My B.

That's what my brother-in-law Tom says when he does something wrong. My B. It's almost like saying "my bad" is gonna take up too much time; let's just lock & load and fix this thing. My B. 

Anyhow, I'm terribly sorry for being such a lax blogger. My [B]B. 

Posting is the only thing I've let slide in the recent rush of deadlines and activities...except maybe advanced personal grooming. (Is that an acceptable use? You know, when people are mucca busy they say things like 'I haven't even had time to pee!' (I always, ALWAYS make time to pee) and 'I don't even have time for basic personal hygiene.' I try to stay on top of that, but I think the next level would be 'advanced,' i.e. eyebrow plucking and bi-weekly exfoliation.) 

I think it would be fun to list the themes about which I'm writing and editing...just to give you an inkling of why I can't sleep "dreamlessly:" two boyhood friends arguing about coming of age and Chicago-style hotdogs, an updated 'And Then There Were None' (and shortened to under 45 minutes), a virtual date between two music junkies and commitment-phobes in an era of technological relationships, a murder mystery spanning 2 decades and ending in a midwestern circus, editing a shoot 'em up thriller for a literary manager pal, and [recently finished!] editing my youngest sis' short story about a man outrunning his personal demons. 

Add the 50+ hours in my work week and, (for some bizarre reason) the pressing need to organize every nook and closet within 3000 feet of my bedroom and donate all the excessive stuff to charity, and it equals a tired me. Plus, our pal Matt (Hi Matt! Stop reading my blog and go do your work- and no, Bejeweled Blitz does not count) has been staying with us for the past 3 weeks (he does dishes, so he= awesome), but P.J. and I have been a two-person show for a few years and a third party does make for a new dance of sorts. We're also either traveling or having someone stay with us every week/weekend until the beginning of April- which is great, truly- but as everything is due by March 15th...

Whee!

Also not helping the situation- people who do not use their bodies the way they ought during certain transit situations. For example, the other morning I was running up the southbound Addison brown line stairs behind a TALL MAN WITH LONG LEGS. Who was walking. Ambling, really. I missed a train because, although I was racing my stubby legs like a hamster on a wheel, Daddy Longlegs (who could have taken the steps three at a time, no prob) decided that this was the perfect venue for his morning constitutional (a guy I knew once thought that meant 'using the bathroom'- that is not the definition of which I speak). Anyhow, I think it is the civic duty of all the stretchy people out there to not block the already-too-narrow steps with intentional sloth. I said it.

And since I had failed to update since the 12th I also missed wishing everyone a happy Valentine's Day! I have always loved this holiday, ever since I was a little kid and craved cellophane-wrapped hearts, overflowing desk envelopes and parties that I would get sick in anticipation of. (Really- my mom had to pick me up early for multiple years' classroom parties...I would make myself ill even BEFORE I overindulged in too much candy. I was excitable. It was sad.) My parents always used to make a special dinner and give my sisters and I small presents at the table. To this day I obsess over making handmade valentines and calling friends all over the country to tell them I love them on that day. Also, I overdo the wearing of the red. 

This year was pretty sweet. P.J. and I usually get each other something kinda teensy and symbolic, plus I always make the biggest, sparkliest card for him...

He got me a 42 inch HD flat screen television.

I got him a new pair of gloves.

He also took me out to Turquoise for din, but by that point I had already decided to let him win arguments for the next...month. (I'm trying, anyhow.) The rest of the night was spent playing Mortal Kombat on the Wii...very largely...and seeing how clearly bad computer graphics would appear in the movie 'Blades of Glory.' (Awfully clearly.)

I am almost rabidly looking forward to lounging on my couch and watching marathons of Law & Order...

...in April. 

Did you send me a Valentine yet?

I spent the better part of the weekend (Saturday a.m. until...Monday evening) curled in a ball and wishing for a shotgun. Recently having been afflicted with a vicious cross between food poisoning and spinal meningitis (and, having made up a disease, unable to be CURED from such), it was a lousy way to spend 72 hours. Add insult to injury (literally, someone called me fat- okay, I made up that part), it was a whopping 65 degrees outside. Which would, roughly, be an 80 degree temperature hike. Le sorrow.

The best part about being that near death is the amazing dreams you get to have. I fell asleep in the midst of a Demetri Martin standup special (no fault of Demetri's- it was indeed special) and had an incredible two hour dream wherein Demetri and I became extremely close. That is all I will say. When I awoke and realized that I had somehow paused the On-Demand show, I continued watching. This time, however, it was with a fond nostalgia. "Oh, Demetri," I said. "You haven't changed a bit."

And since P.J. has been understudying for a show up at Piccolo Theatre AND preparing for the Foreign Service Exam, I've had the odd sensation of being the last person in Chicago. The last grownup, anyhow. Between spending days with all these people under 6 years of age and writing for about two hours an afternoon or evening...and then yelling goodnight to the cats (yup) and arising to a strange man-shaped lump in the bed (the same one, usually) and having our only face-to-face convos be when, admittedly, I am not at my awesomest...well, it makes a gal start to feel a little socially inept. 

Tuesday, however, reached almost 70 degrees and suddenly it was all 'Hello Dolly' (minus the singing or storyline) to Chicago! Jack and I played at the park, mailed [handmade] Valentines across the country, cleaned my hall closet, donated bags of things to Village Discount Outlet, finally got my wedding gown preserved (they asked if two weeks was okay- I told them there was no REAL hurry), got a bunch o' dry cleaning done, opened every window in a 2 block radius and made Jack run around his neighborhood until he begged to go lie down before dinner. No! I yelled, It's Spring!

Today, not so much. It is froze.

This week brought about the extremely important discovery that noise-cancelling Bose headphones are excellent at keeping sound OUT...but not a great deal of sound is kept IN. Case in point- when one's iPod freezes on a song, refusing to let one change it or lower the volume, it's pivotal to have a set of headphones that won't let even the tiniest bit of Michael Bolton out for the train to hear. (Ever seen a train full of disbelieving, snickery or plain ol' scornful eyes burn pretentious holes into your face? Yeah, throw a little 'Steel Bars' at them.) In this case, three words are clutch: Unplug Headphones. Quickly. 

Cinchy.

Also this week, I've learned that a perfectly normal umbrella that never acts out in the most normal of settings (i.e., dry, in a closet) will choose a thundery commute to lose its handle in a "mud" puddle, blow out and then back in (a la Mary Poppins), drenching the holder with rain and God knows what else from the "muddy" reattached handle, then inexplicably decide to shorten itself by four inches on the pole (regardless of what the holder does or does not do), making the holder look like [s]he's carrying a dwarf umbrella, and THEN miraculously go back to a non-Poltergeisty umbrella...just as the rain lets up.

I guess that's not so much a public service announcement (because you cannot, CANNOT prepare for that kind of thing) as it is a fun anecdote. It seemed way more helpful in my mind.

And I'll end on a highly-charged-this-is-gonna-have-adverse-reactions kinda thought: have you read about the girl who's auctioning her virginity for like 3.8 million dollars? Regardless of the moral implications (it's completely wrong) or the psychological (this is the new "reality" star), I'm most concerned about the legality issue. Is this not the EXACT definition of prostitution?

(Disclaimer: Mom- I'm no longer puking, the dream about Dimitri was G-rated, P.J. didn't get me a shotgun, the man-lump IS Peej, I'm not all alone in a bad neighborhood, I let Jack take a nap, I'm wearing that warm scarf/wrap you got me, I don't wear my headphones when I'm walking alone at night, I fixed my umbrella and I agree that we should feel sorry for the virgin girl for having low self-esteem and an obviously terrible home life.)

Phew. 

Plus, I got a new hat with wooden flower buttons.

Firstly and foremostly, happy first birthday Cole Sebastian Grant! (And Scout Delilah Kosner, oh my goodness...all these babies in my life turning one! Specifically two of them.) 

P.J. and I went to Boston this past weekend to party down with the nephews, sisters and parentals; it was a whirlwind 36 hours of non-stop meals, Harvard trippin' and baleful eyes peering over the front of my aerobed at 5am. Plus dinner in the North End! And a brunchy party with cupcakes and a super-sleepy host! No, not his parents. (Although they were, too.) The birthday boy conked out during the festivities...though, to be fair, so did two of his aunts. 

It was such a fast (and fun) trip that when P.J. and I found ourselves back home after our return flight and bus trip and hoofing it, we wondered what the heck just happened and WHY OH WHY was it almost Monday morning.

It is always Monday morning. Also, winter.

Last night after work, I started out for pilates up at Clark and Belden- a full 14 blocks from my Wednesday/Friday job locale- and managed to miss every bus that could have swiftly taken me there. (It was way too frigid to stop and wait for a bus. I wasn't willing to freeze my eyelids. IT IS THAT COLD.) However, I did have the wonderful moment of almost having a gal run me over- walking beside me- and then chat and laugh about it whilst passing me. Sadly, my over-ear Bose headphones were on (they are the only thing saving me from deep ear trauma in this wind) and I couldn't make out a darned thing she was saying. I'm an excellent lip reader, but this girl was wearing a mammoth hood and kept turning her face away from me (laughing, I believe. I think we were sharing a nice moment, as opposed to "Move it over, heifer, you have ugly boots.") I nodded and smiled, even managed a benevolent chuckle, but there was no way I was going to remove my headphones for a shortish encounter. Sorry. I kept expecting her to continue on in the full-speed manner in which she had been walking, but I truly believe that she felt we were having some moment of utter bonding and continued to talk at me for almost one full city block. There was no way I could take off the headphones and admit that I hadn't heard her- regardless, I was still not going to remove them in that weather.

Still, I count that as a moment of connection in the otherwise frigid and solitary wasteland that winter in Chicago becomes. 

And now, further proof that Facebook isn't really on the pulse of my lifestyle- an ad on the side of my homepage read "Recession problems? Rent your second home!"

I don't think Facebook really understands my day-to-day problems.

This is for my sister.

It has recently come to my attention that my blog used to be "funnier" when it wasn't so much "journalling." My apologies. Although quite honestly, this was never intended to be a laugh-a-minute type thing. Sadly, the things that people find amusing are actual events, truthful musings and honest to gosh awkward scenarios that, were they kept inside, would but fester.

That said, here is my favorite joke.

A grasshopper walks into a bar and takes a seat at the stool. The bartender approaches him and says, "Wow, this is so cool. A real grasshopper. You know, we have a drink named after you!" The grasshopper, clearly touched, leans across the bar and eagerly asks, "You have a drink named STEVE?"

Phew. Humor. Check.

And now, if I may, I'd love to tell the fantastic story of my morning...(sorry, Em, the blog has to be about me a LITTLE bit. You know, kind of like a running log of things I want to remember. Like a web log. Or, you know, a blog.)

So, this a.m. started a tad roughly. I'm supposed to be out the door at 6:45am on Wednesdays and Fridays, harsh enough when I'm actually able to do it- but at 6:49 P.J. woke me and asked, "Don't you have somewhere to BE?" While I stood in place with my mouth agape, P.J. proceeded to fill my coffee mug, put my scripts (that he had printed out) into my bag for tonight, laid out my coat, mittens, hat and boots in a me-shaped position by the table, and gently inquired if he could do anything else. I think he was trying to encourage the putting-on of my pants. (Meanwhile, the laundry that each of us thought the other had put into the dryer last night...was sitting in the basement. Frozen. With allll of the socks in the known universe.)

So I ran. (And put on pants.) I missed a bus. Checked the bus tracker on my phone. 8 minutes. No good, CTA, no good at all. So I continued to run. And I ran and kept on running past Leavitt, Hoyne, Damen, and then at Wolcott (darn you, Wolcott!) I slipped on a patch of black ice and ran myself into a flying V (bags, coffee mug and me) and thudded into an unsuspecting man and subsequently a brick wall. And then my back made friends with the pavement. And my hip said 'howdy-do' to my travel mug, which cracked in angry protest. 

And I saw the train go by overhead.

I assured the crowd of gawking non-helper-uppers that I was fine and in fact ENJOYED wearing snow. Nonchalantly, I gingerly stepped the rest of the way to the Addison station and tapped my train pass against the turnstile. Nothing. Tapped it again. "Please retouch card," it implored me. I went to the next turnstile and did so. "SINGLE USE," it indignantly told me. "This IS my single use," I yelled at it. Another train was rumbling its approach. I frantically waved to the 'attendant,' now staring at me as if I were trying to make off with one of the turnstiles and not merely a dissatisfied commuter. 

"It's only one use," she mouthed, not realizing that the door to her kiosk was open.

"I know," I shouted back, quite possibly in a too-loud voice. "I just tapped it once."

"Did you already go through?"

I stared at her, down at my [snowy] belongings and then up the stairs where I could hear the train approaching. And hear it leave. I continued to stare, hopefully in a steely sort of way, but I think I only managed to do a sort of balefully pathetic face. 

Sighing the sigh of the long-suffering, the sigh of one forced to work to such a stressfully violent and decrepit locales as the stop at Addison and Lincoln (amidst dry cleaners, multi-million dollar condos and Turkish cafes), she let me through the turnstile with an 'I'm onto you,' kind of smirk.

"Pass is only single use."

THANK YOU. I did thank her.

Got upstairs to the platform, looked around- no train in sight. However, the bus- the one I couldn't bear to wait for- was pulling up at the station.

But other than a nagging 'back of the skull' headache and a sense that my heart is still perhaps beating a tad too fast- other than that- this day is proving better than I had hoped. 

And does anyone feel like seeing some theatre tonight? Chicago Dramatists, 8pm, featuring Yours Truly as a playwright and Miss Kat Daniels as my star. Blue line Chicago stop. 

If I'm late, check the turnstile.