Exhilarating.

Refreshing. Brisk. That'll wake you up. All euphemisms to describe my morning activity this morning: a half mile swim in Lake Michigan without a wetsuit.

Twice a week, I swim at the gym -- doing a drill and lap set provided by an instructor -- with a couple other people. Of the three of us usually in class, I'm the only one not doing a triathlon this summer. So, our instructor suggested that we take class to the lake this morning so they could practice their open water swimming. I wasn't too excited about the idea -- I didn't have time to get an appointment to get the preventative course of antibiotics that I think is wise before getting in that water.

Nonetheless, I borrowed a bike and a hot pink helmet and rode down to the gym and beach. We were standing on the beach, the surf just touching our toes when I began to realize just how "exhilarating" this was going to be. By the time we walked ten feet into the surf, my feet were already starting to go numb. But, once the numb was done, getting into a rhythm was fairly easy and before I knew it, I was at the turn around. On the way back, I even passed someone in a wetsuit. (In my mind, wetsuit = serious swimmer and/or triathl-freak, so passing one seemed like an accomplishment. As I later saw, dude was probably late 50s. Oh well.) The swim wasn't so bad. And, it felt good to get a bike ride and swim in before work. Good and hungry. I can't even imagine how hungry Melissa must have been -- she biked twenty miles before meeting up for the swim. By the time I was walking back through the sand, the water actually felt warm.

Of course, its two hours later, I've had a hot shower and hot coffee and I'm still chilled. But very wide awake.

Shenanigans.

Thursday night. A too-quiet night at the Whiskey. Trying to determine where to go next. Division Street is on the way home. Shenanigans? No. Have you ever been there? No. How can you say no if you've never been there? Just no.

I don't know why I disliked the idea of Shenanigans as a gut reaction. Maybe its Super Troopers. Whatever the reason, I should have trusted my gut. And when I ignored my gut, I should have taken the sign out front as a warning. From here on out, I don't enter places that have this on the front door:


Since Thursday, whenever I've told this story, the immediate reaction to Shenanigans is either (1) wow, I haven't been there since college with a fake id; or (2) been there, don't remember it. I am now category (3): been there, will never forget it.

On the plus side for Shenanigans: they have fun music, including rap from the early 90s. It was another one of those moments where I surprised myself to learn that I knew essentially every word to Rumpshaker, Let's Talk About Sex, and the like. Additionally, the service is pretty good.

On the minus side: it is just a nasty bar. There are stripper poles. There are girls using them. The floor is absolutely disgusting. I know this because I became intimately acquainted with it when I slipped and fell on the wet floor, hitting my chin and cracking my front tooth. It was a bad set of circumstances between a wet wooden floor and wooden soled shoes but still. I ended up looking like this:


After confirming that I did break my tooth, like a wounded animal, I bolted out of there. A trip to CVS, a wasted trip to the ER (pack of lies about having an emergency dentist despite having what appears to be a dental chair), and a referral to the best dentists ever, I was back to appearing normal. I have to thank Melissa for two things here: (1) her painfully earned dental knowledge. If you ever have a dental injury, she is the go-to girl; and (2) talking me out of going to work pre-dentist. I may not see anyone during the day generally but as she gently pointed out, I looked country and that's just a no.

A three-quarter crown in two weeks will make it like it never happened. If only it didn't. Go figure but chipping a tooth is a real buzz kill for an evening.

Childish.

There is something to be said for childlike pleasures. This afternoon I indulged in quite a few. Signs of my temporary regression:

First sign: my hair. I put a braid in like a little kid. When I was little, my mom would french braid my hair so tightly that it would bring tears to my eyes as she did it. It was the only way to keep my fine hair tidy. Today, I only french braided a little section in the front and pony tailed the rest, but it still made me feel like a kid.

Second sign: I took a nap. Not unusual really for me on a Saturday but kids are the ones who have to go down for a nap. I used to hate them. In fact, once when I was supposed to be napping, I took a fingernail scissors to my hair, cutting off all of my natural curls. My dad cried. I've never had curls again. Serves me right. Now, I love and treasure the nap.

Third sign: I bought root beer. It was always a special treat when I was young. We'd drive 45 minutes to the closest A&W drive-in for a root beer float. Of course, this time, I bought diet root beer and threw in a splash of vanilla vodka but whatever.

Fourth -- and final -- sign. As I was walking home, I stopped to play on the swings. Ever since I was little, swinging has always, always made me feel happy. No matter what my mood is, swinging is always a carefree bit of fun. Just seeing swings makes me feel happier. Today, I was a total trendsetter. All the kids (literally, not how I usually refer to new lawyers) wanted to swing once I started.

Stars Are Just Like Us.

This week my gym has been celebrity central in Chicago. The actors from Transformers 3 seem to be staying in the area and have been working on their fitness at my gym. I've been in the gym at the same time as Josh Duhamel and separately, his wife, Fergie. I hear that Shia LeBeouf has been using the gym too. That about exhausts my knowledge of Transformers actors, although if a robot was working out there too I wouldn't be surprised at this rate.

Us Weekly (I think) has that section in the magazine "Stars are just like us" where they are photographed grocery shopping or whatever. And, while I guess stars do the normal stuff, they are not just like us. For one thing, they are tiny. Fergie seems to be a pocket person. When I saw her, she was just stretching on the floor. I wouldn't have noticed her but for the gigantic sunglasses she was wearing. Maybe that's what she needs to do in LA but here in the Chi, it just drew attention to her. Her husband is tall but not as broad as I expected. Amazing what the magic of movie perspective can do. However, he is a very good jump roper.

Plus or Minus.

My dear brother has never been great with numbers in a variety of contexts.

He has a degree in finance but until relatively recently, all he
seemed to understand was financing. And, with eight credit cards at
his high point, he certainly put that knowledge into practice.

That problem with numbers also translates to dates and ages. One year,
he lamented to me the fact that he would be turning thirty. Which, he
would be. Just not for another year and a month, not the month he
thought.

This year, he (along with his boyfriend and his boyfriend's sister)
was convinced that the Fourth was his ten year anniversary. Generally,
I have a terrible memory and rely on my brother to fill in the blanks.
But, he is untrustworthy with numbers as you can see. On this
particular number, I have an extremely precise and clear memory.
Actually, two memories but both are from the same summer. In June, I
accidentally outed him. In August, I helped move him and his boyfriend
into a new apartment. Both happened the summer before law school, or,
2001. I felt a little badly bursting his anniversary bubble at first.
But now, I decided that I just gave him the gift of time -- AND
getting to celebrate it twice.

(In a nutshell, in case you're wondering, I outed him -- due to my own
persistence and his own bad lying -- on a family road trip after
noticing something odd at his graduation gift to me, a Dave Matthews
Band concert. I remember helping him move because not three days
later I moved too -- to Texas to start law school.)

The Golden Coast?

Walking home tonight, at the not-late hour of 9:00 p.m., I came across something as out of place as graffiti in Singapore. Let me set the scene:

Its the prettiest street in one of the most proper neighborhoods in Chicago. It was Astor Street on a supremely pleasant summer evening. There are couples out walking their dogs. Groups of people strolling and laughing. And, a girl squatting between two bumpers. As I walked closer, you could hear a stream of liquid hitting the ground.

Oh yes, tonight I saw a girl peeing on Astor, with apparently no concern that no fewer than four people walked by right in front of her. Tonight, I live in the Golden Coast.

The Hits Keep Coming.

The joys of home ownership continue to reveal themselves.

Nothing about my place seems easy.

I decided to replace my bathtub only to have the general contractor tell me, uh oh, your plumbing is leaking. Well, its better to find out before it creates a giant mess, right? Right, except that the plumber didn't ask, bought parts that were incompatible with the bathtub and then refused to fix his mistake. You're going to need another plumber.

The week my parents were here was hot and muggy. My parents are Coloradans unaccustomed to Chicago's humidity. I tried to turn on the air conditioning to make them more comfortable only to learn, uh oh, the unit that was functional at the inspection is now broken. I called a repairman who said, bad news, your circuit board is fried. A new one got installed this morning only to hear, uh oh, bad news -- your breaker is bad. You're going to need an electrician.

At this point, I'm like the woman who swallowed a spider to catch the fly. I live in fear of what will break next and just how many specialists it will take to fix. Maybe I didn't feng shui my money tree in the right place because ever since I brought it home, it seems like money is just flying out the window.

**********UPDATE*************UPDATE*********UPDATE*************UPDATE****************

It was not just a breaker. Oh no, bad news, its a dead wire, residing in a pipe underneath your concrete floor. I get to tune in tomorrow to find out exactly how this is going to be fixed. . . and how much it is going to cost. The nicest, most fatherly electrician -- he brought his son with him to the job -- advised me that sometimes the old copper wires break when you're trying to pull them out. Given my luck, I'm certain that will happen. With luck, I will have a working unit by tomorrow afternoon at not exorbitant cost.