Okay, so I’ll skip typing out an even longer intro because my fingers are all chapped (from the wind, guttermind) and pounding out on these keys isn’t helping the situation. So, without further ado, I bring you:

A list of the things I am looking most forward to doing once my body thaws out

1. Barbequuuuues!

Nothing says summer like hot meat on a stick…man, I’m oh-for-two in trying to make this blog entry not sound it was written by a publicist for a $15 Lady of the Night/ Howard Stern. Screw it. Nothing says “summer’s almost here” like a little unintentional double entendre, am I right?

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, hot meat on a stick. Yup, still sounds good. Moving on.

2. 12 + hours of daylight For some reason I’m more productive when the sun sets past 4:30 p.m. And by “more productive,” I mean that I take the time to go and pull the shades over my windows so the sun doesn’t cast a glare on my TV during after-work reruns of “My Wife and Kids.”

3. Switching from regular coffee to iced coffee Oh wait, actually iced coffee is kind of gross after like three sips. Scratch this entry.

4. Reading Cosmo’s educational, yet topical, 2008 Guide to Summer Skin Care Which will be the exact same thing, verbatim, as the 2007, 2006 and 2005 Guides to Summer Skin Care. I don’t know about any years before that, though. I didn’t care about the state of my summer skin until 2005, when I learned that you can rub off freckles with the leaves of Sassafrass trees.*

*Not actually true.

5. Ummm, the summer Olympics?

Nothing screams summer like one billion Asians sitting in a packed stadium on a hot Beijing summer evening. Hell, throw in some hot dogs and ice cream, and that’s pretty much the definition of summer.

So that’s it. I should probably work on creating a longer list, but I’m too tired and cold to think, and sunset is fast approaching. Mazeltov.

So while I can’t fill you in on the steps to reach that golden place of mortgages, chocolate labs and financial security, I can give you a brief and handy list of things that won’t make you any older or wiser. Because for the moment I may not have a profit-sharing plan or even a yard to call my own, but I do have the following:

A list of things that won’t bring you any closer to maturity, even if you, and the rest of society, believe that they should

1. A new haircut

So you want to finally chop off that coed-style messy ponytail that continues to scream “hey everyone, I’m too hungover to properly shower before my Econ exam this morning because it was $2 shot night at (insert the name of local Irish bar here) last night and I got waaasted!,” even though you graduated college so long ago that you can’t even remember anymore where you put your diploma (hopefully not in the trunk of that car you sold for rent money a couple months back…)?

I feel you.

I mean, forget about the countless movies featuring female protagonists who cut off their hair in a quickly edited montage before turning into a practically different character altogether. What about Oprah’s mini-makeovers that always chop off the locks? Or the fact that practically every other woman of a certain age has hair cut above the ears (I’ll bet you $20 that your mom does).

But unfortunately, chopping your hair off into a “more mature” style that falls somewhere between the do’s of Dorothy Hammill and Hilary Clinton won’t stop you from acting like an idiot on Friday nights. Those shots are still $2. And you will still drink them, even if you have less hair to hold back while vomiting. Trust.

2. A new place

You would think that moving up to a larger apartment would provide more space for adult-style furniture (coffee table, anyone?), art (framed works by the masters to replace those “Breakfast Club” posters), and filing cabinets in which to place your scores of adult-like work of semi-importance.

And yet, what more space actually provides you with is more empty corners to avoid cleaning out until the dust bunnies threaten to shelter small animals, more kitchen cabinets to store your Circus Peanuts and Wheat Thins, and, well, more filing cabinets in which to place your scores of old hair ties, school pictures and other assorted junk.

3. A new ride

Actually, I don’t have one of these.

Actually, I’ve never had one of these.

Maybe this is finally the thing that will bring that ever-elusive adulthood to the fore. A new car! Of course. Why didn’t I think of this before?

Scratch all of the above. You want to know how to gain maturity? I’m betting it’s with a brand new Lexus, with its shiny exterior and satellite radio with built-in GPS system. How can a built-in GPS system not lead to adulthood? I’m a fucking genius.

I’ll let you know when I buy my new car and finally become a grown up. Or, failing that plan, I’ll just let you know when I’m heading down to McGee’s for $2 shots.

You know, either way.

I have relevant information on the topic, as I chose this past weekend, otherwise known as The First Shitty-Snow-Stormy Weekend of this Shitty-Snow-Stormy Season to occur in this Shitty-Snow-Stormy region of the country, to move from my beloved if outgrown studio apartment to a one-bedroom six blocks away. (This move, along with my switch from the “kids list” to the “adult list” in our family’s holiday gift exchange, finally, after 24 years of life, qualifies me as a real, functioning, adult member of society. Yay.)

Anyhow, take my advice below with a grain of salt. After all, I’ve only been a real adult for two days, so I may not be the best source of knowledge on the subject. Don’t tell anyone.

Moving Day Tip #1: Feed and water the troops

In one more outstanding show of adulthood, I decided to make my first parent-free move this time around (that’s not to say I didn’t ask, nay, beg my parents for help- but I think after moving me and my same 20-year-old bed frame approximately 14 times (exaggeration, slight) since my first move at 17, they have earned the right to pass on this and all future moves).

Thus, it was up to me and a few friends to take on all of the work. How do I attract such friends, you say? Well, aside from using my free time to hypnotize the type of quality people who would help someone move in the middle of a blizzard into being my friends, I tend to use bribes. Specifically, pizza and beer. Cheap? Maybe. But hey, I may be all about the bribes, but I’m also moving into a one-bedroom apartment with hissing radiator heat and tin cupboards in the kitchen. The Taj Mahal it is not. Thus, it is pizza and beer. Every little bit helps.

Moving Day Tip #2: If you are moving in the middle of a blizzard, you should probably invest in a pair of boots beforehand, and not wear slip-on loafers for ‘the convenience.’

Common sense, you say?

And you are probably right. Cut me some slack, I've only been an adult for one weekend.

Moving Day Tip #3: Big boxes are evil, and want to hurt you

Okay, here was my rationale, and my explanation, for packing all of my stuff (most of which is heavy books) into large boxes:

a.) I was choosing my boxes in the middle of an unheated, cement-floored, confusing UPS store, all by myself, after dark. In a moment of sheer desperation and panic, I just grabbed and ran. I GRABBED AND RAN. b.) I figured, bigger boxes= less trips. c.) I’m a f*cking moron.

Because, as it turns out, bigger boxes, when loaded up with books and clothes, weigh approximately 60+ pounds, and are literally impossible for one person, and very difficult for two people, to carry up three flights of stairs.

(Note: the large moving boxes actually say on them- ‘Use only for lighter objects, such as light shades and pillows,’ but I’ve never been one to follow directions written on cardboard because, as I said above under subset ‘c,’ I am a f*cking moron.)

Moving Day Tip #4: Don’t move in the middle of freaking December, on the first day of the year that Tom Skilling actually uses the words “snow storm” and seemingly laughs into your moronic face from behind the safety of his enormous, Doppler-covered green screen.

So, well, now I know that.

And now so do you.

However, after all is said and done, it was worth it all- worth all of the bruises and near-fatal ice slides and trips up and down the stairs- it was worth it all to be able to have, after two years, an actual bedroom with a door that closes. It’s all about appreciating the small things. That’s my Christmas wisdom I’m passing along for the season. I’m very wise, now that I’m an adult.

(Additional Note: I may have stolen my wisdom from Oprah.)

I mean the ‘slut’ stage of Halloween costumes, which for many of us (and here I’m talking to the ladies) begins at around freshman year of college and lasts until Question Mark. Question Mark can come at any time, and represents the age when the benefits of not freezing your ass off on the last night in October outlast the benefits of throwing on some lingerie and kitty ears and calling your costume done. In other words, Question Mark= the first stages of adult maturity.

If you have already hit that stage, then congratulations. You no longer base your self-esteem on whether or not you can pull off fishnet tights. Many of us, however (including myself), are not quite there yet (although I might have taken one step closer this year, had it not been that two-for-one sale on fishnet tights…damn you TJ Maxx and your increasing efforts to stunt my maturity!)

Anyway, for those of you still stuck in the ‘slut’ stage who are curious to know how you got to where you are, and where there is to go from here, I provide a detailed list of the Stages of Halloween Costumes Based Upon Where You Currently Stand in Your Attitude and Opinions Toward Life.

Stages of Halloween Costumes Based Upon Where You Currently Stand in Your Attitude and Opinions Toward Life

Stage one, the barely conscious stage

Chances are good that you won’t remember this primary stage in your Halloween costume development, and all you have to show for it is a few dated photos of you looking confused, wide-eyed and a little constipated in a pumpkin costume. Unable to sit up on your own, you’re most likely being propped up by a larger unseen hand in the photos, and sometimes you are fed the more disgusting versions of Halloween candy that no one who could talk would actually put near their mouths. On a sadder note, pets hardly ever leave the ‘barely conscious stage,’ and are often subjected to several rounds of Halloween outfits in which they rarely get a say.

Stage two, the competition stage

Between the years of kindergarten and seventh grade, Halloween becomes pretty intense. You plan your costume for months, you prepare your trick-or-treating route for days. You secretly laugh at the efforts of your friends in becoming ‘fairy princesses’ or ‘witches’ because your concept involving an actual picnic table, fake food and little plastic ants is so obviously awesome in comparison. (sidenote: going as a picnic table for Halloween seems clever, but can become cumbersome on long trick-or-treating routes of the neighborhood. Also, it is harder than you think to glue plastic apples to cardboard.) This is also the only stage involving contests for ‘best costume.’ Unless you are a Trekkie.

Stage three, the slut stage

As is well documented in my introductory paragraph. Variations on this theme include slutty nurse, slutty cop, slutty prison guard, slutty superhero (although many superhero costumes need little alteration to be deemed slutty anyway), slutty pop star (ditto), slutty authority figure, slutty-and-slightly-disturbing take on a childhood icon (girl scout, schoolgirl, care bear), etc. etc.

Guys generally bypass the slutty stage, and instead between stages two and four enter something called “the scene from a Will Ferrell movie” stage.

Stage four, the just take your candy and get off my damn porch stage

You will know when adulthood finally hits when you care how long trick-or treaters linger on your porch to examine their goods before moving on. Also, when you have a porch.

Stage five, the I’m so scary, every day is Halloween stage

When you’re old enough (and have amassed enough cats or snakes), you will have the power to scare neighborhood children on every day of the year, and not just on Halloween. This is the final stage of Halloween costumes- the stage in which they become unnecessary. Sometimes this stage is followed directly by stage one again, and the Stage of Halloween Costumes gets bumped to the Cycle of Halloween Costumes.

Now if you’ll excuse me, this has been fun and all, but I have a costume made entirely of fishnet stockings to squeeze into.

Happy Halloween.

Of course you do! And the answer, for those of you not in the know (i.e., everyone but me), is the Museum of Contemporary Art located at the East end of the lovely Chicago Avenue.

In my never-ending quest to find cheap and/or free things to do to occupy my time and appease my short attention span in this city, I took a Tuesday afternoon trip to the MCA to take advantage of their 40 free-to-the-public days (available through Nov. 14).

On display was the Sympathy for the Devil Rock n’ Roll exhibit, which may or may not have made any sense to anyone other than the clearly self-important artists who contributed (or maybe I’m just bitter because I’m a little too art-dumb to appreciate the brilliance of blown-up record covers or a bunch of silver tinsel hanging from a corner to represent “The U.K.”)

But my museum visiting experience was instantly enhanced when I heard a familiar voice just beside my shoulder…a voice that is entirely unmistakable…a voice like no other voice in the world….a voice belonging to The Nanny herself. And although she was fitted in a baseball cap to hide her face, I got a good peek while she was examining a pile of free Neil Young posters on the middle of the floor, and there was no mistake. The Nanny was in the house.

In addition to the awesomeness that was running into The Fran (my second celebrity encounter, only slightly topping the moment I met Harry Carey- at Harry Carey’s restaurant- when I was ten), I also participated in a game of Bingo Tango in the museum, and won. Twice.

I know this may not be a big deal to many of you, but bingo and I have kind of a love/hate backstory. In college, my roommate and I bought our own bingo markers and sat beside the oxygen-sucking geriatrics at Soaring Eagle Casino and Resort to participate in an exciting round of B-I-N-G-O. And I never won, not once. I always assumed that the extremely elderly and paraplegic had absorbed all the luck in the world, but at the MCA, my fortunes changed.

Not only was I the first winner for Bingo Tango (another free event held at the museum), but I was also the second winner as well! And if I can win, trust me, anyone can.

So you see? Any day in the city can be an adventure if you just get outside once in a while and see what’s out there. Now excuse, me I have to go watch four hours of netflixed Ugly Betty and then stare at my walls for awhile.

Strangely, the Hades-like experience I voluntarily put myself through was free of fire, brimstone and pitchforks. But it was chock full of farm animals, stripper poles, bald women and loud chants. And what were those chants? I’m sure by now you must have guessed:

“Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!”

That’s right- after living in this city for nearly two years I finally decided to participate in one of its most culturally celebrated rites- sitting in the audience of a Jerry Springer show.

And while there I saw things I’ve never seen before, both terrible and great. My eyes were bushwhacked open, and I don’t think I can ever close them to the underbelly of America again.

I know it’s my job to try and relay my experience and communicate it to you all, but honestly, there’s just no explaining any of the events that occurred that evening in any logical or comprehensive way. Here then, in chronological order, is a list of things I saw. I will preface this list by saying that I made nothing up- everything here did, in fact, occur. Draw from these images what you will:

• Picture a stage, a familiar stage, one set up with fake plastic chairs and put against a slightly industrial-looking plastic background with a giant whirring fan and a green metal balcony. On this stage sits a woman named Jenna who has already flashed the audience her middle-aged boobs twice before the first commercial break. Jenna is having her full head of hair shaved off by a skinny man in overalls- her husband- in exchange for his promise to pay more attention to her than to his beloved sheep, who also shares the stage. When Jenna is completely bald, she gets down on her hands and knees and ‘baaaas’ to her husband’s delight.
• Onstage is a woman in her early 20’s, who after proudly admitting that she is a stripper gets up to take off her surprisingly modest summer dress and parade around naked before the audience before attempting to (badly) shimmy up a stripper pole. The stripper then introduces her 50-year-old mild-mannered boyfriend with a carpet fetish and admonishes him for trying to turn her on to the wonders of carpet love before leaving him (forever?), apparently for Steve, Jerry Springer’s Audio Guy.
• An older black woman with a yellow cardigan sweater sits in the audience with her daughter. “Jerry!” she yells during the audience participation time. “I love you so much, I came all the way from Lincoln Heights with my daughter and I want my Jerry beads!” She then proceeds to lift her shirt and show her goods to Jerry, the camera crew, the audience and the nation, a smile lighting up her face, and the face of her daughter sitting next to her.
• Throughout the entire show, a gentleman with the hair and mannerisms of Fabio, but the body of half that man (literally, there was nothing going on below the torso) wandered around in front of the stage, climbed the stairs with his arms and at one point gently caressed the farm couple’s sheep. Explanation given for this individual’s silent presence throughout the entire show? None.

“Oh Kim,” I say to my friend next to me, “I’m going to have sooo many nightmares tonight.”

But despite the surreal, scary, indescribable events that took place during my (in total) four hour Jerry experience, there is no denying the scariest fact of all- I had fun. It may have been due to my delirious state (after standing in line for three hours to see the show, we were starving, tired, and not just a little slap happy), but at some point in time I stopped fighting my natural instincts and let the Jerry spirit wash over me.

I chanted. I hollered. I pumped my fist every time the slightly angry man with the microphone standing in the corner told me to. I booed. I awwwwed. I strained my neck to see the three rounds of fistfights. I wore my voice raw. I participated in the basest level of American culture.

And I loved it. And so would you.

And that’s why Jerry has such a smug smile on his face whenever you see him pop across your daytime screen. It’s the reason he can get away with all the stripper-baiting and bad puns. The reason that he can drop an American flag down on his set in between half-naked fist fights and farm animal fondling. He’s Jerry Springer, and he can do anything he damn well pleases. And we’ll eat it up.

Because call it base, call it classless, call it fake, call it whatever you want. Every single person in that audience was having a genuinely good time. In the end, we all want to get swept along in the non-thinking, barely-legal, fist-pumping good time that Jerry provides.

That’s what makes America great.

And possibly hell, too.