it's my birthday

Last night for about three and a half hours, it was my birthday all over again.

A friend of mine who works at a swanky Chicago restaurant won a dinner for two at a similarly swanky spot. She chose me as her date, as I am a lover of food and dining and getting dressed up to go out. We went to Tru and told them it was my birthday, which I guess it kind of was.... just a little late. (For a second, it reminded me of the time she told the Karaoke DJ at Friar Tuck's that our names were Rose and Millicent and it was her birthday. Before we knew it, we were on stage and she was taking a Jagermeister shot out of the ass of a giant inflatable sheep ... but we didn't have to wait to sing our Karaoke song.)

Now, I have never eaten at a restaurant like this, and depending on who you're asking, Tru is ranked as the No. 1 (or No. 3) restaurant in Chicago. For the occasion, we went shopping at trusty, cheap, and always classy Forever XXI (yes, I know it's for 15-year-olds, but it's cheap and as long as I can still fit into the stuff, I'm gonna shop there), and got her a dress and me a shrug. Fancy.

We walk in the restaurant and are greeted by three men in suits, one with a thick French accent, there to take our coats and walk us to our table. The interior is decadent: plush blue velvet seats, tall ceilings, white walls spotted with art work - including an original Andy Warhol. I even got a tiny stool for my purse so it wouldn't have to rest on the floor.

We started with a glass of champagne, and I began to feel less and less like a total fraud sitting in a swanky four-star restaurant, knowing I can't pronounce half the stuff on the menu, wouldn't be able to choose the proper wine if my life depended on it and have no business spending any kind of substantial money on a meal. The place was stuffy, and every move was choreographed, down to the two servers simultaneously pouring water in our glasses. It was as quiet as a library, and the stiff-backed servers in their dark suits were constantly scanning the room, their eyes darting attentively. Although the formality of it made me a little uncomfortable at first, we eased into it, deciding it was still OK to laugh and enjoy ourselves, and even chat up the serving team (that's right, team - there must have been five guys waiting on us, and the fact that they treated us like queens helped relax me.)

We decided to do the chef's collection with wine pairing - nine tiny courses, each a surprise and different for the two of us. We started with the amuse-bouche - four bite-size treats, such as a mini-stack of potatoes and a shot of melon water. From there, we had the caviar staircase, which was gorgeously displayed on a glass tiered tray. I can't say I have really done caviar before, and this was perfect.

Now on to a couple fish courses - seared tuna and a crab salad - followed by a foie gras in chocolate sauce and lobster risotto with black truffle. Next up were two soups in capuchin cups, then halibut and hamachi, then lamb and beef rossini..... phew I am exhausted just recounting it all. These courses were followed by the cheese course, where we chose three from a massive cheese table the server wheeled over to us. After a shot of blackberry-passion soup, it was desert time - the course that seemed to never end, from the two desert plates to the table of tiny chocolate truffles and cookies to the silver of specialty chocolates.

None of my retelling do the food justice. It can't. Sure, I called the "Elysian Fields Lamb Loin and Chop, Roasted Cipollini Onions, Couscous, Pine Nuts, Lamb Jus paired with the Rockblock Syrah from Del Rio Vineyard" just "lamb," but if I detailed it how they did, my guess is your eyes would glaze over at the pages and pages of text here. But each course was rich and unique and exciting. There were flavors I have never had before, expertly prepared, each piece of the dish complementing the next. I don't think I could pick a favorite dish - or even a favorite course.

The marathon meal came to a whopping $450, not including the tip. Before dining there, I always said it was stupid to spend that kind of money on food, and I still contend that there are more urgent needs in the world for such funds - if not my rent money then the charity of your choice. That said, having the opportunity to live like someone who could afford such a meal for one night was a treat, and would be worth saving up to celebrate a special occasion. I didn't pay for it, so I am not having to assess if it was "worth it," but it certainly made me want to budget for another meal like that some day in the distant future, and for last night, it was the meal to top all meals. And I got to keep the menu, complete with a "Happy Birthday Sara!" on the top.

don't judge

I love the Ellen DeGeneres show.

I think Ellen is hysterical. Her timing is perfect, her facial expressions are priceless and her strange segments are mindlessly enjoyable. I find myself laughing out loud at her show all the time.

I plan to write her a letter expressing my love for her show and how I think she would have a blast hanging out with me and my friends having dance parties (that's how she starts every show - amazing) and laughing non-stop. Maybe she'll give me a free trip to the Bahamas or fly me to LA for a taping and let me come on stage as her co-host.

Don't judge me until you've watched it.

the fate of this blog ...

... has been under question for some time. I think I only have about two readers and I find myself recycling stories to those few who do read it (which is exactly why one of my best friends said she wouldn't read it). So I have had to chose my blog topics carefully, especially considering I am not dodging bullets in Caracas, and I often think it's just not worth it.

Then I said today, to hell with all that madness. So I am here to write some total crap that maybe one or two people might read, finding little need to comment on it, and then we can all just move on with our lives.

I have re-entered a phase of body image obsession. It's been a while, but my tendency to overthink my weight, what I eat and how much I exercise has crept back up. See, I like to think I am the kind of girl who can eat burgers and shwill beers like any dude, with little care of calories. And to a certain degree I am, but never far from the surface is the girl who used to be chubby and is horrified of being fat when she's older.

I once had a friend tell me it's stupid to watch what you eat and if you feel like you're gaining weight, just go for a run. That's easy for you to say, at maybe 115 pounds soppng wet with boots on. But the reality is I watched my mom struggle, which I want to avoid, and I too fall into the trap of believing thin is beautiful. (For the record, I am talking 5, 10, 20 pounds here, not obesity, which is a whole different issue and evokes completely different responses from me.)

When I went to Prague, I quit caring about all that and let myself eat whatever I wanted and drink enough beer to sate a sailor. I would bet the weight gain is barely noticeable, but it's brought me back to borderline obsession of counting calories, working out every day and feeling eater's remorse after an egg and bacon sandwich at Clark's.

For all that personal, self-reflective garbage I've dumped here, I'll throw in something a little more light-hearted. I went to a bar the other night that has a small dance floor and amazing dance-party music. On one side of the dance floor, these two guys had set up something like a you-got-served circle, but they were swinging their arms like they were manning two jump ropes. And people would take a running start and jump in between them to demonstrate their best moves. When someone would ignore the imaginary ropes and walk right between them, they would pause, look annoyed and lean down to slowly, in unison, pick up the ropes from the floor. It was awesome. Just as I mustered the courage to jump in, the song was over and they didn't pick pick up the ropes again. Probably for the better.

the bird flu personified

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays - can you call it a holiday? - of the year, and much thought and care goes into my costumes. Often, women tend to throw clever out the window and use Halloween as an opportunity to dress slutty (Meangirls, anyone?) by donning some fishnets, a bustier, and maybe some ears or horns. Guys on the other hand usually just slap on a fake mustache and polyester jacket and call themselves a pimp, or this year, Ron Burgundy.

That's not really my speed. Like the good, nerdy journalist I am, I like to look to the headlines for inspiration.

This year, my friend CK and I dressed as the bird flu. We crafted chicken wings tied to our arms and an orange feather plume and tail. Then we wrapped ourselves in bathrobes, slid on a pair of slippers and made a necklace of flu medication labels. The kicker was wearing medicine bottles around our necks with the word Tamiflu scrawled over it.

Most folks got it, and thought it was hysterical. One guy who didn't revealed he hadn't read a newspaper since 2001 (that was the end of that conversation) and another girl stared at me blankly and then said quite frankly she had never heard of the bird flu and had no idea what I was talking about. (My screaming, "But it's a pandemic!" - our catch phrase for the night - did little to jog her memory.)

Other amazing costumes of the night included donning a homemade pair of waders (you know, those tall rubber boots for fishing) and carrying an oar to be Roe v. Wade. Another friend of mine wore a hot black dress with a red bow and a tag that read "To: Men, From: God")

getting in touch with my inner grandma

I have turned over a new leaf. I have decided to take those goals I have in the back of my mind (and on a piece of notebook paper, titled "Things to do before I die, or sooner"), and get to work.

I started a jogging regimen. Regimen might be a strong word, as today was the first day of running, if you could call it that.

I plan to sign up for a black and white darkroom developing class starting next week.

And perhaps most exciting - I learned to knit. That's right folks. I have been wanting to for a long time. I was even given a how-to book for Christmas last year, but in classic Sara fashion I would pick it up, try a couple stitches, mess up and put the needles away. (Kind of like the time, at age 13, I wanted to be drummer Lars Ulrich, got a set, took lessons, and realized my brother was perhaps more musically inclined than I, and quit. Or the figure skating: I was struggling on the axle (that's a jump, people), got bored and quit.)

I digress. Again, new leaf. And so far, the knitting was really fun. It's not quite relaxing yet, though, as I am finding I am clenching my jaw in concentration as I knit, but I expect that to change. I managed to stitch a ten-row patch. At this rate, everyone in my family is getting 3-inch pot holders for Christmas. "Oh, ignore the holes and the stray loops sticking out on the side - it's for holding a tiny, thin pot handle!"

But I am determined not to throw in the needle this time. Before you know it, Martha Stewart is going to have me on her show for segment on scarves, stockings, sweaters....

sad state of journalism affairs

Here are a couple not-so-encouraging media-related news items today, courtesy the SPJ daily email. Wow.

Newspaper columnist Ann Coulter confessed in a speech that she's "not a big fan of the First Amendment," according to E&P. She apparently "criticized the media for being liberal and Democrats for whining about their rights under the First Amendment. 'They're always accusing us of repressing their speech,' she said. 'I say let's do it. Let's repress them.'"

The Newark Weekly News has entered a $100,000 contract with the city council to publish only positive news about the city. The owner says he is providing the city a service. "Do we have invesigative reporters? No. Our niche is the good stuff," he said, according to The Star-Ledger. The paper can only generate stories based on ledes from the council and the mayor's office.

what the listserv issue was really about

More important than the ensuing debate on the appropriate "netiquette" for blogs and listservs was the topic of the initial post, which made it in the Chicago Tribune today.

See, if you'll recall, a woman had posted a note looking for a media consultant. Little did she realize, I suppose, she was sending this request out to a bunch of news-hungry sharks who jumped on the story. Sure, this CEO who needs image help may not be a big honcho, but now we are all fiercely looking out for him.

As the Tribune's Phil Rosenthal puts it:

"Unfortunately for Pamela Cramer, whose name was on the request--and for the unnamed CEO--it turns out Medill has produced a fair number of actual reporters and editors, some of whom were more interested in uncovering more about the pending tax case than in helping to buff up the accused's image. Shocking, no?"

Oops, Pamela.

OK that is the last I will mention this little listserv debacle. ... Unless something else interesting comes up.

One more thing - As we all remember the Internet is in no way anonymous, also remember that no one cares. It is a massive, massive web of billions of people writing about billions of things posting billions of stories, musings, pictures. In the end, no one cares. In the end, no one (except perhaps journos and those on the listserv) really cares about Pamela or about my own words on the topic.

I kind of wish I cared about baseball

So the Chicago White Sox are going to the World Series, and people here are just nuts over it.

I know a kid who got tickets to Game 1 this weekend. Apparently his roommate knows someone. I read today that one guy wanting tickets offered to give up his kidney - you're choice, right or left - for tickets. One woman offered nudie pictures. Some tickets were reselling for $15,000. They sold out in 18 minutes. Crazy, I tell you.

I wonder, is there anything in this world I would pay that much money - or at least the few hundred dollars others are paying - to see? My max was dishing out $100 for Prince show in Atlanta, and shoot, I'd do that again, and maybe even double it. I was close to paying out that much to see Bon Jovi, but came to my senses.

Perhaps if I was more of a sports fan, I would understand. My inaugural baseball game was the Boston Red Sox at Fenway Park when I was in college. As amazing and historic and yadda, yadda, yadda as that park was, I recall it being an excruciatingly boring game. And that was even after drinking a 40 oz. of malt liquor before the game. Gross.

A few years later (this summer) I went to a Nationals game in DC, and surprisingly had a blast - and I think it was more than the beer and the company that made it fun. The game was actually entertaining. But would I pay $100 or $300 or $15,000 to see it? Give up a kidney? Not a chance.

the joys of the journalists' listserv

A request was sent out on Medill's alumni listserv today, seeking a media consultant to develop a Martha Stewart-style plan for a top Chicago CEO facing a federal tax indictment later this week.

What ensued was more than two dozen responses from Medill alumni, some suggesting what the CEO should do ("how about coming clean?"), but most debating what is appropriate for a listserv.

One respondent said it should NOT be a "forum for glib pronouncements," and reminding everyone that it is an indictment, not a conviction.

Another suggested the listserv not be used for the "the recruitment of hired hands to massage the image of those facing federal indictment." This promptly stoked the fire of the debate with alumni weighing in on what, if any, rules govern the listserv. One person reminded the list we are journalists, and stifling free speech is "repulsive."

Most responses after that agreed, saying they enjoyed the spirited debate, as I certainly did. (Especially considering these are some hot-shot Chicago journalists.) At one point, the conversation veered back to the lecture at hand - the CEO - and several agreed to keep an eye on the morning papers to see just who this person is. Interestingly, one respondent even mused who would get the story first, considering that the listserv was essentially a tip, and just what path that tip took before it reached the papers.

a few things I learned from being home

So I spent a few days in the 'Ham, and here are a few things I learned:

1. Yard sales are ten times more fun when you follow your 8 a.m. cup of coffee with four beers, all before noon ... But items marked for $5 quickly become, "Oh I don't care, you can have it."

2. Everyone I know from my high school years is engaged or married... (except for one friend who is about to be divorced). Although it makes me feel a little old and scared, it's nice to see said friends and realize nothing has changed.

3. My step-sister and I may never be best friends, but she did look me in the eye this time, which, sadly, is progress.

4. Our siblings will always know just what buttons to push to make us completely lose our ever-loving mind. And they will do so, often unwittingly, for the rest of our lives.

5. It is essential in life to surround yourself with people that make you laugh and that bring out the funniest in you. (You know you're doing good when you find yourself thinking, 'Man, we should have our own show.')

6. Sunday night steak dinners, eaten while sitting on the front porch drinking wine and telling stories, is one of the greatest parts of my trips home.

7. It's true what they say - You can take the girl out of the South, but you can never take the South out of the girl.

I gave in

I was sitting at the kitchen counter with my brother the other day, and he looks at me, touches his hair, and says, "Hey can you see my gray hairs?"

Me: "Did you just say that because you can see mine?"

Brother: "Yea, a little."

So I finally gave in. I marched down to CVS and bought a box of Clairol hair color - the low ammonia kind, though, that washes out in a month... I am still new at this, kind of... at least as a grown-up - and dyed my hair a deep brown. Really, it looks exactly the same, but without those stubborn grays peeking out.

While my step-mother was applying the docile brown color and I was feeling generally just old, she reminded me of the day I stripped my hair to near-white with bleach and then dyed it purple (which really turned out to be this pink-violet on top and deep burgundy underneath). Or that time I went bright red and then let it grow out with my black roots. Ah those were the days. More than a decade later (save for another bleach-blond-to-red disaster in college), I am dying again.

So I have given in, and there is really no turning back. Sad.

advice from the pros

On my visit home to see friends and family, I met with the Executive Editor and the Editorial Editor of The Birmingham News. I figured any hand-shaking and networking I can do in the newspaper world can only help me.

Here's some of what I took away:

First, the Editorial Editor loved my plan to become fluent in Spanish. I hadn't really considered how much that might boost my marketability, but when I told him how I was heading to Honduras, his eyes lit up, and he said that is the best thing I could do right now. In fact, they had been looking to hire a Spanish-speaking reporter, and had a tough time finding one. Then on my way out, he told me to keep in touch when I get back to the States...

The main man of the newsroom had such a fresh perspective on the path of a new reporter. Six months ago, he would have told a recent grad to follow the traditional path that we all have ingrained in our heads: start at a small-town daily, then move up to a mid-sized paper then on to the big times. Any experience other than daily experience is "discounted," it doesn't mean as much, if anything at all.

But that has all changed just in the last few months. He said he couldn't believe he was telling me this, but while I am pursuing a job at a mid-size daily, consider other outlets - Web sites, alternative weeklies. You don't have to take the traditional route anymore, because the newspaper world is changing so rapidly and by the time we make it to the "big times," that will mean something completely different. Newspapers might not look like they do now or approach stories as they do now. A diverse and unique career approach might make a reporter more attractive, showing that she anticipates the changes at papers, can take a different approach at reaching an audience, for example.

That kind of experience is no longer "discounted." Where he once would look at an applicant and write her off is she spent time at an alternative weekly, for example, he now would be much more inclined to see what she can bring to the daily paper.

As someone conditioned to take the traditional route - and coming from a strong grad school where the pressure is on to land a job at a respected (and big) daily paper, while veering from that path gets scoffs and disappointing "maybe she can't handle a daily" head shakes - this forced me to look at it differently. Although, when I close my eyes and think of where I want to be, I can picture the buzz and chaos of a daily newsroom, there isn't just one single path to get there. I think that was the point he was trying to make. Keep trying for that job, he said, but while you are, consider a less traditional route. No longer is that likely to hurt you - and may help - in the long run, and ever-changing world of news.

He also reminded me that I am in my mid-20s and I should enjoy myself and live somewhere I am happy (which often times is not the small town in middle America with a small daily paper).

Now I wonder if other editors are thinking that way, or if I veer from the mapped out path, stepping up the stairs of circulation size, I would find myself scoffed out of the running for a job at a daily. I admit I am a little nervous about considering it and in my own snobby way don't equate other jobs with daily papers, but now have it in my mind to ask other editors I meet. What would you say if my work experience included two years at an alternative weekly or a news web-site, rather than say, the 50,000 circulation Po Dunk Daily News?

Then I have to really look at my own desires. Do I picture a daily newsroom because I really want that pace, lifestyle, pay, stress? Or do I picture it because I am supposed to, because I think that has more cred than other outlets and that I need to do that to be a "legitimate" reporter? If I love writing and reporting (truthfully more than I love news itself), do I have to be at a daily newspaper (especially considering that fewer and fewer people even read their dailies, and rather are turning to said Web sites and alternative weeklies)?

The editor told me that although newspaper jobs are tight right now, it's not a bad time to be looking for reporting jobs. It's just a different time, and you have to be open to the different paths. Again, I am back to the fact that we are given so much choice that it's often stifling.

[Sidebar: Another thing he told me was that he used to be staunch about the paper's 3 to 5 years experience requirement for hiring new reporters. He said that is beginning to relax across the industry as papers are realizing we young reporters are the ones that are often key to reaching a younger more diverse audience. Duh. Now give us jobs, people. (And in the toot-my-own-horn category...) He also said wherever I look for work, just get an interview. I come across well - passionate, experienced, eager, personable - in the interview, he said, where on paper I could get lost among candidates with more requisite years of work under their belts.]

and we even found time to squeeze in a lecture

So on Friday, I woke up too early, as usual, with a 5 p.m. deadline on a story I hadn't started, a hangover, and my friend CK sleeping on my floor.

I had every intention of having an omelet at Melrose diner and then seriously hunkering down to do this ultra-complicated story on the joys of neonatal bioethics (yikes!). But since I am easily persuaded and convinced myself I would get more done, I joined CK for a trip to an Internet cafe.

Halfway there, we ingeniously decided to instead just go to our old stomping grounds for free Internet, printer, stapler, the works.

I was feeling a little crunched for time as we giggled our way to get coffee and a cookie and meandered to what felt like every computer lab in the entire university (all occupied). But the hangover was keeping any panic about my story at bay.

We finally settle in, having successfully dodged my good ol' Econ professor and found an empty lab (save for the young man who informed us that it might a little strange but he was going to change clothes right then and there if that's OK with us.... "Oh it's not just a little strange," CK tells him, "it's a lot strange" and we proceed to talk incessantly and nervously for the next three minutes.) We are working away for a whopping 20 minutes before CK's very important appointment (hair cut), when who should walk into the computer lab? Ellen, our professor from DC, in town doing some general university brown-nosing. Ten minutes later, we had somehow agreed to speak to the new Intro class about the wonders of DC reporting. It was noon and I had barely a lede.

"But I haven't taken a shower!" CK tells Ellen. And I, eyes-swollen and feeling roughly like a pile of poop with a looming deadline and nary a clue about the complexities of neonatal ethics, was rocking a danky camo T-shirt from high school and dirty jeans. That didn't stop us. Nope. We stood up there and urged those fresh faces to surrender to the DC pull. I gave my shpiel about how I had no intention of going back to that god awful swamp, but that Ellen showed me the light it completely changed my Medill experience and my life.

We answered questions about how to find stories, what to do about housing, what our client papers were like. The wildest part was that she introduced us as alums. Yowza.

So by 12:30 we were out of there and racing to the car, just so we could sit painfully in traffic for the next 45 minutes, making CK late for her appointment and my head pound ever-so-slightly with dread, phrases like "moral consensus" and "hubris of the intelligencia" swirling around my mind. I could feel the time slipping through my fingers.

I finally got home, was visited by my muse and miraculously hammered out the story (haven't seen the edits yet, so not sure it was of the greatest caliber) and even had time for nap before heading to the airport to meet the BF.

Como se dice "holy crap I'm going to Honduras, bitches"?

It's official. I booked the flight to go to Honduras in January for a month to get my Spanish on.

Can't wait.

Now I just have to figure out how to pay for it.

I am beginning to think....

... that Harry Connick Jr.'s constant appearances from New Orleans on day time television is becoming less about raising awareness after the hurricane and more about shameless self-promotion.

... freelancing is so much more efficient than spending the day in an office. Chances are, I am spending almost as much time on stories as I did as a staffer, but less time staring at a computer screen or the fuzzy wall of a cubicle.

... that despite that, I miss the newsroom, and I find myself browsing Journalism Jobs and stalking the listings of a few newspapers.

... that my friend working in Venezuela isn't living in the safest environment in the world, but I am certain it will make him a better journalist and person.

... that it is a sad state of affairs when more Americans are overweight (55 percent)than read the newspaper (42 percent).

... that the Ten Commandments judge Roy Moore in Alabama actually has a fighting chance to be governor of that state, an ambition he just announced, which I find to be frightening.

... that I should start a love advice column because I like to act like (and think) I know what I am talking about when my friends unload to me.

... that given too many choices in life, I may never be satisfied and will live in a perpetual state of Limbo wondering if I have made the right move or what it would be like if I did something differently.

Honduras here I come?

Now that I have faced the reality of my life as an unempl - I mean, a freelance writer, at least temporarily, it is now time to make some plans. My friend Lauren called me yesterday and basically brought me back to reality - time will fly if you don't get it together, and are you in or out?

She was referring to Honduras, where she is heading in January for a Spanish language immersion program . Part of my feet-dragging on a full-time job was the possibility of either going with her or doing my own venture there or in Costa Rica (I am still really itching to go to CR, so perhaps I can roll the two into one trip?).

So I'm in. Just as the thermometer hits the negatives here in Chicago, I will be heading down to tropical Honduras to perfect my shoddy Spanish skills and breathe in the exotic life of Central America. Haven't fully budgeted for it, or really signed up yet, but as GI Joe said, "Knowing is the half the battle," ... and, well, I know I want to do it.

people are crazy ... continued

I think I might be one of those people that welcomes strange interactions with others.

Case in point: While I was at a bar the other night, I went up the bar and was pulling out a stool when I met a woman sitting next to me. I don't remember who initiated the conversation, but she said her name was Sara, I asked if she had an 'h' at the end, and she said of course not. I laughed, and said I was also Sara without an 'h' and she screamed and said, "Yay BFF." So naturally, I was like this girl is hysterical and awesome.

Then I realized she was potentially a crazy psycho stalker or perhaps just an overeager friend. Throughout the night she kept tapping my shoulder and introducing me to all her friends. I met her roommate, her roommate's boyfriend, some other dude and that guy. At one point, I heard her holler my name from across the bar. At the end of the night, I walked outside of the bar and was standing on the sidewalk when she comes bounding out of the bar. "You're leaving? But don't you want my number? Don't you want to hang out." I don't remember how I dodged it, but somehow got away... I think it was when she said something about being unemployed and hanging out all the time that I just bailed. Yikes. (Note: One of the things I love about Chicago is how nice and outgoing people are, but seriously folks, this was a little much.)

Then, the other day Mo and I were walking down Broadway when we saw a young woman on a bike get clocked by a guy opening his Jeep door. She biffed, hit the pavement, and almost the second her Schwinn 10-speed went down did the profanities begin flying from her mouth. I am too much of a lady to repeat the things she was saying (or I just don't have the space here). Yelling at the top of her lungs, shaking her fist at the man, creating an entire scene. The man asked if she was OK (she was going maybe 0.3 miles per hour and didn't even wrinkle her pants in the fall), and kind of in shock, wandered off. She continued to scream for another few minutes, sat on the curb, still cussing. People are crazy.

Random: Today I was walking down the street with Cindy when a black SUV drove by, and the passenger rolled down his window and yelled something about me looking like Winona Ryder. Who knew?

In other news, I went to see my friend Joe's band play last night and since Mo and I got special amazing privileged all-access passes that basically meant we could do whatever we wanted and spit on people while we were doing it, we got something of a glance of the rockstar lifestyle. Besides getting to drink PBR from cans in the lunch-meat-and-sweat-smelling basement of the club, we watched the headliners from a sidestage door. The best part was looking out into crowd and seeing what they see - a massive sea of sweaty teenagers pumping their fists and singing every word. I swear one guy was crying with this they-know-my-pain look on his face. Amazing. People are crazy. (And yes, I fully understand that ten years ago, I was there.) But it's strange to me as a non-rockstar that these people who, while being amazing musicians and performers, are people. Just normal, very nice people. But from the look of the pulsating crowd, these guys were gods. What a life.

Speaking of that rockstar life, it seems massively exhausting. My friend has been on the road for months on end, working his way down a list of tour cities printed on a card on his keychain. They crash on random people's floors and drive for hours in a van. My friend Joe was married two months ago and soon after left for tour and it will be four weeks until he sees his newlywed wife again.

So it made me think about how I just don't think I could do that. I don't think I could live that life and be away from the person I love. Then I realized something. I may not perform to screaming crowds of teenagers or wonder where I am sleeping that night, but I am living away from the person I love. I understand I made my bed, but you know, they say home is where the heart is. What about if you're home is somewhere (that you chose and adore and want to be) but your heart is somewhere else, in this case half way across the damn country? I do know that it doesn't matter where you are physically... but it is massively exhausting.

no longer unemployed

Well, before you get too excited.... it's not that I got a full time job. See, I have just decided to change my perspective and embrace the life I'm living.

From now on, I am a freelance writer.

None of this "I don't have a job" business. In fact, I have kept quite busy with work.

I have started calling the three square foot space in my tiny apartment where my desk and phone are "the office." Sometimes I pretend I have a secretary and that she just called off of work today.

The next step is getting business cards, which I fully intend to do.

A freelance writer. It's actually quite liberating.

a half ton

I stayed up last night watching a special on TLC about a man who weighed a half of a ton. That's more than 1,000 pounds, people. He hadn't been out of his house in seven years.

When the paramedics arrived, he was just minutes from death. He was literally suffocating himself with his fat. He couldn't roll over on his back, and if he did, he would crush his lungs under the extra weight. His skin had stretched so much that he had these pockets of tissue that had gathered and were seeping fluids onto his bedsheets. I think it was called weeping tissues.... He had blood and probably fecal matter under his finger nails.

No words can describe what he looked like and how he must have been suffering.

The doctors put him on this crash diet of 1/10 of his calories (still more than I eat in a day) to get him down to a weight that was safe enough to do a stomach-stapling surgery. After a while, he was able to roll over and sit up with help.

He was married (when he was roughly 700 pounds; the marriage was never consummated), his wife would just feed him and feed him and give him whatever he wanted. One person on the show said it was bordering on assisted suicide. She said she just didn't realize how bad it had gotten. (!!)

Well I am not really sure why I am sharing this, except that I just can't stop thinking about him. It's so sad to me that there are people like that that just can't control themselves. Allegedly they don't have some hormone or something that lets them know they are full... Combine that with today's bad eating habits and lack of exercise and you have a man who weighs a half of a ton.

a year ago

I had been living in Chicago - in an apartment alone for the first time after having shared a place with my BF and a house with four college girlfriends before that - for about a week when my oven exploded.

Exploded may be a little much. Technically, it was something of an oven blast. Call it what you will, it sent me to the hospital with third degree burns on my face.

I had just gotten home from the gym and I was cooking enchiladas. As I was sauteeing veggies in a pan on the stovetop, I preheated the oven to the bake the enchiladas for a few minutes. For the record, I hate cooking. I am bad at it, it stresses me out, and I rarely did it. When it was my turn to cook, the choices were enchiladas or ... well... that's it.

A few minutes after turning on the oven, I wasn't sure it was getting warm, and like an idiot, opened the oven door and held my face close to see if it was heating up. Upon opening the door, I was met with a massive blue fireball that whooshed out at me, directly into my face.

I half-screamed, slammed the door, and patted my face down. That's right, I f-ing had to pat my damn face down. I could smell the rancid stench of burned hair. That was part of my bangs and the tips of my eyebrows and eyelashes.

I turned off the burner and oven, threw water on my face and ran to the bathroom mirror, just in time to see a thin film of skin on my nose roll up and slide off. I put a wet towel on my face - it was beginning to hurt like hell - and proceeded to panic. I called my BF, who hundreds of miles away in New York was really helpless, and I think at one point I ran downstairs and banged on the building engineer's door.

I had no idea what to do. I was alone and hurt. Finally, I called the one friend I had in Chicago, who - thank the heavens - came over immediately and drove me about three blocks to the ER. She spent the evening there with me as my face reddened and tightened and stung. She assured me it wasn't that bad and the doctors would see me soon, and even distracted me by flirting with a ER-regular in this time for a broken wrist.

The doctor kindly told me what I knew, cleaned off the burns and gave me an antibiotic cream. It could have been so much worse, we all said, and it's true. I was immensely lucky. This was my face for chrissake, where my eyes and mouth and nose and other vital things are located. That and my dashing good looks....




Just in case, I took a bunch of pictures of the burns. Minimal, I know. In fact, I realized it wasn't the burns that were so bad, it was the recurring horror of that flame jumping from my oven directly into my face.


I suppose the gas lit and the pilot light as out. Opening a door of bottled up gas, which lit from the stove flame, sent a massive but short-lived fireball into my face. Although it was a new stove, I ordered the building engineer replace it, and after threatening to sue (I was mad the management company seemed to disregard what had happened), the company finally agreed to pay my minimal doctors bills.

A week later, the thin scabs fell from my face revealing new, pink skin. But only after days of stares and feeling ugly and uncomfortable. And as a journalist, I was surprised that none of my peers asked what happened or if I had some kind of condition. I guess the newness of school and the people overrode the curiosity of a journalist...

Today, I have no scars. My hair and eyelashes and eyebrows are back, and I even laugh about the whole incident. But about two months after it happened, I tried to bake cookies and cried the entire time. I still refuse to turn on the oven and every time I leave the apartment, I check and double check that the burners are off, even if I haven't cooked anything in days.