Thursday, February 23, 2012

May The Force Be With You

Dear CTA,

I have never seen the Star Wars trilogy, but I am aware of pop culture references.  That is why I would like to thank you for the entertainment you provided in the form of two Star War fans dueling with lightsabers while I waited a ridiculously long time for a northbound Red Line.  Perhaps if you provided this sort of entertainment every evening, you would see a sharp decrease in the volume of strongly-worded letters you are receiving from me in respect to the single-track construction bullshit you have going on. Thirty minutes is not a reasonable wait for a train, what do you think it is, the Pink Line?!?!

Either provide more entertainment like this or fix your timing on the single track trains, or else I may have to use the force, aka increase my letter writing campaign. 

Your friend,

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Cari Bear, Table for One

My most recent encounter on is quickly becoming the stuff that urban legends are made of in my circle of friends, so please bear with me as I do not want to leave any exquisite detail out.

Three weeks ago or so, I started bantering with a nice guy on  He messaged me due the fact that he laughed at my headline, "Must Love Hall & Oates." Things progressed, we talked on the phone and I laughed. A lot.  And the quickest way to get me to adore you is to make me laugh. FamilyMan (name given due to the fact that it's a Hall & Oates song that also fits this man's hopes for our Match meeting.  Go ahead and file this one under "Obvious Foreshadowing for Disaster.")

Anyway, FamilyMan and I agree that we are going to get together that upcoming Friday night for a few drinks and do the whole standard meet and greet judgment of "Did she photoshop her pictures?" and "Does he look like someone who has killed prostitutes on the turnpike?" The night before our agreed meet-up, FamilyMan cancels because there is a snow storm coming, up to 16 inches he claimed.  I checked the report, saw it was only 1-3 and immediately called bullshit on him.  Well, it turns out FamilyMan was not wholly forthright in his profile in disclosing his location.  It turns out his "City of Chicago" location was actually BFE, Indiana.  FamilyMan came clean and I explained that I did not own a car and did not think it was feasible for me to see someone in Indiana. Thirty miles separation back in Ohio is nothing to blink at.  Here in Chicago, it qualifies as a long-distance relationship in my mind.  Truthfully, I do not think I would even be able to date someone in Logan Square or Pilsen. If a bus transfer is going to be involved to see someone, it's doomed from the beginning.   Anyway FamilyMan assured me that it is no problem for him to come into the city to see me and it would not be an issue.

Red Flag #1: What mentally healthy person would want to deal with the Skyway, Dan Ryan and Lake Shore just to see a broad?  Let me tell you, a desperate one.

Long story short, we canceled our Friday plans due to the snow (that never showed up!) and agreed to reschedule for a later date.  Throughout the week FamilyMan and I texted about mindless things such as our favorite H&O songs, David Bowie, and the merits of gin over vodka. He was not too clingy and did not seem anxious to meet me, so I dismissed my concerns on the fact that he would want to date someone 30 miles away. 

I had the following Saturday evening off, a gift more precious than manna from heaven in my industry, so I made plans with FamilyMan over texting.  That night after I got home from work, he called to chat me up.  During the course of our conversation, I went from really excited about our date Saturday because he seemed like a nice guy to really excited about our date Saturday so I could tell all of my friends about how terrible it was.  Some of the information that he shared was:

-He told his parents about me.  Not in a, "Oh I am going out with a girl from match, here's her information in case I die" sort of way, but in a, "She's an amazing woman, so beautiful, so smart and witty" way.  He also told all of his closest friends this information.  And he told me that he shared it with them.  While he was certainly accurate in describing me, the fact remains he has NEVER EVER MET ME YET!  I could be covered in green scales, I could have terrible body odor or I could only eat my food like Randy from The Christmas Story (okay, that last one is not too far of  a stretch, but you get my point.)

-He repeatedly told me how much potential he thought we had together.  And then got annoyed when I did not agree. I told him that I am going into things with no expectations, am simply looking forward to meeting a new person and hopefully having a nice evening together.  Red Flag #2.

-He said he wanted to get dinner at 6.  I said, "Six o'clock?" and he replied with, "Well unless you want to go earlier."  Earlier??? I was thinking 7:30 or 8, certainly not 6. My friends summed it up best with Max Maple's response of, "Where in the hell are you going? Bill Knapps?" and the Grappler's, "Are you 80 and grabbing an early bird special?"  My thoughts exactly.   However, I saw some merit in the 6 o'clock meeting as it meant a departure of 10 was perfectly reasonable, allowing me plenty of time to meet up with my friends and regal them with the recap.

-He dropped the bomb of, "I'm ready to settle down in my life."  I asked him to explain what he meant by that and it was precisely what I feared, the "Have a wife and make some babies settle down."  I immediately wanted to start dry heaving.  I would rather a man tell me that he has genital herpes than say he is ready to settle down in life.  I would also accept that he has a closer-than-appropriate relationship with his pet goat, does not believe in showering or voted for Bush in 2004 over ready to settle down.  Scratch that last one, I would take someone who wants to settle down over a Bush supporter.  Both induce dry heaves, but the Bush-supporter heaves produce actual vomit.

-He told me how his parents fell in love on their first date, married one month later and have been in wedded bliss for the past 38 years. As if the implied hopes and dreams of sharing this story were not strong enough, he later joked that perhaps we would fall in love on our date.  And here comes the actual vomit...

I politely ended our conversation yet still agreed to go out on Saturday, and immediately regretted doing so, as it meant I lost the opportunity to see my 9-5er friends who I have a hard time coordinating my schedule with.  Nonetheless, I tried to put my best attitude on and began psyching myself up for the date by telling anyone in earshot about the asinine date I was going to have.  The night prior to the big date, I met up with The Grappler and our buddy Max Maple.  I tell them that I have plans to fall in love the following night and the conversation quickly turns to the engagement ring I shall be finding in my dessert and the lotion that I will have to put into the basket.  Prior to parting ways, the guys did make sure that I felt safe about meeting him and made me promise that I would have my phone and pepper spray available at all times. I assured them I would and we made plans to meet post date.

Saturday arrives and I am not overly excited about my date, but I am looking forward to eating some yummy tapas and hopefully getting some good fodder for the blog.  Unfortunately for me, only one of those things came true for me.  On my way to the restaurant, I was texting FamilyMan and he says he is almost there.  I was also wise and shot a text off to Grappler, Max Maple and JP that read, "The man's name is FamilyMan, his #  is 555-555-5555. I was last seen entering Cafe Iberico in a black & grey dress and snappy black boots. Should I go missing, give this info to the CPD and the tip to search residences that requested zoning to construct a well in their basement."  Responses flew and references to baskets, lotions, and not hurting dogs abounded. I debated turning around and heading home to the hound.

But once I stepped onto Chicago Avenue on a Saturday evening, looking amazing and feeling jovial, I was actually excited about my adventure.  The fact that I got a few "Nice boots!" hollered out to me did not hurt either.  I walk into the restaurant at five after and look around for someone vaguely looking like FamilyMan. Not seeing him, I check in with the hostess and waited.  Five more minutes go by and I text, "Are you already seated?" No response.  Ten more minutes elapse and I text, "You standing me up?" No response.  I shoot a flurry of messages off to JP saying I would wait for 10 more, can't believe I was stood up, etc.  At 6:30 I step out of the restaurant and call.  No response.  I resign to the fact that I was, in fact, stood up and walked to the closest bar I could find, ordered a Guinness and regrouped.  I was in shock. After all, he wanted to fall in love with me.  He texted that he was almost there. My head was spinning with questions, so I set off to meet Grappler, Max Maple and his lady Sister Mary Margaret.

I get to their table and the first thing the Grappler says is, "Those are snappy boots!" I grab a seat and tell the server to bring me whatever stout or porter has the highest alcohol content.  I down a few 9.2% stouts and, as I love to do, turn the conversation back to myself and how could I possibly be stood up.  Max Maple states that the only logical conclusion was that he was killed in a fiery crash on the Dan Ryan and not that he saw me and bolted. Note:  In addition to the snappy boots, there was a gratuitous amount of cleavage.  I quickly agree with his conclusion and pull up the traffic report to see that there was, in fact, an accident on the Dan Ryan.  Naturally the conversation turns to his funeral.  We all agree that I need to show up playing the role of the grieving widow, as I was supposed to get engaged that night. The plan was for the four of us to go to his funeral, I give a moving eulogy on how he was willing to die for my love, I demand the $15 for my cab ride and Guinness from his parents, ask what his last name was so I can change it appropriately then be on our way.  Note: I realize this sounds ridiculously callous, but you need to consider the fact that the company I keep voluntarily chooses to be around me.  I am sure you can imagine the type of motley crew that is...

I depart ways with the crew and head down to meet another group of friends.  These friends are paid to spend time with me but elect to spend their free time with me as well (No, not gigolos, rather coworkers.)  En route to meet them, I receive a call from FamilyMan's mom telling me that he was jumped and mugged on his way to meet me. They stole his wallet and phone. And a knife was involved. Swallow that, and consider that I received a call from a blind date's Mother. Red Flag #3.

Out of respect for FamilyMan, I will not go into details of the incident.  But rest assured that he is fine, so much so that he texted me on Sunday from a new phone to tell me what happened and to thank me for the colorful voicemails my friends left him.

Remember how I texted my friends with his name and number?  Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned, but Earth has no fury like the friends of a scorned Cari Bear.  After I took off, they left him a litany of voicemails ranging from Max Maple telling him he needs to see a doctor and get his head checked for standing me up while Sister Mary Margaret called him a hick from Indiana who she saw once on the Maury Show. Say what you want about me, but the company I keep?  They are incredibly witty and fiercely loyal. Note: The Grappler did not recall making any calls, but his phone records indicated two voicemail-length calls.    FamilyMan tells me that he wish they had the facts before leaving the messages, I point out that was not possible and he admitted that they were actually quite hilarious.

I tell FamilyMan that we need to meet soon or else I will lose interest.  Yes, I realize that he had no control over getting mugged, but I am a woman in demand and cannot keep freeing up nights for an unknown.  He says we will meet the following night for pancakes.  Long story short, Monday evening he cancels and I end up out with the Badger and Frances, regaling them with the story of how I was supposed to fall in love on Saturday but ended up pitching carrots at my hound dog at 4 a.m. instead.  We all concluded that it was best to let FamilyMan go to be with a woman who also wants to settle down and will not lead to assaults on the streets.

And to FamilyMan, we may have not fallen in love at dessert, I may have never met you and I don't even know your last name, but know that you gave me one of the most exciting weekends of my life without even meeting me.

 It's nice when that happens without inappropriate charges appearing on my credit card on Monday morning. 

Friday, February 17, 2012

Cari Ponders...

What is it about Triscuits that make them never go stale? I bought this box of Cracked Pepper Triscuits in July and they are still delicious.  Is it that the fiber makes them already odd, masking the staleness? Or is it because they truly are weaved with wonder?

All I know is that Triscuits=Best Return on a Long-Term Nourishment Investment when your main meals consist of either a Fiber One bar, ramen  or stale popcorn.

And while Cari is pondering....How in the world did I acquire this Hamm's I am drinking?  I don't buy cans for home, nor do I buy shitty beers.  How is it that I finished two bottles of craft beers and am now downing a Hamm's with my Triscuits. Perhaps that is the TRUE wonder of the weave...

God Bless You, Nabisco.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

My Funny Valentine; or You've Got a Friend

In case you have been living under a rock for the past few weeks, Saint Valentine's Day was yesterday.  I am quite proud to report that this is a day that I have become quite ambivalent towards. Granted, I worked a long shift taking care of all the couples who came to dine at the stellar establishment that I am proud to be a part of, but other than that, I really did not even notice it was Valentine's Day.  Except when I went grocery shopping, but I think my Facebook status for the day pretty much summed things up:

 "To all of the Valentine's Day shoppers at the Grocery Store who were giving me pathetic and pitiful looks as I was purchasing 40 pounds of weight control dog food and 4 bottles of Cabernet, Let's re-evaluate this situation: I get to get drunk and have David Bowie dance party with a bad ass little Hound Dog. You are shamed into spending money on subpar quality chocolates and flowers that are out of season. Looks like the joke's on you, Suckas!!?

Note: I did NOT get to have David Bowie Dance party with the Hound.  By the time I got home, I was dead to the world. Those bottles of vino are being applied to tonight, as I really only write well when my blood type is  Cabernet.  Take note of the timestamps on when I post, clearly I only channel my inner Fitzgerald when a bit schnockered...but that's how F. Scott rolled so it only seems fitting.

But I digress.  Moral of the story is I truly felt no bitterness towards the fact that I was not going to receive any flowers, chocolates or romantic surprises on February 14th.  Mainly because I am wholly content and happy with my life and the amazing people that are in it.  I did not need a "Valentine" because my friends bring me all the love and happiness I need.  It boggles my mind daily when I look at my circle of friends and try to decipher why in the Hell they keep me around.  And Valentine's Day reaffirmed this for me.  Despite the fact that I received no formal "Valentine" gift, I received a barrage of personalized messages from friends expressing their love and friendship.  Note:  It needs to be stated that I did, in fact, receive cards from both my Old Man and my Mom.  Mom, thank you for the sweet card, cash and a note telling me to buy myself beer or chocolate. I picked beer.  Old Man, I expect you to step up your game come St. Patrick's Day.

Anyway, as I stated earlier, it truly boggles my mind why my friends keep me around.  Anytime I spend time with one of them, I walk away thinking, "What an amazing person, how did I end up in his or her life?"  While I do this with every friendship, none boggle my mind quite like the relationship that I have with JP.

JP. Those two letters are probably meaningless to you, but to me, they represent the biggest mystery in the universe of how one person can tolerate another   (Also, we agreed to be each other's Valentine's, so there is your seque.)  While JP represents quite a mystery to me, those letters also represent the epitome of friendship to me.  Those who know JP and I as adults without knowing us as youngins' frequently comment that they don't understand how we are friends.  Those that knew us in our younger days know that we played sports together, attended Math & Science camp together, took 2nd place in the Science Olympiad as a team together and that we wore matching Mickey Mouse Outfits together.  It is only logical to those that knew us then.  But those that know us now?  We are an anomaly. She's quiet, I'm loud.  She listens, I talk. She cries when she laughs, I laugh when others cry.  She observes, draw logical conclusions and speaks with purpose, I spend most of my time thinking of me, how does the conversation relate to me and how can I work Cari into things.  To summarize, if we were birds, JP would be a sparrow whereas I would be a screech owl.

My little sparrow is also the singular person in my life who knows every thing about me.  I tell her everything (probably because she is such a great listener.) I always walk away wondering why she continues to keep me in her life and offer me such sage and thoughtful advice.  But when I say everything, I do mean everything, ranging from:  (Note: these are actual text messages and/or conversations I've had with JP.)

*Ahem* Ranging from:

The Mundane: "I just spent 15 minutes spinning hard-boiled eggs on my kitchen counter."

The Things She Could Not Care Less About: "My Red Line car smells like pee."

The Too Much Information: "I just got my first Brazilian and now I want to show off my oonie like a shiny new toy."  (My apologies to my parents and their friends for having to read that.)

The Philisophical: "Life is all about seizing the moment and throwing caution to the wind."

The Drunken Expressions of Love: "If you were the last frozen coke on Earth, JP, I still wouldn't drink you."

The Shameless Fishing For a Compliment: "I mean, I am cute right?"

These examples are only the tip of the iceberg in respect to what I share with JP.  And through it all, I almost always find myself telling her, "I don't know why you put up with me and I don't know what I would do without you."

And it's the truth.  The biggest mystery in my life is why this girl tolerates me.  However, it seems I recently found the answer. Last week I made the very difficult decision to end a friendship that meant a lot to me.  Naturally, JP is the only person who knows all the details, but the short story is that it is a person that I love and care about endlessly and I realized that having her/him in my life was detrimental.  So I called that person up, told the person how I felt and asked that he/she never contact me again.  Prior to making that call, I called up JP for advice and a pep talk. Afterward, I texted her all night about how I felt like my heart was breaking and that I was sitting on the couch eating mediocre take out and crying. The next day I told JP how I wanted to write a letter and could not decide whether to send it or burn it.

And then Whitney Houston died. Suddenly my pathetic heartache from cutting someone I love out of my life had an avenue for escape.

Naturally, I shoot off a text to JP to comment on the situation:

The Text: "Whitney Houston's death sure is convenient!  Now it is not pathetic that I am going to listen to I Will Always Love You endlessly while crying into a bottle of wine!  It's honoring her!"

Her response? Her response is what finally clued me in to why she keeps me around:

"And this is why I love you!"

After decades of being friends, I finally learn why JP tolerates me and my immense oversharing – because I can make light of celebrity death.  Or rather, I can bring her a smile no matter what we're going through.  Or most likely, she knows that I am the one person who would help her bury a body based on the sheer amount of blackmail she has on me, so she keeps me around.

Whatever the reason, I am grateful that JP decided to put up with me.  And if you have a friend that means everything to you, be sure that you let them know, and throw a few Whitney jokes in for good measure.

To all of my friends, know that I am listening to  I Will Always Love You while smiling into some wine because you are all in my life. Happy Belated Valentine's Day!

And if you will excuse me,  I have some hard-boiled eggs to go spin....

Life Lessons With Cari

After a crazy busy ten-hour shift at work, going out to imbibe and unwind with the coworkers is a great idea.  Stopping off at Taco Bell before heading home with your  coworker (she was staying the night, not stopping off to give Thunderfoot a run for his money) and picking up a grande meal is an even better idea.  Throwing excess bean burritos at your Hound Dog is a most excellent idea. Truly, this is one of the most delightful and entertaining things I have ever seen.

Coming home the next night from work stone cold sober and reheating the renegade soft taco and burrito you found in your fridge?  Not a most excellent idea.  You will quickly learn that Taco Bell is not nearly as delicious sober and that your tummy cannot process it without a cup of whiskey and liter of High Life to dilute it.

Learn from my mistake.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Two Scoops and a Side of Equal Rights, Please

I think every person has a friend that when they are together they have recurring experiences.  For some, maybe it's that Huey Lewis's timeless classic "Hip To Be Square" comes on in the car whenever they're driving together.  Perhaps it is that they always miss the train by seconds when getting on at a certain stop.  Whatever it is, I am confident that we all have that special person in our life that we find ourselves saying, "Every time I am with you..."

For me, that special person is my dear friend Muffin.  My Muffin is one of my closest friends –– when I first moved into the city and did not have a friend other than Big Brother, Muffin is the person that drove, at minimum, weekly into the city from the burbs just to spend time with me so I would not be lonely.  Have you seen Chicago traffic? Now that's a great friend right there.  Muffin is also the one that I always have the most bizarre dining experiences with.  It never fails where we go, something out of the ordinary is going to happen.  There's the time we went out for Pakistani food and spent our time alone in a giant dining room with no less than nine waiters staring at us from eight feet away.  We needed refills of water, our plates needed to be cleared and I wanted to order more na'an for our kofta. We smiled, gestured and made eye contact with the line of servers but got no response.  They just sat and stared at us like the gargoyles on Notre Dame. I was debating feigning a stroke to see if we could get a response, but at pushing 30 and obese, I did not want to tempt fate. Instead, Muffin and I just made commentary and waited close to 20 minutes after finishing to be acknowledged by this legion of servers.  It was one of the oddest dining experiences of my life.

Then there was the time we went for breakfast at a charming little diner and the owner screamed at and kicked out one of his waitresses.  The whole drama went on for about 15 minutes, but the Cliffsnotes  version is that he was sick and tired of her being late, spending all of her money on booze and not taking care of her kid.  This was playing out right in the middle of the dining room.  I thought that perhaps we had caught some sort of improv production, but I quickly realized that no, it was not.  And yes, the owner of the place was firing and bitching out one of his employees right in the middle of his business.  The server left with tears streaming down her face and, based on the owner screaming into the phone, called back to plead for her job.  The owner later stopped at our table to apologize for the drama played out.  While his apology was nice, I would have preferred that he apologized a piece of pie.  But alas, no pie, just an apology and another strange dining experience with my Muffin.

This past week Muffin and I decided to get  some ice cream (Read: Cari demanded a hot fudge sundae after polishing off a half slab of ribs and baked potato at dinner.)  We headed over to one of our favorite little ice cream shops and promptly ordered a few frozen treats.  While we are waiting to pay, a woman comes in screaming, "Please call 911!  My friend be sick! Calls us the ambulance!" We all stopped for a moment and one of the clerks  called 911 as a man came stumbling/falling into the shop and promptly sat down in  a booth and started moaning.  Note: What do you call ice cream shop workers? Barista obviously does not fit, Scooper sounds like they clean up dog crap,  but clerk or counter girl just does not do justice to the magic and happiness that they deliver. I shall call them Pushers as they deliver my favorite white powder in a frozen emulsion of fat and yumminess.

Muffin and I grab our sundaes and seats and watch the drama being played out in the little shop.  The woman who asked for an ambulance is now screaming at the Pushers, "Did you call the ambulance? It be takin' so long!"  Mind you, the Pusher was on the phone with the dispatcher asking the woman questions and the woman responded that her friend had some sort of pancreas problem.  Logic would indicate that the Pusher's boyfriend would not take an interest in a passed out man's pancreas and that the Pusher was, in fact, on the phone with emergency services.  Pusher ended the call, a few moments pass and again, the woman starts in on, "Did you call the ambulance?  I ains't hearin anything!"

At this point, I was having two thoughts.   Number 1:  I wanted to somehow help the man, perhaps get him some water or warm towels.  However, I quickly then remembered that this is America and any kind soul who helps another can easily be sued if they screw something up, Good Samaritan Laws be damned. In hindsight though, I should have helped because if someone wants to sue me, they are more than welcome to as my main assets include a rather extensive Beanie Baby collection from the mid-90s and a stockpile of MAC make-up empties that I need to trade in for free lipstick. Have at it, vultures.   Thought Number 2:  I understand this woman was in distress over her companion's state, but does she really need to scream, "Did you call an ambulance?" repeatedly to the clerk?  The Pusher said yes, and if there is any profession I believe you can trust, it is someone who doles out ice cream in an adorable parlor for a living.  Other trust-worthy professions include people who take care of dogs and old men who whittle things while sitting in rocking chairs.  Girl Scout would have made the list, but my mind has been changed after one of those little harpies tried to price gouge me on some thin mints outside the Jewel, but that's another story.

The man passed out and I quickly lose interest until I hear sirens.  Only one thought came into the mind of the fat girl: 911 dispatches to the Chicago Fire Department. That means Chicago Firemen are going to be walking into the door at any moment and I happen to be looking particularly cute that day. I demand that Muffin trades me seats as my backside is at the door and let's face it: This is America where our concept of beauty is grossly skewed and my size 14 ass is not going to be grabbing any one's attention.  My eyes and smile though? Money.  I tell him he needs to swap me seats, but as he is just as interested as I am in the idea of hunky firemen, he merely moves over.  I scoot over but argue that it now looks like we are a couple.  He then moves tables so we can each have a view of the door but I don't like that either as 1. I look like a lonely fat girl shoveling my s'more sundae into my face and 2. I need an audience for my witty commentary on the situation and I don't want to have to yell at Muffin at the next table.

We shuffle around and are back to our original configuration of him facing the door and my derriere pointed in the same direction.  The ambulance arrives and my head is filled with the demons of every bad romantic comedy I've ever seen: The handsome fireman comes in and catches the eye of the cute brunette in the corner, he takes his patient's blood pressure and shoots her off a quick smile.  His partner comes in and removes the passed out man while the hunky one comes over to me, gives me his number and tells me that his shift ends at 8 a.m. the following morning, asks if I'd like to meet up for waffles.  I say yes and we spent the entire day together on the world's greatest first date ever.

My little fantasy is quickly disrupted by the Muffin's raucous laughter.  He is grinning like a shark as he busts out with, "It's a woman!" My head whips around quickly to see that he is not playing a cruel joke and my fireman is, in fact, a firewoman.  I do not get discouraged though, as I know the ambulance is driven by two people, meaning there is a better than strong chance that the next person through that door with be my fantasy man.  Unfortunately, she's not.  Muffin and I start laughing at the situation.  The passed out man seems to be fine as one of the firewomen said, "I just got drunk off his breathe!" Smart move for a man with pancreas problems.  The man was placed into the ambulance and our dining drama came to and end, as did my (and Muffin's) fantasy of meeting a hunky man in an ice cream parlor.

As the sirens roared, the liberal feminist in me was actually quite thrilled to see two females running an ambulance.  However,  as I shoveled a heaping spoonful of chocolate ice cream in my mouth, all I could utter was, "Damn you 19th amendment!" Damn you for stealing my fantasy.

Note: I am fully aware that the 19th amendment is about woman's suffrage and is not the failed Equal Right's AmendmentHowever, I do believe the impact of that amendment, along with the Seneca Falls Convention,  and the efforts of the amazing Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and the countless millions who demand equal treatment are the driving force behind gender barriers being broken down in all aspects of our lives, including traditional job roles. My apologies for having to get serious, but I did not want to be called out for not knowing where my rights as a proud woman came from. And major kudos to those two women who were running that ambulance, while you may not be my dream date, you set a great example for little girls and women everywhere.

And now back to our regularly scheduled Follies. 

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Thunderfoot Finds Love; Or Things That Go Bump in the Night

So it seems that my old friend Thunderfoot has got himself a girlfriend.  Things seem to be pretty serious as their relationship has evolved to wholly expressing their love with their bodies.  I do not want to be too risque, but let's just say that the "enthusiasm" for which Thunderfoot expresses himself physically is directly related to the PSI of his step.  I am trying very hard to be patient despite losing a lot of sleep as my bedroom is directly underneath him.  I own a hound dog who undoubtedly makes noise that annoy my neighbors, so I am really working to ignore the fact that I think he is going to thrust his headboard straight through the wall and into the stairway. I know (hope) that in due time, things will settle down or perhaps they will rotate where they stay at.

And in the interim, I am now accepting donations of ear plugs fit for both human and canine, as well as monetary donations to cover my medical expenses from the injuries I sustain as a result of a bed falling through the ceiling on me as I sleep.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Inflated Sense of Self

If you are a regular reader of the Follies, you have probably noticed that I frequently refer to my "inflated sense of self."  If you think that an inflated sense of self is just being sassy and confident, you are wrong.  It supersedes a healthy sense of well-being.  It's a constant thought of, "I am fantastic, and nuts to anyone who does not appreciate how amazing I am." That's the inflated sense of self that I carry.

Need proof?  Exhibit A:

I saw some gold star stickers at Target and immediately wanted to buy them.  I planned to award them to myself simply for being Awesome. I put them in my cart and envisioned sticking one on my lapel anytime I wanted to celebrate Cari.  However, my better judgment won out and I returned the stickers –– not because I do not deserve to regularly receive gold stars for being Awesome, but because the $1.99 price was better applied to my favorite $4.99 Rex Goliath Cabernet. And as we all know, wine encourages that inflated sense of self much quicker and more efficiently than any little gold star ever could.

See how efficient and budget conscious I am?  I deserve a gold star for that.