Gospel Brunch.

The House of Blues hosts a Gospel Brunch every Sunday. When I lived in Austin, going to gospel brunch at Stubb's was always a good time. What's not to like about all-you-can-eat barbeque with some live music in the background? My friend, K, invited me to join her, her grandparents, cousin and a friend to join them at the House of Blues version last Sunday. With Stubb's in mind, I accepted without hesitation.

The HOB version is an entirely different type of gospel brunch. First, they start by warming up the crowd with some Hallelujahs and Amen's scattered among HOB trivia questions. Honestly, I'm not sure that this is the best plan. The crowd was hungry and we could smell the food awaiting us. After giving us detailed instructions, we were allowed to enter.

I had been at the gym prior to meeting K at HOB. I was STARVING. Priorities: mimosa first, then omelet. I got in the omelet line and almost snapped from the hunger. The people in front of me were tourists who kept bringing more people into line once they got to the front and ordered three omelets per person. The people behind me were new teachers and kept talking about topics that I have heard from years from my mom and her teacher friends. At this point, I had to stop myself from correcting them on theories and just telling them to shut up. I had to put my hands over ears at one point. But, once I got my omelet everything was better. The food was good -- standard brunch offerings with a slightly southern flare (the lunch offerings were of the fried chicken, potato salad, and mac and cheese ilk).

Unlike the Stubb's version, there was no live music as we ate. Instead, it was delineated into eating, then music. The music was fun. As it started, K's grandfather leaned over to me to ask if I had ever been to black people's church (I have) and said that "this is how we do it." Sister Eileen started the show in fine form, giant sparkly hat, pink satin suit with huge lapel pin and glittery shoes. A drag queen could take a note from this woman. The choir put on a good show, although occasionally got showed up by the audience participants that they called to the stage. I enjoyed it, but as I told K, if it wasn't in Sister Act, I did not know the song. Or, in other words, the only song I knew was "Oh Happy Day."

Elevator Edition.

I was talking to my parents this morning about a change to my 401K investment mix. They explained to me that Portugal is currently suffering larger debt problems than Greece. News to me. I immediately blamed the WSJ-Elevator Edition for failing to keep me up to date.

I like to think of myself as fairly well-informed. I tend to know a little about a lot of topics. Almost all of my news sources are non-traditional. For example, Twitter gives me a lot of my news and keeps me the most current.

But, I can't remember the last time I bought a paper version of a newspaper. There are some people in my office who like to walk around with the WSJ tucked under their arm. I assume it is solely to let everyone know they read they subscribe to the WSJ. I have nothing against the WSJ. I actually really enjoy their Friday style section and have a standing request with a friend that he send it to me whenever he remembers. But, beyond the WSJ-Elevator Edition, I don't read it.

When I mentioned the Elevator Edition, my mom burst out laughing, assuming I was making a joke that I got my news from the elevator. My dad assumed that I was using the elevator as a stand-in for a water cooler. But, for the record, I am not making it up. In most newer buildings (or at least rehabbed buildings) in cities, the elevators tend to have screens that display the weather, time, and news. In my office, we get the WSJ-Elevator Edition. Which is, by far, their most inferior edition since it tends to be 15 words or less. Hence, why I didn't know about Portugal. It takes a few more than 15 words to explain that situation in full. Although I think I can nutshell it in three letters, if my parents are right about its current fiscal standing: S.O.L.

2012: Mutatis Mutandis.

I have retroactively decided that my New Year's resolution is: Mutatis Mutandis. What's that you say? It is Latin for "changing those things that need to be changed."

Obviously, the first thing that needs to be changed is for me not to be the kind of asshole who unnecessarily sprinkles Latin phrases about to prove that they speak Latin and you don't. Actually, the phrase was in a proposed order that M received and the judge, prudently, red-lined it right out. Since neither of us actually speak Latin, we both had to look it up when she told the story.

But, I think that Mutatis Mutandis is a good theme for your Jesus year. Termed by K, the year of your 33rd birthday is your Jesus year. A year to make some changes, re-invent yourself, turn a new chapter, hopefully all without that whole crucifixion thing. I think it is always helpful to have a theme, for attire, parties and now, birthdays.

Sisyphus Day.

For the record, this day -- not specifically January 3rd, but whatever day happens to be the first official work day of the new year -- is always my least favorite day of the year. I always feel like Sisyphus staring at that damn rock, once again at the bottom of the hill.

As Mary Poppins said, in every job that must be done, there is an element of fun. Of course, the trick is finding it, so that "poof! the job is a game." I'm not sure what Mary Poppins would have told old Sisyphus though.

Here's to hoping and finding the fun for 2012 at work.

Holiday Dinner.

Last night was the Third Annual Trump Girl Holiday Dinner. This dinner is always a logistical nightmare (trying to find both a date that works for six schedules and a place that has reservations during the holidays) but always so so worth it. No matter what else is going on during what is always a super busy time of the year, this is the one event that no one has ever bailed on.

Our first year, we celebrated at Bistro 110. The next year, we moved across the square to RL. This year, I think we found our holiday home for years to come at NoMi. LS is an "ambassador" for NoMi. As a result, she was able to get us a table with the most fantastic view of Michigan Avenue. When we arrived, there were gifts awaiting us, including a gift certificate to the Spa, hand and hair oil and a bottle of bubbly to toast the holidays. We fancy, huh?

This year's dinner was just fantastic. As we sat down, I put the holiday poppers around the table. They are my annual contribution to the table -- I just love the little extra dose of fun they add. Our server took one look at the festive, gift-filled table and us and said "this is going to be a fun table, I can tell." Obviously. The view was incredible. The food was delicious. And, the girls are awesome.

Everyone is soon to be off for their Christmas travels but I always feel like Christmas officially starts with our holiday dinner.

Blackhawks Down.

Last night I attended my first ever Blackhawks game, courtesy of H. She couldn't believe that neither M nor I had ever been to a Blackhawks game and decided to make it her mission to rectify it. The game had been on our calendars for probably two months and we were all super excited to go.

We arrived about 45 minutes early so we headed to the club, to have a snack and a drink. Once we got there, we realized we were some of the only (1) people not wearing Blackhawks gear and (2) women in the room. Add to those two facts that we were drinking wine and eating calamari (not good) and crabcakes (apparently, awesome) and suffice to say that we stuck out a bit. However, that worked to our benefit as we quickly made some new friends. New friends who had on-ice seats. While the seats that H got us were great -- tenth row, behind the net -- one does not pass up the opportunity to sit on the glass.

Each of us got to sit on the glass for a period. One of the guys served as our "coach" while we were there, explaining a few of the intricacies of the game and mostly, encouraging us to bang on the glass whenever the players got anywhere near us. In the third period, it was M's turn and she was following his direction. As it turns out, his direction was wrong and they threatened to kick her out if she didn't stop. Whoopsy. Putting that aside, sitting that close is just awesome -- the puck whizzing by, the players hitting the glass, and the fans cheering. I was disappointed that there wasn't much fighting though. The one "fight" was more like two guys in a hug headlock than anything.

A couple photos from last night, although you will need to be eagle eyes to see us. First, there is me sitting behind the net at the glass:

And here you can see M, with the coach behind her in the red:

The only bad thing about last night was that it was the first game I've been to in Chicago that resulted in a loss, 4-1, to what was called a mediocre Phoenix team. I might be losing my touch. Despite that, I'd happily go to more games. Go Blackhawks!

Dammit, Lulu.

Cyber Monday is supposedly the best day for online deals of the year. Before 7:00 am, I had about 15 emails telling me retailers' great deals for the day, ranging from 30-75% off.

But not Lulu, oh no. Only they would take Cyber Monday as the perfect day to introduce their "special edition" items. Rather than presenting a great deal today, they offer already expensive items with teeny tiny extra details for 30-75% more.

Maybe it is a cultural barrier. . . they are Canadian after all.

Apologies to Nike.

I have never been a runner. I think the runner's high is a lie. My favorite thing about having arthritis is that it gave me a reason not to do something I've always hated.

And yet, I recently decided that I want to run. It is only because I want to get to cross an actual finish line at a triathlon rather than having the anticlimactic just stopping in the transition area while doing the 2/3rds aquabike. My knees are pretty under control these days -- except when the weather is bad -- so I decided to start running. While cardiovascularly I'm pretty sure I can handle it, I know my joints need more time (a thought confirmed by my favorite Ironwoman). So, I googled it and found a running training plan that would have me running for 30 minutes in seven weeks:

Week 1 - run 2, walk 3, repeat six times

Week 2 - run 3, walk 2, repeat five times

Week 3 - run 5, walk 2, repeat four times

Week 4 - run 7, walk 3, repeat three times

Week 5 - run 8, walk 2, repeat three times

Week 6 - run 9, walk 1, repeat three times

Week 7 - run 30!

Seems totally doable. And, until week 4, it was. However, I seem to have confronted a case of body-willing, mind-weak or mind-willing, body-weak, depending on the day. I have been on the run seven minutes for the past two weeks now because I just can't seem to make myself do the full 30. Sometimes my knees legitimately hurt. Sometimes, I just think they do because I don't wanna.

But as of today, no more. I am telling myself: "Just f-ing do it." And, if it takes telling myself to just f-ing do it three times or thirty times over the course of 30 minutes, that is what is going to happen. Because I know I can do it even if I don't like it.

Wimp.

I am a self-admitted fair-weather bike rider. I think I am kind of a wimp when it comes to riding in bad weather. I define bad to involve rain, snow, ice, strong wind, and cold. Yet, there are lots of sites dedicated to telling you how great it is to ride through the winter. They use a lot of words like "brisk" and "bracing" and "layers." I really do enjoy riding my bike but I also enjoy feeling in my fingers and toes.

I did not start riding my bike regularly until late May despite having it for six weeks or so prior. I kept wanting to but the highs were not breaking 60 and M reminded me that I would have lots of time to ride so why do it when I'd dislike it. As the fall entered, I said that my goal was to ride through October. Thanks to a mild November, I rode my bike to work probably half of the time. (It helped that I spent a week in Colorado though.)

Today was not ideal riding weather, definitely falling into my definition of bad as it was around 40, light rain and wind. But, I rode anyway. I had let M borrow my car so I was faced with walking, taking a cab, riding, or skipping the gym. I think walking takes too long and I'm cheap but I'm not lazy, so I got on my bike. Surprisingly, it was not as bad as I thought it would be. It was brisk, bracing, and I did wear layers. I do not think I will be a year-round rider but maybe I am slightly less of a wimp than I thought.

In ConText.

It has been about two weeks since my mom entered the brave new world of texting. And, speaking solely for myself, I love it. When she is not frustrated by her phone, I think she likes it too.

For me, having her send and receive texts is fantastic. Given that she is still recovering from surgery, I like to hear from her and know that she is doing okay. It makes me anxious when I don't hear an all quiet on the Western front, since the last time around, she did some wacky, not-good, needing-more-surgery things while recovering. Now, instead of me bugging her with a call, she will send me a text in the morning and let me know that all is well, more or less. Of course, when I have something real to talk to her about, I still call her and talk her ear off.

And, incredibly, on Thanksgiving, I received my first -- and probably last, knowing him -- text from my dad. He can be a bit of a Luddite sometimes but read some story about people only being able to get help in some emergency situation via text so he was convinced that he too needed to enter the 21st century when it came to texting.

Thankful.

This Thanksgiving, in no particular order, I am thankful for:

• My friends. Much like last year, I spent Thanksgiving in the company of my friends and their families. And, it was wonderful. I went to the Parade with H, cooked and ate with M and her family, and then M, her mom, and I all headed over to see O and J, where L and S were with their parents. All are such wonderful, interesting, intelligent, different, caring, welcoming people. I feel lucky to have them.


• A delicious dinner. I'm not much of a Thanksgiving food fan but there is something to be said for sitting down with a group of people and just enjoying the food and company.


• My first-ever pie without my mom's supervision turned out. It definitely looked homemade (a tad ugly) and it did require an emergency pie-crust-burning call to my mom but it was pretty tasty, if I do say so my biased self.


• My mom's recovery from neck surgery. It seems like second time was the charm. She is still in pain but that is not surprising considering that she only had surgery a month ago. Putting that aside, she has movement and motivation that she did not have last year. All positive signs.


• My dad's recovery from his emergency gallbladder removal. You'd never know he came within hours of dying this year by seeing him today. Thank goodness for timely, knowledgeable, skilled medical intervention.


• My floors FINALLY being almost fixed. After three weeks and two nights in a hotel, the most recent leak is nothing but a varnish-smelling memory. Soon, I will have new carpet installed and the summer will be clean-slated too.


• My RA being mostly under control, at least enough to try running. I don't think I will ever be "a runner" but I do want to be able to run enough to do a full triathlon and actually get to cross a finish line, rather than my anticlimactic two-thirds races.


• 2011 almost being over. This year has kicked my ass and done a number on my parents. I feel like 2012 is going to be a better year.

Seatmate Soulmate.

I think everyone wonders about their seatmate on a flight. Nobody wants their space infringed by a stranger's stuff, smell or size. But, as a single person, every flight, I like to hope that my seatmate might be my soulmate. And, I know this game isn't restricted to women. My friend K, who travels WAY more than I do, and I always joke about his seatmate soulmate before his flights.

About six years ago, I was returning from San Francisco with a co-worker. As we were boarding, we both noted a tall drink of chocolate milk getting in line behind us. Long story short, the long straw turned out to be my seatmate and my date for a little while. We are still friendly so I guess that has left me an optimist in the seatmate soulmate game. An optimist despite the fact that my last seatmate was a forty-something lady who was wearing bedazzled jeans, a leopard print shirt, and an especially tacky acrylic French manicure.

Of course, I'm probably 0 for 123 at this point. K is probably 0 for 327, although he said one of his more recent seatmates was close. He was due -- his seatmate the previous time was a big dude who offered him drugs and made him shake him awake on landing since he drugged himself into oblivion. Maybe all this seatmate karma will eventually payoff in soulmates for both of us. Either way, it makes boarding less boring.

Competitive.

I don't generally think of myself as a competitive person, but I know I can be.

Proof: Walking home from dinner tonight, M and I realized that a horse carriage was beside us. And, worse, it was beating us. I mean, I know a horse has four legs and was hauling both a carriage and three people but ain't no way, no how, that the horse was going to beat us.

Sadly, for a block or so, it was a close call. Whenever the horse got close to passing us, it would snort like it knew we considered him competition. And, I would start cracking up. Clearly, I did not have the eye of the tiger tonight. But, thankfully, my lack of focus did not result in us losing to a carriage horse. We pulled away and did not look back.

A win is a win, right?

Floored.

When I left home, I left behind a flooring mess. Thanks to a leak on the 12th floor, I spent four, very long and loud days with drying equipment in my kitchen and hallway. When they came to remove the equipment on Sunday, it did not appear to me that the kitchen floor was dry. I sent a text to the project manager mentioning that. He was supposed to go look on Monday. Then, he said it would be on Wednesday. With me being out of town, apparently he could not be bothered to actually go look until Friday. And, when he did see the floor, he realized I was right. The floor was not dry and needs to be replaced.

So, thanks to no plumbing issues of my own, I have to replace every floor in my place with the exception of my two bathrooms. My kitchen tile needs to be replaced -- hopefully it will be done soon since I cannot currently use my dishwasher or stove. My parquet floors need to be matched, patched, sanded and re-stained. And, the carpet in my bedroom and closet needs to be replaced from June's sewage fun.

I cannot decide if the worst part is the expense, the hassle or the fact that no one has said sorry.

Brave New World.

For the past year or so, I have been bugging my mom to get a phone that she would use to at least accept text messages. My parents are not cell phone users. They have them in case of emergency, travel and meeting me at the airport, as far as I can tell. My dad has the razr that was popular when I was in law school eight years ago and my mom has a cell phone that I'm pretty sure dates back to probably ten years ago. When I had a phone without a qwerty keyboard, I hated texting too. Such a pain in the ass to have to hit the 5, four times to get an L. So, I made it my mission to go get my mom a phone with a qwerty keyboard.

Yesterday, mom was having a good afternoon. We got lottery tickets, went out to lunch (a first since pre-surgery), and then went to Best Buy. There, she astounded me by not only picking a new phone but picking a smart phone. After traveling with my brother and I, she came to realize how useful having a smart phone can be in terms of maps and google. Believe it, I could not.

As she said, she has dipped her foot in the waters of the 21st century now. She isn't jumping in the deep end with all the other technological possibilities but no need for that. And, luckily, I have all weekend to give her lessons on how to use her phone. But, so far, so good. She has sent texts, taken a picture, sent it, and can use her phone as a phone, both taking and making calls. I can feel my life getting easier already!

Fall Fun.

Part of my goal for being in Colorado is to make my dad's life easier. The other part, obviously, is to help my mom recover from surgery. So while he has been at work, I've done my parents' laundry, done the dishes, taken care of the pets, cooked, etc. Because it is fall, there has been yard work to do in the form of leaf-raking.

Colorado is an arid climate. I know most people just picture mountains everywhere but my parents live on the high plains near the foothills of the mountains. Because it is dry, the landscaping is generally a bit of grass that is expensive to maintain, a lot of rocks, and a few trees. My parents' yard definitely fits in this generalization. Not a huge yard and three, small, leafy trees.

Despite that, somehow, it took me three hours and five bags to clean up their yard. And, that wasn't even to a high standard. Definitely nowhere near the level of their backyard neighbor who has OCD and picks the leaves out of the rocks by hand everyday. It was just getting it done. While I was outside working, three of my parents' neighbors stopped to talk to me. Most of them see me maybe once a year or so but I think the powers of deduction should make them figure out that I'm not some hired hand doing the yard work. Each of them made some sort of joke about how fun raking leaves is.

And every time, my response was "This is why I live in the city." Of all the trade-offs between living in a house in the suburbs and a condo in the city, I think it is hands-down a clear winner for the city to not have to do yard work.

Walmart.

As a preface, I understand that the following makes me sound like a snob and/or yuppie and/or urban elitist. And, maybe I am, I don't know. I just know that they don't have Walmart in Chicago, at least not until you get to the very-very edge of it.

I'm currently in Colorado, playing Florence Nightingale as my mom recovers from neck surgery. One of my tasks for today was to go to the store to get some things. Unfortunately, the store involved was Walmart. I don't remember the last time I was in a Walmart but I can say that they have become super-sized. Walmart and Costco and the like might be the reason that the terrorists hate us. I felt like a stranger in a strange land. The people. The clothes. The people. The amount of stuff. The people. The people. The people.

The second runner-up as best part about this was the glee my mom took in sending me to "go be like everyone else in the country and shop at Walmart. The third runner-up was the amount of distaste my grandmother expressed for Walmart when I told her about the trip. Apple seemed to skip a generation on falling from that tree. Obviously, the best part was crossing something off the list of things to be done for my dad. Even with three good things having come from the trip, I'm in no hurry to go back to Walmart.

Karma.

I tend to think that my family consists of good people. I'm no saint and certainly could do more but I give to charity, try to help others, and the like. Overall, not bad. But, recently, my family has gone through some things that make me think that my karma is not very good.

Back in February, I celebrated my birthday with a corneal ulcer. In June, the plumbing in my building backed up during a big storm leaving me with sewage-spewed carpeting. In July, my dad had to have emergency gallbladder surgery, coming within hours of dying due to septic shock. Two weeks ago, my mom had to have her second neck fusion in a year. When my mom asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I gave her two present ideas: (1) a time machine that would go back about four years and trap my parents in their then-healthy state; or, (2) fixing all the plumbing in my building.

On Tuesday, one of the units on the 12th floor of my building suffered a leak. As the water worked its way down the building, a lot of units were left with wet drywall along that pipe. Lucky me, I was the only person with serious damage. Apparently, there is a divider under my unit that meant that the water had nowhere to go and nothing to do but pool under the floors of my kitchen and hallway. Even luckier me, the building bylaws deem this an accident, making me responsible for fixing the damage. So far, it looks like my home owner's insurance will cover the damage after my deductible. In the past two days, I've gained experience with water remediation processes and insurance claims.

Unfortunately, I will be putting that experience to use next week. My mom just called me to tell me that their roof had sprung a leak. I will be out in Colorado, playing Florence Nightingale, as my mom recovers from surgery. Apparently, I might get to play Bob the Builder too.

I'm not sure what my family has done but 2011 is kicking our asses a bit. I think I need to investigate more charitable work or the like immediately, if not sooner.

Pool Etiquette.

I'm no expert but I suspect I've spent more time swimming laps than your average person. In a perfect world, no one would have to share a lane. You could swim down the middle, doing your weird elementary backstroke, zig-zagging all over the place, to your heart's content. But, sadly, the pool is often not a perfect world and people have to dig deep to that kindergarden place and share.

There are two ways to share a lane: circle swimming (which only really works well when the swimmers are roughly the same speed) and splitting the lane (which only works when there are only two people who need to share the lane and that they can manage to stay on their side of the lane). Pretty simple really.

BUT, here is the key: before jumping in and sharing the lane, you need to stop the person already swimming in the lane and ask/tell them that you will be sharing the lane. That way you avoid what happened to me this morning.

I had followed proper etiquette and was splitting a lane with an older guy. He clearly was not happy about it. Both from his grumpy "fine" and the face that he kept crossing over to my side. I was hugging the lane line but one time I could not avoid my arm hitting his. Thankfully, another lane opened up and he went over there. Everyone was happier. I was mid-way through a sprint set, when another person showed up and wanted to swim. The coach on deck suggested she share with the guy rather than me because they were better matched speed-wise, as I was sprinting while he was slow and she wanted to do drills. Apparently, he did not like the idea of sharing with her for whatever reason. I was at the far end of the pool, making my turn, when he pushed off the wall, went under the lane line and started swimming in my lane. I didn't know that though because I had my head down and was swimming hard. I only learned that when we collided, with him punching me in the chest. I popped out of the water with a loud "motherf-er" from the shock and pain. He didn't say anything but kept swimming. I made it to the end of the lane but it hurt!

By that time, he had gotten out of the pool in huff saying he couldn't share lanes because HE kept getting hit. He said I hit him twice. Which, I guess if you count my chest colliding with his fist, is right. But, I don't count that because he punched ME. He never did apologize either. Swimming usually makes me happy in the mornings but today it left me in a much more aggressive mood!

Taco Tuesday.

I know this is silly but Taco Tuesday is one of my more favorite things. Taco Tuesday is not unique to Theory, but man, are the tacos delicious there. So much so that my parents call Theory the taco place, as if it were some hole-in-the-wall taqueria instead of a sports bar on Hubbard.

M and I try to go every week. We don't always make it but I think we always love it. For people who live in the same building, work in the same office, and work out at the same gym, we can go a surprisingly long time (a few days) without having an opportunity to actually talk. Sometimes, other people join us, which is always welcome. The more the taco-loving, the merrier.

So, what I love about Taco Tuesdays is:

1. Tacos;

2. Prosecco;

3. Tacos;
4. Time to catch up on every detail and story, however small;

5. Tacos;

6. Theory.

No (e)Harm, No Foul.

A couple weeks ago, I gave in and joined eHarmony. The past couple years proved to me that I need help meeting men. Maybe up until five years ago or so, I think there was a stigma attached to online dating. At this point though, even my 76 year old grandmother thought it just makes sense, given the realities of being a younger professional. If you didn't meet your spouse in college or grad school, it is just not easy to meet eligible people when you work (more than) full time. But I digress and will stop being defensive.

Within a couple days, I progressed through the stages of "guided communication" with a guy. On the fourth stage -- email communication (which comes with a full page warning to the extent of "you're on your own, kids . . . don't forget, once you give out your number or address, you can't get it back") -- he asked if I wanted to get a cup of coffee or glass of wine sometime. Since I didn't join for a pen pal, I quickly agreed. He gave me four options of where to meet, all of which were good.

At 8:30 on a Thursday night, I met him for drinks at NoMi. I love that place, as an aside. Drinks went well. I was nervous, which was obvious by the fact that he advised me to catch up with him and drink my drink quickly. Solid advice. After that, conversation was pretty easy and interesting. He asked if I wanted to go out to dinner. Sure, sounds good. He wanted to drive me home because he felt uncomfortable knowing I would be walking alone. Nice touch.

That Sunday, we went to Perennial. This time, he was nervous and I wasn't. Again, nice time had, capped off with drinks at the Pump Room. Because of busy and uncertain schedules, tentative plans were made for a third date. We agreed to drinks on Wednesday night. That afternoon, he had to cancel. No big deal, I understand having a busy week. He wanted to get together over the weekend but I had a friend in town so I was not available until Sunday. He seemed slightly irritated by that but agreed to Sunday for dinner. On Friday, we had a brief, friendly text exchange. On Sunday, I sent him a text asking about his weekend, and was going to confirm dinner.

But, he never responded.

I was surprised by that. Further proof that I do not understand men. As others have pointed out, I've made back my membership fee from just two dates -- not my fault he choose expensive places. So, no eHarm, no foul.

The Hat.

Picture it:

It is 7:30 on Saturday night. K, M and I are sitting on the couch, watching Good Times and trying to figure out what we wanted to do that night. We had options; we did not have motivation or decisiveness. We were all just kind of eh about everything. Then, M had a silly but brilliant idea: we would take a poll. And, out came the Hat of Indecision.

Each of us got three ballots. Three was the perfect number as it thereby guaranteed there would be no ties but also properly reflected our indecision because if any of us could make a decision in one ballot we wouldn't need the Hat. Our first vote was whether to stay in (I) or go out (O). I pulled the ballots, while M narrated in a combination of lottery girl and Biggest Loser type drama. In a 5-4 split, the O's took it. We were going out.

But, gosh, where? Well, we could go to Adobo. Or, maybe Butch's. Or, oh, I don't know. No need to suffer the pangs of indecision when you have the Hat. We took another ballot and once again it was a 5-4 split, with Butch's taking the win. As it turns out, both times, K and I were 2-1 in favor of the ultimately winning outcome. But, even though M technically "lost" her ballots, she was not unhappy. You can't be unhappy when the Hat speaks. (Again, if any of us felt strongly about any of the decisions, we wouldn't have used the Hat.) The Hat gave us the motivation we needed.

We got to Butch's in the best mood. K and M played the soundtrack of our night through the jukebox. The two bachelorette parties/girls' weekend groups should have thanked them. We were singing, dancing, making friends. The Hat was not wrong. Do not doubt the Hat.

CAbi Day.

Two things I forgot to mention that I enjoy about CAbi:

1.  You don't get the clothes immediately (the instant gratification portion of my personality doesn't necessarily agree with me on this one).  Instead, about ten days later, you get to have CAbi day, where a bag of clothes is awaiting you.  As most of the party attendees work at the same place, we get to go pick up our clothes at work.  And, this time, we got to say "Ponte (Wooooooooo!)" every time we referred to what we had purchased.  Good times.

2.  Vanity sizing.  My rational mind knows that I do not fit into a size four.  But, I surely did ten days ago to try a skirt on.  And, buying a size six (getting warmer to my actual size but still VERY flattering) in skirts and pants?  Awesome.  Apparently my ego is no match for my rational mind -- it is totally willing to be flattered even in the face of knowing it is just vanity sizing at work.

Broseph.

My broseph came to visit this weekend.  He lives in Colorado and makes infrequent appearances outside of the Denver metro area. He came to Virginia and Texas to see me graduate.  After seven and a half years in Chicago, my bro finally realized I would not be graduating from this location and booked a flight.  Actually, he went to visit our grandmother in Milwaukee for three days and then took the train down to Chicago for a day. 

I suspect my day or so with him has left him with the impression that my life is just non-stop fun and fancy.  To be clear, it is not . . . just the non-work part is.

We went to Theory for a snack.  I walked him over to  Millennium Park to see the Bean and the Fountains o' Faces.  We stopped to Garretts on our way back to the office for happy hour.  From there, we headed home to change and then walked down to dinner at LuxBar.  We ended the night with drinks at the new and improved Pump Room.  (Side note: so happy to have the new Pump Room in the neighborhood.  The space is lovely.  The drink prices are not unreasonable.  The servers are friendly.  All that and only three blocks from my house.  Love it.)

On Saturday, I may have broken him a bit.  We went to the gym where he survived 45 minutes of a strength and conditioning class before I treated him to a spa service, while I finished the class and went to spin.  We went to old faithful, Butch McGuire's, for lunch and then walked down Michigan Ave.  We didn't get all that far when he asked to head home.  His suburban feets just are not used to walking more than a couple blocks.  He sent me a text when he arrived home today saying that walking was painful.  Whoopsy.  So, we headed up to Milwaukee that afternoon, where we had dinner with our grandmother and aunt.

I don't think my brother and I have ever spent that much time together, just us, as adults.  And, we are very different people.  He said that he has all the nice genes and I have all the brains.  I don't agree with that statement but he is a very nice guy.  He believes the best of people to the point that he ignores the reality of the present in the hopes of how they will be in the future.  Despite how different we are, we generally get along very well.  That's probably true because we have long been set in our roles and those have not changed much in thirty years.

What has changed, most significantly from my perspective, is that my brother now cooks.  In my mind, my brother is the kid who made cinnamon pancakes so bad that our dog would not eat them.  Now, he identifies spices in foods and makes cheesecakes for fun while on vacation.  I still have not wrapped my mind around it even though I had no problem wrapping my fingers around my fork.

Welcome, S.

Last week, the littlest Trump Girl made her appearance.   After almost 23 hours of labor, at 10:54 p.m. on September 13, O gave birth to Simone Margaret. 

Unfortunately for me, I had a cold last week so I could not go visit O, J, and S in the hospital.  By the time I was no longer contagious, O was back in the hospital for high blood pressure issues.  Poor girl had a catheter and was drugged up on magnesium for two days, unable to walk around or be with her baby.  It sounded pretty miserable.  Thankfully, everyone is home and healthy now.  The most positive spin I can put on it is that now O has a story (with a happy ending) to scare other pregnant ladies with as she surely heard a zillion herself while pregnant.  

Yesterday, I got to go visit everyone.  S is the first really new baby I've held.  She still has that new person smell.  Her little hand can barely wrap around my finger.  She is an adorable little tamale all swaddled up.  As M said, all the mistakes you've made in life, the things you wish you could do over?  S has none of that.  A perfectly clean slate where her only job right now is to eat and sleep.  And, thankfully, she is not a baby who has trouble achieving her goals, at least during week one.   From what I can see, she is a rockstar at her appointed tasks, especially the sleeping.  The eating seems to be her less favored job -- who can blame her? It gets in the way of her beauty rest and she seems to get rewarded for her efforts with hiccups frequently.  Now, if only her parents can get some sleep too.

No doubt, S will make mistakes going forward.  And, no doubt that O and J will too.  But, it seems like they are all off to a great start, after an initial hiccup (and not just with the eating).

Clothing Amnesia.

A CAbi party is an unusual experience. What is a CAbi party, you might wonder. I know I did. I had never heard of it before about six months ago. A CAbi party is essentially a tupperware party for clothes. (CAbi stands for Carol Anderson by invitation.) The idea of buying clothes out of a person's home was just hard for me to wrap my mind around. I passed on my first invitation to a CAbi party, despite hearing that the clothes were cute. However, when M hosted one, I really had no way to avoid attending, considering she lives two floors above me.

Based on very limited experience, I believe that a good CAbi party involves probably two elements: (1) alcohol and (2) a fun CAbi representative. Part one is easy. Part two may or may not be. Both parties I've attended have involved the same representative and she puts on quite a show. She somehow talks her way through about 50 pieces of clothing, trying on maybe a quarter of them, in about 45 minutes.

After she's done, that's where the unusual experience begins. All of the sudden, it is a free-for-all of women trying on the clothes. At both parties, the attendees were a mix of friends and co-workers. That distinction seems to go out the window, as does one's dignity. Ladies who may intimidate you at the office are suddenly in their underwear, waiting to take the shirt or skirt you just tried on. There must be some sort of immediate clothing amnesia (and/or just locker room mentality) induced by the CAbi clothing so that when you see these same ladies the next week, there is no embarassment.

CAbi: the party where you end up with a buzz and cute clothes.

Trapeasy Take Two.

About six weeks ago, M, her mom and I went to trapeze class. It was not our idea; it was suggested as a networking event at work but we both had a conflict on the original date so we went on our own. However, the original date got rained out so we got to attend our second class for free as part of the re-scheduled work event.

The first class was exhilarating in a facing-fears type of way. I'm not particularly scared of heights but climbing a tall ladder and leaning out over the edge of a high platform was definitely a challenge the first time around. The second class had none of that fear. It helped that the person holding you at the top of the platform was a big, strong guy (who happened to have been the guy who caught us during the first class, giving me even more confidence in him) when the first class had a little girl assuring me, bigger than her, that she had me. She did but I couldn't help thinking that gravity plus my weight could easily bring her down with me.

So, the second class was just fun. We learned two new tricks which were super fun. The first trick everyone learns is called the knee-hang. It leaves a rather distinctive bruise on the back of your dominate side leg. (So much so that when we were walking to work this morning, M and I noticed the bruise on a girl ahead of us and then realized she was one of our co-workers and trapeze classmates.) After we demonstrated proficiency with the knee-hang, we learned the heels-off. Despite the name, that sucker leaves you a nice little bruise along your Achilles. Finally, we learned the whip. As far as I can tell, that one is bruise-free, although I only got to try it once. But, from a bruising perspective alone, I love it.

I have to admit that I was enjoying a little bit of schadenfreude. The girl who suggested this event is not my favorite for a variety of reasons and I suspected that she would not be particularly good at trapeze. Trapeze takes some degree of fitness and I'm pretty sure she never works out. So, I was not surprised that she had trouble on her first swing. I'm a bad person but it made me smile to see her struggle, as she is generally very smug about her accomplishments. However, I was surprised at how quickly she quit though. No "if at first you don't succeed, try, try again" with this girl.

Short story long, I really enjoy trapeze. I'm not sure it is much of a workout, although it definitely uses your shoulders and abs, but it is A LOT of fun. I am pretty sure that I will be back for more classes in the future and hopefully leave with fewer bruises.

Street Art.

On my friend K's recommendation, I recently watched "Exit Through the Gift Shop." As a result, while in Paris, I had my eyes peeled for the work of Space Invader. Unfortunately, I was disappointed. But, there was a lot of graffiti everywhere. Of course, there is a difference between graffiti and street art. And, I saw some cute pieces of street art in both Paris and Palma.

In Paris, on the same block as our hotel, there was a grate that had been turned into a skeleton's ribcage. We saw an incomplete version elsewhere. I failed to take a picture of them (which I regret) but I found these examples:



In Palma, I saw these two stencils:

Buenisima Binissalem.

S is our spin instructor. At 50, she is one of the fitter people I know. So, it was no surprise that our time with her involved A LOT of exercise.

Her house is straight out of House Hunters International. It is four floors, four bedrooms, five (gigantic) baths, a rooftop terrace, and a beautiful garden with a small pool. It has fantastic heavy wooden front doors (as do seemingly all of the houses in the village) and great archways.

The house is in a small village called Binissalem, a thirty or so minute drive northwest from Palma:


Once we dropped off our bags, we changed for a swim in the municipal pool. One small detail: it was a three-mile, fast-paced run (for M and S)/ride (me on a borrowed bike) uphill. The ride was not a problem, although it brought back a few hangover symptoms. I do not envy M and the run though. That seemed rough. It was nice to get in the pool though. Beautifully blue tiled, seemingly an infinity pool off the hill top. Easily the most beautiful pool I have swam in. Thankfully, what goes up, must go down so the return home was much easier.

Our reward for that exercise was some tasty pizza and wine. We somehow ended up chatting until 1:00 am. Which would not be late if we weren't scheduled to go to the gym at 8:30 the next morning.

Sad to say but the spin class was one of the highlights of the trip. So much energy and enthusiasm. It was a party in there. Great music. Great workout. Extremely attractive instructor. What's not to love? From there, it was back to the pool for another swim.

Our last hours on Mallorca included lunch at the Port, with the delicious Spanish omelet, croquettas and sangria.

From there, we were back to London for a night. It was a rainy day in London, so we took it easy in the morning. Enjoyed our complimentary continental breakfast. Saw the workout suite. We headed back to Heathrow and hung out in the lounge. We actually almost missed our flight back to Chicago because they don't assign gates until essentially boarding time and our gate was four people movers, an elevator, and a train from the lounge. After that excitement, it was a very smooth flight back home.

Palma - Part 2.

After we finally turned the corner on our hangovers, we were nearing checkout time so we had no option than to rally. We had thought that maybe lunch would make some magic happen. It did not. BUT, ice cream did.

It was Sunday in a very Catholic country. It seemed like everything was closed. EXCEPT ice cream stores. After our first ice cream stick, almost immediately, we felt 90% better. Better enough, that I was able to notice how pretty the local architecture was:


We soon crossed another ice cream store. On the theory that two would be doubly good, we got another cone. And, magic! We felt totally human again. Just in time to find an open souvenir shop to stock up for family and friends.

Soon, we found the Plaza Mayor. From there, we could see the Cathedral that we noted the prior day that looked like a giant sandcastle:

On our way there, we came across some beautiful gardens:

We finally made it around the front of the cathedral:


From there, we continued our stroll, toward the port. Took a seat in a park. Had a snack. And, then it was time to head back to our hotel, where our spin instructor was going to pick us up.

To kill the time, we played some scrabble. As a tangent, I have been friends with M for maybe five years now and played scrabble a handful of times. I never win. It took probably ten hours of playing on this trip for me to win one game. It was a delightful afternoon, quite warm but we were in the shade with a breeze, a cappucino in front of us.

Soon enough, S arrived to take us to her house in the country.