mid-section and doesn't even have to diet or do sit-ups anymore to keep toned. That alone is enough incentive to keep me coming back!

another year, another anniversary

Happy 2011! I hope everyone had a lovely and safe holidays, no doubt filled with health-conscious eating and responsible drinking of moderately-alcoholic beverages.

A few days ago, I endured my quarter-century milestone. Yes, I am now 25. Or, as Tyler so tactfully put it, "You're now half-way to your mid-life crisis!" THANKS BUDDY, so nice of you to remind me that I'm officially now in my mid-twenties and have yet to do anything with my life!

I remember in high school and college where 25 seemed so unbearably...old. 25 meant stable 9-to-5 and reeked of babies and unkempt husbands. But from this perspective, 25 hardly seems like anything at all. While I am gainfully employed, my ideal career is still in very fledgling stages, and I'm zero percent married nor with child (thank goodness).

Speaking of marriages, today is the 26th anniversary of my parents' marriages, as well as Elleen's parents and Carolyn's parents. What are the odds, right, that three couples from Taiwan who got married on the exact same day would all eventually move within like 20 miles from each other? They've been married longer than I've been alive. In one sense, it's like "Well, that's quite a stretch of time, I mean, it's longer than my whole life has been." In another, it's like "But yet, I feel like it's no time at all, as I've apparently done very little thus far."

I wonder if they even think about their marriage as an accomplishment, or if it's such a part of them by now that it's nothing really to think about. It's just another given thing in life, like breathing or blinking or buying shampoo that you don't need. I suspect that all the relationship theories and divisions of labor and all of the idealistic notions that single people my age talk about, all of that goes out the window when you finally get married for real. Nothing's perfect and nothing's predictable, right? All I hope is that one day I'll be as lucky as they are to be a part of something that feels as natural as breathing. And I hope our kids are cute. And I hope we're happy, too.