Kids are so stupid. Or maybe it was just me.

You know how sometimes you just want kids to go away so you can have an adult conversation without worrying about saying anything bad?

Well, apparently, it's not very effective to say, "GET AWAY FROM ME, CHILD." It requires more creativity.

For my own parents, they used to tell me that it was time for "grown-up talk."

And can I tell you something?

I seriously thought they were speaking in a different language.

I KNOW, how idiotic. But when they used words like government, stock market, Reagan, Rain Man, mullet and assholes, I had no idea what they were saying. The only logical conclusion was that this mysterious grown-up talk was a new foreign language that I wouldn't learn until I was older.

I remember hiding out in the bathroom near our living room once, just hovering by the door trying to see if I could make out any of the words my parents were saying. Maybe I could teach myself some of this new language before I was a grown-up. I got caught and was sent back to my room to play with my brother and sister. (I think that's when I started grasping the concept of GOD DAMMIT.)

Anyway, I tell you this because it's important for you to know that little kids are stupid and will believe anything you tell them. So take advantage of this now, for as long as you can. Go forth and be a grown-up.

A rare dose of vulnerability

I'm over here tonight.

A heavier post for this blog, but it's a post nonetheless. Maybe read it when you're drunk. Either way, read it while you can, since I might remove this later when I'm not in such a somber mood.

Things I remember from my childhood

I grew up in Connecticut in a tiny house that was 980 square feet upstairs along with five people and one shower. Add to the mix three crazy kids, two parakeets, a busy dad and a weird, hippy mother, and, well, things get interesting. Here are a few random things I remember about growing up...


Only being allowed to wear shorts if it was 70 degrees outside.
Because my siblings and I were maniacs who wanted to wear shorts in the winter, my parents came up with a rule that we could only wear shorts if it was 70 degrees outside. Once spring arrived, I would run to my dresser, pull out my shorts, thrust them at my mother and demand that she tell me the temperature outside. "Um, 65 degrees," she'd lie. I would be devastated.

Praying for snow days.
It snowed a lot in CT, but that rarely meant we'd have a snow day. Whenever we'd wake up to a blanket of snow on the ground, we'd run into the kitchen, turn on the radio and listen for our school to be called during cancellation announcements. It was a tense, tense moment. Once, when it was obviously a snow day, I bypassed the radio, ran into my mom's room while she slept and yelled, "MOM, IS IT A SNOW DAY?" She responded (mumbling), "Does a bear poop in the woods?" I was silent. I think it does, but what do I know? I'm only 7 and I don't know any bears or live near any woods. What if they don't? Should I run and get my shorts on, just to be safe? Seeing my hesitation, my mom said, "Yes, honey, it's canceled." WOO HOO!

Letting our parakeets fly around the house.
We had two parakeets when we grew up and on the weekends, we would occasionally let them fly around the living room for 15 minutes for exercise. It was the most terrifying thing ever. I would hide under the coffee table because I didn't want those little fuckers landing on me.

Watching football every Sunday while eating nachos.
Every Sunday, my mom would make nachos and we'd all go downstairs into our finished basement to watch football in front of the fireplace. I had no idea what was going on, nor did I care. There were nachos to be eaten and that's all that mattered to me. (This is still my attitude towards football today. Sorry, Dad.)

Our "gym room."
On the other side of our basement was an area we called "the gym room." Because I was in gymnastics and had way too much energy, my parents put 3 old mattresses up in the basement corner -- two standing on their sides as cushions against the wall and one lying flat on the ground. They hung a knotted rope and a swinging bar-thing, and I would go down there, tie those two items together so they were out of my way and flip all over the place like a spaz. On a related note, my sister once climbed to the top of the rope and could not figure out how to get down. I laughed hysterically instead of getting her help, but eventually had to call my mom to come carry her down before the kid had a heart attack.

Getting lectured by my dad. Constantly.
This may surprise you, but I was a total shit growing up. I was really mouthy and obnoxious, so I was always getting in trouble and being told to go to my room. What I hated most about that was I knew that my dad would eventually come into my room and lecture me on the exact same topic, every single time. "Elle, you have to think before you speak." Think-before-you-speak speech was burned into my head from a young age. Sometimes I still forget to do that...

Riding in the "back back" of my mom's car.
My mom had a powder blue Mercury Sable station wagon whose trunk converted into extra seating -- seating that faced the opposite direction in which the car traveled. That's right. We were those freaky kids who would sometimes sit in the "back back" and stare at the drivers behind us as they uncomfortably looked everywhere but directly at us.



Ahh, family memories.

I'm not going home for Thanksgiving this year (heading to Cleveland -- and hanging out with Ang and Alexa while there), but that doesn't mean I won't be thinking about the fam. Now that my siblings and I no longer want to murder each other, it's actually fun being home... Miss you guys, and I'll see you around Christmas! (And my birthday... *cough* *cough*)

Stupid kids are happy kids

There was a thing on the Today Show last week about giving growth hormones to perfectly healthy but relatively small children. As someone who was definitely a small child (and, yeah, a small adult), I thought, "What the shit, where was this when I was being called a 'shrimp' on the bus?"

I then realized that I don't have much memory of getting picked on. I believe this is because I've either blocked out any of those memories or because I was too dense to know when I was being insulted. The "shrimp" story is a perfect example...

When I was in first grade, I took the bus to school with all of the other kids. The scariest kids on our bus were the Big Bad Third Graders.

I grew up knowing I was a lot smaller than the other kids, but my mom always told me that "good things come in small packages." Not only was I comfortable with this characterization, I'm pretty sure I walked around with an inflated ego actually thinking my height made me better than my taller peers.

The Big Bad Third Graders disagreed.

One afternoon, I was boarding the bus after school, patiently waiting my turn in the line as we all shuffled ourselves (and our Jansport backpacks) onto the bus. Out of nowhere, two third grade boys ran up JUST as it was my turn to hurl my tiny self from the curb to that first step.

"Outta my way, shrimp," one growled at me. The other laughed as they pushed past me.

Huh?

Shrimp?

I had no idea why he would say that to me, so I decided that he was just stupid and shrugged it off. But I couldn't help asking my mom about it when I got home.

"Mom, what's 'shrimp' mean?" I asked her.

"'Shrimp?'" she repeated, a little confused. "Well, honey, you know a shrimp is a little creature that lives in the water --"

"Yeah, but what does it mean?" I implored.

"That's what it means..." she trailed off, studying my face, probably wondering if I needed to go to "special" classes.

"No, I mean if someone says it to you," I continued.

Her expression changed. And no, she wasn't going into Protective Mommy Mode. She looked a little amused. "Did someone call you a shrimp?" she asked, trying to hide a smile.

"Yes," I answered. "And I do not know why because I do NOT live in the water."

At this point, my mother burst out laughing. Not because what I said was funny, but because she apparently found this entire scenario hilarious.

"Oh, hon! A shrimp is very small, so he was calling you that because you're small too," she explained.

"Yeah, I am small. So why did he say it all mean-like and why did the other boy laugh?"

That's when my mom had to carefully explain that I was being insulted. Whatever she ended up saying must have been great because I still chalked the whole thing up to the boy being a moron.

Ignorance really is bliss, huh?

Driving and I don't get along

I'm going to St. Louis tomorrow for a wedding and we're driving. Let me clarify: I'm driving. I do not drive. This is going to be interesting.

I was never really anti-driving until I moved to Chicago, where I'd rather risk my life as a pedestrian than get swerved into by cabs or be responsible for vehicular homicide.

Prior to that, I loved driving. Mostly because I lived in a suburb of Memphis and there wasn't much else to do besides drive up to the mall, flirt with other drivers, speed away from them once they think you're interested and giggle a lot while listening to Christina Aguilera before her tragic dependence on bright red lipstick. Come on over, coooome on over, baby. (God DAMMIT, now that song's in my head.)

It wasn't ALL fun and flirting though. There was this one little car accident... Let's flashback, shall we?


My Six-Car Collision

When I was 17, I drove my brother and his friends to school because they were way too cool for the bus and would much rather be seen in a beat-up 1988 Mitsubishi Galant for reasons that are still unclear to me. That fateful morning as we pulled into the parking lot, I saw some bat-shit crazy girl flying around in her equally crappy sedan.

"Oh, that bitch is gonna HIT someone," I said.

I know. I'm prophetic like that. Didn't quite understand the full irony of that statement until 7 hours later when we were leaving school.

The boys and I piled into the Mitsu and joined the clusterfuck of cars driving down the main road. We were listening to music (probably, like, Staind or something) when the road opened up for a minute and we all got to drive a little faster.

Funny thing about driving in heavy traffic is that when you speed up really quickly, you usually have to stop really quickly too.

So, the light changes colors and the first car slams on his brakes. Stupid. He was practically through the light. So that causes the car behind him -- a friend of mine -- to slam on her brakes. The next car slammed on her brakes, I hit mine, the car behind me hit hers and the SUV behind her was able to stop as well. We were all okay and hadn't hit each other, but it's pretty scary to see the cars behind you FLYING AT FULL FUCKING SPEED.

The SUV behind the last girl who stopped hit her and she hit me. Only a bump.

"What the...?" I said. "Were we just in an acc--"

SLAM.

Yes. We were all hit again. By that bat-shit crazy idiot who I noticed that very morning. Apparently, because she was behind the SUV (um, and has no depth perception?) she didn't realize how quickly she needed to stop and she just plowed right into us. We all hit each other, minus the one jackass who hit his brakes in the first place. Again, irony.

All in all, it was a mess, but no one was hurt. And yes, the guys couldn't stop talking about how this six-car collision had six female drivers. Though I liked to point out that the ONE guy is the one who started this whole thing. Jerk.



And there you have it. It wasn't as traumatic as it was memorable, but I still prefer not to drive. We just don't get along anymore.

But, with Dave having to study for something during the drive, I will be my responsibility not to kill us on the road. So, in accordance with that goal, I will be making Dave drive us out of the city in the morning and I will not get behind the wheel until we are safely on 55-S.

Wish me luck!

My future, all on paper

Along with my obsession with crime shows, I also have an obsession with psychics. Shows like Ghost Whisperer, psychics like Sylvia Browne, people like those creepy mini-psychics from Children of the Paranormal. All of it. So, as you can imagine, I further indulged this interest once and actually visited a psychic myself.

I bring this up now because as I was packing up my apartment this weekend, I came across a sheet of paper with a lot of random things written on it. I stared for a second, but soon realized it was my notes from this psychic venture. Yep, everything she told me, I wrote down.

I also remember parts of it pretty well...

I was in college and my roommate had a friend who swore by this one psychic. Roommate and friend were going to visit this woman, and did I want to go too? Sure, why the hell not.

We each went one by one into the basement. (It sounds creepier than it was.) When it was my turn, I clutched my crisp white sheet of paper and my black pen as I gingerly tip toed down the stairs, trying not to fall on my ass.

"I've read you before."

Huh?

"I've read you before, haven't I," the psychic said, as soon as I walked in. It wasn't a question.

"Um, no, actually, I've NEVER been read before," I laughed nervously.

Got off to a good start, wouldn't you say?

I don't remember the actual course of the conversation, but here's how her predictions seemed to play out.


THINGS THE PSYCHIC GOT RIGHT

• In regards to my love life, the number 9 enters very strongly. (I got married in September.)
• Illinois would be very important in my life.
• There will be a female in my husband's family that I'll really like.
• I will wear an expensive ring on my finger.
• My sister will have some big changes happening. (I'm thinking it was the whole rehab thing, not the whole "I'm dying my hair PINK" thing.)
  

THINGS THE PSYCHIC MIGHT GET RIGHT

• The name James will be very important in my life.
• My husband's success will be powerful and he'll be in business.
  
• My health will be fine and I'll live a long life.
• I'll have 2 kids of the same sex and they'll go to private school.
• Our household income will be $160-185k.
  
• I'll have 4 houses in my lifetime, none of them in Missouri and one will have a pond out back.
• A brightly colored car is important. (Um, flashy-much?)
  
• My dad has changes with a 4.
• The name Terry matters, something about his signature on paper being significant.
• I'll be getting a $2,000 check (which one of you hasn't paid up?)
  

THINGS THE PSYCHIC GOT WAY, WAY WRONG

• I would be proposed to within 7-10 months of this meeting. (Try 4 years.)
• I would own my own law firm. (Um, I may have accidentally let it slip that I was going to law school. She just fed off that. My bad.)
• I would have a big wedding, maybe outside.
• My dad wouldn't agree with my next big move.
  

Apparently, the psychic mistook me for a rich, flashy, snotty, eager-to-marry co-ed.

Fun, huh? I'd totally go to another one.

My run-in with Stone Cold

I just walked home from work during which I told a cabbie to fuck off once again (why, oh, WHY do they insist on playing "hit the pedestrian"?), so I'm in another one of my belligerent states. With that in mind, I thought there was no better story to tell than the one where I had a little, tiny run-in with Stone Cold Steve Austin. I *may* have pushed him.

For the record, this is yet another airport story, albeit one with less vomit.

So I was at the Memphis airport with my family many years ago, traveling to God-knows-where for God-knows-what reason. At the gate, my brother and dad practically burst into a fit of hysterics when they saw none other than....

COREY B. TROTZ

If you've never lived in Memphis, you have no idea who he is, nor should you care. He's just a shiesty looking lawyer with unintentionally hilarious TV commercials where he used to call himself "the heavy hitter." In reality, he's a little sprig of a man not completely unlike a narrow-faced Bill Gates.

So my brother and dad get faux-starstruck and start reciting those commercials in full-on mockery when my brother stops entirely and stares at someone else.

He nudges me. "Is that Stone Cold?"

"What's a Stone Cold?" I ask.

"You know. Stone Cold Steve Austin. The wrestler."

"Ohhh, bald guy. Yeah, I think so."

"Shit, it's totally him!"

Stone Cold was on the same flight as us. That's probably the closest I've every been to a "celebrity." Actually, I lie. I met Ereka Vetrini once (adorable girl from the Apprentice, hosted a talk show) and she patted my head and played with my hair for a second while calling me "little." She was wasted. But, then again, so was I. Anyway, I digress.

I wasn't paying attention, but apparently, our two celebrities board the plane before the rest of us commonfolk. And then it's our turn. Well, apparently, SC -- see what I did there? -- did not have enough time to load his shit into the overhead bin. I was the first person walking towards him. He was taking his sweet-ass time, I wanted to sit. I mean, he was holding up the whole plane. Clearly, we had an issue.

So, being small, I figure I can squeak by. I walk right past him and, inadvertently, throw 'bows. And I may or may not have given a slight... VERY slight push. I did not think much of this, but as soon as we sit down, I see my brother gaping at me.

"What?" I ask.

"Did you just push Stone Cold Steve Austin?"

I shrug. "I may have bumped him."

"No, you pushed! What's wrong with you?"

"He was in the way!"

"You're ridiculous."

That I am, little bro. But it makes for a silly little story to tell, no?

Happy Belated Birthday Moe-Moe

Yay, Moe is 4!


This is definitely a belated birthday post, but none of us have any idea when you were actually born, Moe. Unlike my baby princess, Monty... her birthday is January 23. Aw, Monty. So perfect...



But what about you, Moe? No clue when you were actually born, you little maniac. We think it was at the end of June, but who knows.




In honor of Moe's 4th birthday, whenever it really was, here's how he came to our family and the reason why we don't know his exact birthday...

Back in 2004, my lovely sister (who may or may not read this) was working at a vet's office in Memphis. Dave and I came in town for the 4th of July to celebrate with the fam. At some point early in the weekend, I was driving Dave and my grandma over to my parents' house when my sister called. This was our conversation:


Me: What up.

Carrie: I'm bringing a dog home.

Me: We already have a dog. What do you mean, you're bringing one home?

Grandma: What's happening?

Me: Hang on, Grandma.

Carrie: There's this tiny black puppy at the vet and Doc is out of town all weekend and the puppy is too young and sick to stay there alone. So, do you think mom will mind if we keep him for the weekend?

Me: Um, yes. She'll flip her shit. You know how she is with puppies. She'll want to keep him and send him back all at the same time. It's a very schizophrenic phenomenon.

Carrie: I'm kinda hoping we do keep him. He's adorable.

Me: You can give him to Grandma...

Grandma: Don't give anything to Grandma! What's happening?

Me: Carrie got you a dog.

Carrie: No, I want to keep him myself!

Grandma: I don't want a dog!

Me: This is too easy.


So, we return home to see my mom cradling this tiny black fur ball. He was so sick, he wasn't moving very much and he was very weak. We could tell he was the most loving little thing, despite his fragile condition.


We named him Moe because he was so mopey. (We're a very creative bunch.) Little Moe was apparently abandoned in the ghettos of Memphis and found, near-death, by a police officer who brought the pup to his church. A woman at his church brought Moe to the vet's office and my sister scooped him up and took him home.

So, we ended up keeping him. Naturally.




And here's a story about how we discovered what kind of dog he was...

My mom and I were at PetSmart picking up dog stuff for Moe. As he grew, his features become more distinct and less generic-black-dog. But we still couldn't figure out exactly what he was. So, at PetSmart, I wander over to a rack of "Breeds for Dummies" books.


Me: Ma, come here. I think I found Moe.

Mom: Oh my God! I've been dying to know what he is! Let me see the picture. Oh, wow! That's definitely him. What breed is it?

Me: Okay, but don't curse.

Mom: Why would I cu---

I flip over the book.

Pit Bulls for Dummies.

Mom: Oh, what the fuck. Goddamn it. Fucking shit.

Me: Well done.


So there you have it. We accidentally adopted a Pit Bull. He is the sweetest, most loving dog ever. He doesn't stop giving kisses (annoying), he cuddles when it's bedtime (adorable) and he lets me use him as a pillow without squirming or anything (awesome). He's still kind of a shithead sometimes, but I think it's because he's a boy. Go figure.

Happy birthday, you little shit.

According to my birth control...

...my life has gotten boring. Okay, "boring" isn't the right word. And this post isn't going where you think it's going, so get your mind out of the gutter.

I'm actually talking about when I take my birth control. The time. Specifically, the evolution of that time.

When I was in college, choosing a time to take the pill was tough. A good friend of mine always took hers at noon -- in class or not. Like clockwork, I'd hear the familiar snap of the pill pack switching to the next available pill as she quickly popped it into her hand and slipped it into her mouth. I wasn't nearly as stealth in my maneuvers; I was much more awkward about it. So taking it at noon wasn't a good option for me. Too many people around, too much fumbling.

I thought about taking it in the morning, but with the typically college schedule, there's no WAY that would be consistent enough to be effective.

I also thought about taking it before bed, but that was even more inconsistent. Mondays and Tuesdays, I'd be in bed by midnight, Wednesdays were closer to 3am (thanks to Penny Pitchers), Thursdays were 11pm and the weekend was all over the place.

So I came up with a fool-proof time: 7pm. It was just a little too early for dinner, so I probably wouldn't have to bust it out during appetizers, and it was late enough that classes were definitely over. I was never asleep at 7pm for any reason either. It fit within my fun, busy life. It was perfect.

Fast forward five years. I now take my pill between 10 and 11 at night. Why? Because that's when I go to bed. Pretty consistently. What the heck happened? I'm still young! I live in a city! I'm actually making money! Shouldn't life be even crazier now?

It's not. Even when I do go out and I forget to take it, there's a really good chance I'll be back at my apartment and in bed by 1am anyway. So even though it's a little later than usual, it's still within a two-hour window.

Is that really sad? I feel like it is, in theory. But, deep down, I don't mind. I'm much more of a happy-hour drinker than a late-night drinker nowadays. I've got no problem getting tanked at 6pm while it's still light out -- in fact, I prefer it, because I can eat dinner at 9 and still pass out by 10, giving myself plenty of sleep before work in the morning. Besides, in Chicago, there's nothing better than sharing a half-priced bottle of wine out in the sun on the bar's patio as the day winds down. It's heaven.

So maybe it's not such a bad thing that my birth control schedule has shifted. That's life, right? Maybe it's a sign that I've grown up. Moved on. Become a responsible, working adult. The only other explanation is that I've become more boring, so I'm going to do what any reasonable twenty-something does when faced with undesirable logic: deflect and ignore.

Happy hour, here I come!

Gymnastics, then and now

Sometimes I really miss gymnastics. I don't really miss the 20-hour-a-week workouts, the long traveling to competitions every weekend, the blistered hands, the pressure from coaches and judges, the injuries... But I do miss having something that I was so fiercely proud of, something that I was so dedicated to that I didn't even flinch at the intense physical challenges it required. Yeah, me -- physically active.

So, I watched the US Gymnastics Championships today. No matter how long it's been since I've stretched or done a cartwheel, I still love watching gymnastics (not that rhythmic shit where they dance around with ribbons, but the real stuff). But I still can't believe how so much about it has changed! Here are just a few differences I notice between my competition days and the gymnastics we see today...

---------

THEN: The vault was nothing more than a rectangular horse with two metal poles supporting it. Not the safest-looking apparatus.










NOW: The vault is padded, angled and redesigned to prevent injuries.

---------

THEN: A perfect score was 10.0.








NOW: I don't even understand this ridic scoring process. They can get 15 now...? And all-around scores are in the triple digits?

---------

THEN: Dominique Moceanu

















NOW: Shawn Johnson

---------

THEN: Warm-up uniforms were crinkly, baggy, way-too-big windbreaker-type outfits that looked like they came from Stein Mart. One on Long Island.








NOW: Warm-up uniforms are fitted, sleek tracksuits that look like some Nike-Juicy hybrid, albeit a slightly shiny one.

---------

THEN: Tim Daggett and Elfi Schelgel doing commentary.










NOW: Tim Daggett and Elfi Schlegel doing commentary. (Some things never change.)

No biting

When I was little, I bit my mom. Allegedly.

Okay, fine, I'm sure I DID actually bite her, but that's not the point of this blog. The point is what she did in retaliation: She bit me back.

Taught me a lesson! I'm told I never pulled that little stunt again.

But apparently, some mom in Tennessee (coincidence) tried the same tactic and got slapped with a big ol' charge of child neglect. You hear that, Mom?? She was arrested.





Some moms in the blogosphere are aghast. The more forgiving ones politely suggest anger management. I'm guessing my mom would give her a high five. Or a gestured teeth-chomp in a symbolic act of twisted solidarity.

I'm still the same jackass I was six months ago

A flashback from a post I wrote a while ago about moving from the Loop to River North

=========

Bums Vs. Tourists
Living in the heart of the Loop has its benefits: easy access to every single train line, easy access to cabs, traveling in the opposite direction of rush hour every day... OK, it looks like that's it. Overall, living downtown kinda sucks. The whole place shuts down at 6pm, those super close trains are super loud, rent is ridiculously high while amenities are low, the Walgreens pharmacy isn't open on Sundays and (my favorite) the bums are numerous.

I've stepped over sleeping (dead?) bums when I've gotten off the train, I've been followed up State Street by relentless lunatics, I've been harassed for change outside my building, I've watched bums steal Bud Light from the 7-11, I've been yelled at by schizophrenics... the list goes on.

And THAT is one main reason why we're moving. That, plus we can get more for our money a mile or two away in River North. And while this new neighborhood of ours in River North doesn't have nearly as many bums, it does have something else.

Tourists.

I would hate to run into someone like me if I were a tourist. I'm impatient, snotty and quick to judge. I roll my eyes when they don't know when to cross the street; I scowl when they get on the train and linger in front of the doors; I cringe at their fanny packs and oversize t-shirts; I sigh when they don't know how to use their CTA cards on the bus; I marvel at their lack of fashion sense.



So I've been asking myself, what's worse? Tourists or bums? Would I rather get asked for money or asked for directions? I can't give out either, so maybe that doesn't matter.

I know I'll miss the convenience of the Loop and the fact that tourists rarely venture into my part of it. But in the end, I wouldn't worry about a tourist stumbling in my path, stinking of booze, grabbing my purse and galumphing away while slurring obscenities at the parked cars.

So I'm going to try to be more tolerant of tourists. That, or I'll just make sure I have a good wine buzz 24/7. I'm a lot nicer when I'm drunk.