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.

I have forgotten, however, that central Michigan used to hold another place in my mind/heart- as the location of a hippie-fueled folk music festival that my friends and I have attended sporadically since high school. If you’ve never been, Wheatland Music Festival is held every September in Remus, Mich., located on just two miles of dirt road off M66, right before the only gas station in the county still charging only $3.19 a gallon.

Wheatland is a world unto itself, with its own laws (non-organic meat=bad, organic herbs=good), class systems (from the RV’d families in ‘quiet camping’ zone to the rowdy bunch of ramshackle tents in the back) and greetings (‘Happy Wheatland!!!!!’ and, “Pass it to the left.”)

And what I found there, as always, was a return to the hippie part of my soul, the part that reached its climax when I bought a used acoustic guitar at 16 and learned to play “Blowin’ in the Wind,” while wearing Wet Seal bandanas and prairie shirts, the part that continues to fall off a little more with each day I spend in the cracked-sidewalk glory of the city.

So, just in case I lose that little bit of myself in the year that passes between this September and next, I’d like to write down a few of the things some hippies have taught me at Wheatland, and, of course, share them with all three of you reading this now (unless you fixed your Internets, Dad, in which case let’s make that four).

There is NEVER an inappropriate time for tie-die

Or an inappropriate place on which to wear it, for that matter.

Make your neighbors your friends

Especially if they had the foresight to bring plastic cups for 9 a.m. Bloody Marys, and you did not.

Grass=good

It’s always recommended to prop your tent up in a grassy area so you can have some padding as you sleep.

Why, what did you think I was talking about?

Rules? Where we’re going, we don’t need rules.

10 a.m.? Time for a beer. 4 a.m.? Time for an impromptu drum session. Because in the land of the hippies (also known as patchouli-smelling heaven), no time is the wrong time for anything your bearded little heart desires. Except for lighting fires. Apparently, even hippies frown on lighting fires when surrounded by 200 yards of dry pine needles.

Ah, I’m getting nostalgic about my two-and-a-half days in the wilderness already. Part of me wishes I could live there forever, only with running showers. And heat. And cable TV. And maybe a mini mall around the corner where I could buy Starbucks and a wireless Internet connection so I could download some iTunes…

Yep, lost it again.

For further example:

Etiquette for airplanes: Don’t bring any greasy, messy, or otherwise smelly fast-food items onto the aircraft with you. No one wants the lingering aroma of a Whopper circulating the air systems for an eight-hour flight.

Etiquette for dinner parties: Never arrive empty handed. Whether you bring wine or jenga, be prepared to add to the party in some way (no, your sparkling conversational skills don’t count).

And yet I think there is one form of life etiquette that has yet to be understood and put into practice by humanity as a whole. At least, it has in my most recent experiences. Buckle up, boys and girls, because I’m about to lay down a crash course in- aren’t you excited- Concert Etiquette.

Rule #1 Don’t get so drunk that you forget who’s standing next to you, or who’s playing onstage, or where you are…

I understand that drinking is an acceptable social norm at concerts, and hey, I’ve even on occasion had my music-listening experience elevated by a cocktail or two. But try to remember when you’re slugging ‘em down that other ticket-carrying music lovers may not want to stand four inches from your beery breath, let alone act as the human prop that keeps you from collapsing to the floor. Be especially careful of this at all-day outdoor musical events, where the beer is usually flowing for $7.00 per plastic cup.

Yes, this rule is directed at you, large drunken man who clotheslined me to the ground during the Ben Harper show at Lollapalooza. I haven’t forgotten.

Rule #2 Don’t light up, Johnny

The crowded area in front of the stage is no place for fire of any kind. People are hot and sweaty, and the last thing they need is a cloud of hot toxic carcinogens floating around them. Plus, lit cigarettes are just unwise in an area that nixes any form of personal space. Yes, I know my $12.99 JCPenny sweater is nothing to brag about, but it certainly won’t be improved by an eraser-sized cigarette burn in the elbow.

Rule #3Try to stem any obnoxious impulses that may arise in your liquor-filled head before being hurled out of your mouth at top volume

Case in point: Whatever genius kept yelling “We want Vinny Chase!!!!!” over and over and over during The Honey Brothers’ set at Enclave this past spring. Yes, it’s Adrian Grenier’s band. Thanks for pointing it out, I’m sure no one in the crowd knew that fact before you contributed your clever observations. I’m sure Grenier himself hasn’t even heard that one before. Good for you.

Wow, these etiquette rules turned out to be a lot more bitter than I had anticipated. I guess I’ve just had one too many beers spilled down the front of my dress while trying to listen to the soothing sounds of a guitar solo.

Let’s keep it clean, people.

Man, f*ck that.

The end.

Even my unofficial life guides, the John Hughes-esque coming of age movies, music and novels from the mid-80s period, aren’t really as true to life as I’d like. At least, none of my poignant life moments have ever been scored to appropriately awesome music, and certainly none of them ever ended with Jake Ryan and a dozen birthday candles…. real life moments, it seems, are a little rougher around the edges. And real growth is even harder to come by.

There’s really only the ability to make mistakes and learn from them the hard way, which was actually the whole basic premise of my blog in the first place.

But I’ve been thinking lately that it might be possible to take a time out. A time out from the mistakes, a time out from the slow, torturous process of growth (or lack thereof). And since I can’t really take a time out from work (because then how would I keep myself in air-conditioned, hot-pocket-filled bliss?), or friends or family- there’s really only one messy, complicated area left.

That’s right fellas- for the next 30 days, I’m officially off the market (if you listen really closely, you can hear the sound of one person caring).

No, but seriously- think how much easier, how much cleaner and less complicated life would be for 30 days without any dates or crushes or texts or boys at bars- without even any thoughts about men. Just imagine all that extra energy you’d have to focus on work or watching good movies or learning Cantonese. Hell, I might finally have the focus to reorganize my coat closet.

Don’t mock me. I’m seriously excited about this. One month free- free from mistakes, free from fear, free from listening to sad, lovesick singer/songwriters on my iPod. I think it will be amazing.

My friend Kim disagrees. She says that you can’t shut yourself off from the possibility of meeting someone decent, not even for 30 days. She says you never know when something might be just around the corner, and you can’t walk away from that just because you’ve imposed an arbitrary ban on yourself. My friend Erica would say the same- that life is about going with the flow, being open to opportunities. My friend Daina laughs and says I’ll cave within 5 days.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe they’re all right. Maybe one too many bad dates on top of all this summer heat has gone to my head. But, like this as in like everything else, I’ll just have to try it for myself, and then learn the hard way.

Don’t worry- I’ll keep you posted.

Let the boy ban begin.

Well, yes, according to my newest hypothesis/life theory of the day: Classy is the watchword.

A few weeks ago, I found myself defending Lindsay Lohan in a heated debate with a coworker (what do you think we’re going to debate heatedly, the validity of Obama’s experience with foreign policy?). And my argument didn't just spring from the fact that me and Linds share the same awesome first name and an overabundance of arm freckles.

“Give her a break,” I said, “she’s only 21.” My argument to anyone who challenged her or any of her party-hard Hollywood pals is to imagine yourself at that age- imagine some of the things you’ve done under the influence of lots and lots alcohol. Now imagine that every second of your drunken experience was photographed and broadcast around the world. You probably wouldn’t come out so good either, huh?

So I felt a certain pity for the young starlets every time they were blasted with out of focus pics and snarky headlines . It could, in theory, happen to the best of us, right?

And then little Miss Lohan got arrested for driving under the influence with a pocket full of something decidedly not posies, only to claim innocence and put the blame on…some random black dude? WTF, Linds?

So I have to withdraw my argument. The party girl has officially become a label to be avoided. And what lessons should the rest of us take from this? Besides, you know, not to drive around all crazy on a Los Angeles highway with “someone else’s” coke stuffed down the front of our Guess jeans?

And this is where my life hypothesis comes into play. Because I don’t think it’s a simple solution to give up partying altogether. When you’re young and independent and single, your responsibilities are pretty much limited to...well, just keeping yourself alive. If you can do that, and not manage to hurt anyone else in the process, then why shouldn’t you celebrate whenever you can with the tiny amount of income you receive?

But, there should be some ground rules to keep things in check. Because partying can get out of control pretty quickly, and take your life along with it. And you know that tingling sensation you’ve been feeling in the back of your neck when you wake up on Sunday morning? That’s called shame. But instead of hauling your ass into church to pray for your soul, just try to keep in mind the following tips for your next night out:

• Leave a little to the imagination (because do you really want your future bid as Miss New Jersey 2011 to be destroyed because someone captured an inopportune nip slip on film? Think about it.)
• Stick together (because even if your own conscience has seen the bottom of too many shot glasses and gone by the wayside, chances are one of your surrounding friends will keep you in check)
• If you can’t be with the one you love, DON’T love the one you’re with (sometimes popular song lyrics, no matter how catchy, can still lie to you)
• Hugs, not drugs

So goood luck. And now I will do the ultimate in frat boy cliché and quote Ron Burgundy, because it is fitting, and because it is my right:

Stay classy, Chicago.

Wet tarp.

That’s right. On the seventh day, God rested. And then He got bored and created a slip ‘n slide (with a little help from the fine folks at Wham-O Inc.) And it was good.

How to build a slip ‘n slide

1.) Picking your tarp It sounds elementary, but choosing this most vital part of the slip ‘n slide machine can actually go awry pretty easily. Hard to believe, but tarpaulin isn’t actually created for the sole purpose of throwing your liquor-soaked body down a hill. It does come in many varieties, however, and some are more conducive than others to the purposes of wet, drunken fun.

A good tip to remember when you’re cruising the aisles of your local Wal-Mart for lengths of plastic-y substance is to steer clear the automotive section. Trust me, when you’re trying to get all wet and frothy and slide down some 25-odd feet of hot leather truck bed covering, you’ll feel the difference. In more places than one.

Try the gardening or paint supplies aisles. That’s the stuff.

2.) Location, location, location Um, put it on a hill, genius. Facing down. Also try to not put it in the vicinity of any particularly shifty-looking tree stumps or metal horseshoe pits.

3.) Lubrication Liquid courage is often needed for trip down the ole slip ‘n slide, in the form of diluted keg beer (for you) and liquid laundry detergent (for the slide). Both are also a form of numbing the eventual pain that will arise from hurling yourself face first down a hilltop.

4.)What else to look forward to when you erect your very own slip’n slide at your backyard party, in no particular order

Clean Clothes

Internal Bruising

A greater appreciation for penguins, polar bears

Hostess of the year award

And memories. Misty, water-colored memories, of the way we were.

I think one of the keys to life happiness- or life contentment, anyway- is setting yourself short, accomplishable goals. “I want to learn jujitsu” or “I want to lose 10 pounds” are just so vague, as far as life goals go. They could take months, if not years, to accomplish. Where’s the sense of satisfaction that comes from a more direct goal of, say, telling yourself to take out the trash before 11 a.m. and then following through?

No, vague goals like those are really only a means of setting yourself up for frustration and failure. You want to know the secret to life happiness? 1). Choose a task on the level of either Easy (buying new shoelaces) Intermediate (running three miles) or Challenging (training an intelligent ape to be the next vice president). 2.) Enact a plan to accomplish said task. 3). Follow through with plan. 4.) Relax and enjoy the fruits of your labor, whether they be spanking new shoelaces or ape-friendly world peace.

Still a little too abstract? Here, let me give you an example in my own goal for the summer of 2007:

A detailed account of how I plan to eat Brie and drink fancy wine in a sailboat on Lake Michigan at some point on or before August 29th, 2007.

1.) Procure sailboat

This is obviously the most challenging aspect of my task, seeing as how I do not now nor have I ever known anyone who has ever owned a sailboat. I’m not going to give up in the face of such a trivial obstacle, however. You know who gives up in the face of trivial obstacles? People who spend their whole lives safely on the shore, that’s who.

Let’s face this obstacle logistically. I live within one mile of the fifth largest lake in the world. Approximately 3 million other people live in this city, also within walking distance of the fifth largest lake in the world. I’m going to go out on a crazy limb and say that the percentage of people who live in the city andown a boat are relatively high- let’s say, oh… 7%.

So now, after my extremely thorough and obviously fact-checked preliminary research, I’m ready to enact my plan, which is basically to start canvassing the bars until I find someone with the sailboat of my dreams. Now, if I go out three nights a week, and talk to an average of 19 people a night, then the chances of finding someone who owns a sailboat and also doesn’t make me want to vomit with their shiny business cards and shoes that cost more than my organs would on the black market (although I guess I’m flexible on this point- it depends on the size of the boat), I think it’ll only take me about three and a half weeks to accomplish the first stage of my mission.

Again, my math may be a little rusty here, and somewhere down in hell my seventh grade algebra teacher is looking up at me and slowly shaking his head in a barely stifled rage, but I’m sticking to my figures here.

2.) Learn to appreciate Brie and fancy wine

This is an integral part of the being all fancy on a fancy sailboat plan. And it’s also a difficult leg of my mission, mainly because I know absolutely nothing about being all fancy with the special cheeses and the grapes and stuff. I’m really more knowledgeable about meat that can be cooked on sticks and drinks that fit in coolies.

But this is an essential element of the plan, and I need to thoroughly research my options by attending wine tasting festivals (also a stellar place to accomplish task #1) and sampling foreign cheese until I come across just the right combo (which, sadly, will not be a McDonald’s #2 with no onions).

3.) Schedule a date for the great outing.

I already accomplished this in my mission’s title, see above.

4.) Have fun, don’t get drunk on fancy wine and fall off sail boat.

This will obviously be the trickiest part of my entire plan, but I have confidence in my ability to remain classy and reasonably well balanced while intoxicated.

Or, in any case, I’ve always been a real good swimmer.

So, I hope you can take inspiration from my completely realizable summer goal and apply one to your own life. Don’t steal mine, though. That’s just uncool.

This, of course, from the girl who plans to use this weekend to both see an 80’s music cover band (check out Sixteen Candles, they rock) and watch Transformers on the big screen.

But I digress. The 80s and early 90s are making a comeback, in a big way (not mall-bangs-big, but still) and the marketers are cashing in. From movie updates of our favorite robots in disguise, to the book Where the Wild Things Are, to the board game Monopoly (seriously?), the pastimes of our youth are seeing new life, and of course lining the pockets of a whole new generation of advertisers.

And I want a piece.

So here, in no particular order, is a list of the few precious childhood memories that I would totally sell out for the right price (which is, currently, a six-pack and some free tacos):

Hungry Hungry Hippos

Potential movie tagline: “They’re Hungry! They’re Hippos! And when they come to a theater near you this summer, little defenseless marbles, you better run, run for your lives!” Okay, maybe a little long for a tagline, but it gets the point across.

Lite Brite

Wouldn’t it be cool for a live action movie to be done completely in Lite Brite stills? That’s cutting edge cinematography, right there. Although the movie would probably be pretty boring after 7 minutes, unless you’re on acid. Kind of like the game itself.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Wait, has this been done?

Skip-it

I’m not recommending that this should be turned into a movie or video game in any way, or even updated at all. I just think they should come back, because, come on- when’s the last time you had as much fun with anything as you had with a Skip-it?

Jonathon Taylor Thomas

His comeback is long, long, long overdue. And when it finally arrives, I will be totally justified for having left his 12 x 12 glossy up on my closet door for all those years. Although in retrospect I guess I should have taken down that one of Rider Strong.

Troll dolls

A summer blockbuster in the making, if I ever heard of one. Have you ever heard of an unsuccessful action figure with neon green hair and a plain circle for a belly button? I think not.

So what do you all think? What piece of childhood nostalgia would you totally sell up the river for a free chimichanga? Who else is gonna be super pissed off if they mess up the TMNT remake?

Anyway, it all seemed like harmless fun at the time, much like the game MASH (Mansion-Apartment-House-Shack) that would leave it up to random fate and your friends’ sense of timing to decide who you would marry, where you would live, and how many kids you would have (I somehow always wound up sidled with a family of eight in an apartment with my adoring husband, Screech).

But somehow the random sense of chance and fun of those games has molded itself into my subconscious, and now in the face of plans and pressure, life changes and life choices, it seems like an acceptable way as any to make a big decision. My first choice of choosing a life path- contacting Mr. Miagi from “The Karate Kid” and asking his opinion (his car-waxing strategies have never failed me, after all)- has fallen by the wayside (due mostly to anti-stalking laws- long story), and leaving my fate up to random chance seems like an acceptable alternative.

I’ll admit that I had a pretty solid structure to get me up to this point, and I’m pretty sure most people follow a similar blueprint:

• Enroll in kindergarten (don’t eat paste)
• Learn to read
• Grasp basic function of economics (allowance=Blow Pops)
• Ride bike. Fall off. Get back on again. Repeat.
• Learn to interact with opposite sex, firstly by getting abandoned by dance partner at 8th grade formal so that you’re standing there alone in the middle of the gymnasium, listening to “Lady in Red” in your cokebottle glasses, thereby developing emotional scars that future partners will have to spend years navigating around (that happened to everyone, right?)
• Get drivers license
• Steal parents’ beer, give your liver its first preview at what it has in store for it in the years to come
• Go to college, learn to do your own laundry
• Eat unhealthy amounts of pizza
• Enter the workforce, armed with a $20,000 piece of paper

And then….

That’s it. That’s where the blueprint ends. So what I’m left with is the nagging question of what comes next- and all I’m coming up with is the strange urge to track down Dustin Diamond and start copulating. But that can’t be right…

The plan ends here, but life keeps going.

To where? And to what ends? I really need another plan, dammit. But none are forthcoming.

So it looks like I’m going back to throwing darts at maps, until someone comes up with a better option (I’m looking at you, Miagi).

Which is I guess a long-winded way of saying that Whitesnake’s classic lyrics have taken on a deep meaning in my life of late, and I’m beginning to be a little wary of them.

Although mostly touted as an anthem for the recently dumped, I’ve always viewed the Whitesnake classic more as a rallying cry for independence, to be played on movie soundtracks when the main character packs up her Chevy Impala and drives off alone into the sunset to face an unknown future, these lyrics drifting in the background:

And here I go again on my own

Going down the only road I’ve ever known

Like a twister I was born to walk alone

And I’ve made up my mind

I ain’t wasting no more time

Here I go agaaaaaaaaaaaaain…

Except I recently discovered that the correct word in line three isn’t “twister,” but “drifter.” (Not the first time, incidentally, that I found out I’ve been singing something wrong my whole life.) And, before that, the line was originally “hobo.” Hobo? Like a hobo I was born to walk alone? Really? That’s my big anthem for independence? It’s a little off-putting. And it makes me re-think my whole strategy here.

Because lately I’ve been wondering- what’s so great about independence? I’ve always championed self-sufficiency as one of my strongest assets. I can do what I want, go where I want, whenever I want. I have no qualms with eating alone or seeing movies alone, and if I really felt like it I could pick up and move alone to Bali tomorrow (well, I’d have to Google it extensively and transfer all of my money into Bali-friendly currency first, but still…it could be done).

I laugh in the face of co-dependents (well, not really in their faces…they still outnumber me two to one)…and I hear Whitesnake’s chorus in the background as I do.

But is independence really such a great power as I’ve always thought? I recently learned that family members I’m very close to are planning to move far away to the country’s nether regions, where I’ll only be able to visit once a year, if I’m lucky. As an independent, self-sufficient 23-year-old living on her own (oh Whitesnake, your lyrics have just so many levels), this shouldn’t be earth-shattering news. But it is.

The walls of my self-sufficiency are crumbling down. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing? Maybe it’s not terrible to admit that you need people in your life, sometimes? Maybe it’s okay to not want to see some movies and concerts alone, to not have to fix everything yourself, to not always have a plan for escape? Maybe it’s not the best idea to over-identify with the big-haired video star of a 1987 rock video?

Or maybe, on the other hand, I’m overreacting-

Cause I know what it means

To walk along the lonely street of dreams

This is partially inspired by my friend Paula, who’s throwing a 40’s-themed birthday party this weekend. I was initially confused about what she meant with the title of her birthday bash, but after ruling out 40’s- the decade and 40’s- the age group, I came to understand that she was referring to 40’s, the beer size (as in “sipping on 40’s,”-for those of you who may have been as confused as me).

But after all was cleared up, it occurred to me- if there are so many possibilities for a party theme just in the word “40’s,” that I could become sufficiently confused, then just imagine the limitless possibilities that other themes could contain.

So, because they’re my favorite thing to write, and because I’m too lazy to form real paragraphs, here’s a list of more party themes. Some of them may be familiar to you, and some of them I just made up. Please feel free to submit your own ideas below. Honestly, don’t be shy- comments boost my self esteem.

Drink your nationality theme

Pretty much self-explanatory. Being mostly German and Irish, for instance, my drinks of choice would be Kasier Pils and Guinness. The only rule of the evening would be that you have to sample drinks from all of your nationalities, no matter how unappealing it may for all you Russian-Mexicans to chase a shot of vodka with a warm Tecate. Bonus points go to anyone who also dresses their nationality, or at least wears a funny hat.

Make your party an Olympic drinking event theme

We’re talking beer pong, flippy cup, darts, that weird bean bag game…pretty much anything to challenge your drunken hand-eye coordination. Bonus points- introducing a slip ‘n slide.

Roast tasty meats over a roaring fire theme

Also known as a barbecue

Everybody pretend you’re famous theme

This idea is kind of intricate. The dress code is specific- giant sunglasses and perfectly moussed hair for all, with optional accessories including Mercedes Benzes, purses large enough to hold small Chihuahua puppies (no real animals, please), up to three tag-along personal assistants, gift bottles of Crystal, and small Asian children. There should also be no direct conversation amongst party guests. If you want to speak to someone else at the party, please use your iPhone to text them, call them, or send them just-recorded-and-uploaded You Tube clips of yourself speaking to them. Bonus points for tipping off the paparazzo (your bored neighbor with the frighteningly long range focus on his camera).

Scavenger hunt theme

Scavenge! Hunt! Repeat!

Before you throw stones and call me a traitor to my generation, hear me out. I’m not saying that I don’t love spending a good Friday night tucked away in a beer-stained wooden booth in the heart of Wrigleyville with my friends. Also, Saturday nights out at a nice tapas bar or a joint that for some reason only serves Guiness are all appreciated. And hey, I’ll even on occasion throw on my nice shoes, trade my beloved wooden tables for uncomfortable velvet foot stools, order $13 well drinks and watch girls on the dance floor do what I can only guess are frighteningly accurate imitations of Pussycat Dolls.

It’s all good.

But sometimes a girl needs a little break. So in an effort to spend a Saturday morning over something other than a Bloody Mary and an inexplicable feeling of shame, I’ve researched the following activities to connect with the other half of Chicago. You know, the sober half.

Movies in the park

-“The question isn't ‘what are we going to do,’ the question is ‘what aren't we going to do?’” Truer words, Ferris. Truer words. And you can watch him say them, and many other Bueller-isms at the Chicago History Museums’ movies on the park nights. Other classic favorites include Sixteen Candles and Weird Science. It’s pretty much the most revered section of my movie collection, put up on the big screen outdoors and shown for free.

MCA First Fridays

Art. Happy hour. Free appetizers Fulfilling your cultural quota in three hours. What’s not to love?

World naked bike ride

Chance of broad physical comedy occurring before your very eyes: 99%.

PRIDE parade

You know how sometimes you get all pumped up to go to a parade, and then you get there and it’s just a huge crowd of people in the cold watching shiny cars go by and getting whacked with tootsie rolls? Not this one. This is a dance party on wheels, with the elaborate costumes, kitschy dance music and Mardi gras beads to prove it. Plus, instead of getting free candy tossed at you, you get free multi-colored condoms. Generally just a nice way to pass a Sunday afternoon.

So all right, my slacker bar friends. Who wants to see another side of Chicago with me?

I’ve lived in Chicago for about a year and a half, and the time is ripe to call a nearby establishment my own (not in the literal sense, seeing as how I can hardly afford to own a barstool, let alone an entire bar).

So the great search is on. I think you will find that my demands for a local hangout aren’t too heavy:

1.) There should be some type of free food served at the bar for hungry patrons- anything along the line of tortilla chips, peanuts or pretzels (not the Mustard-flavored kind, though). I’m not really picky, so long as there’s something to munch on whilst I peruse the drinks menu. Which brings me to-

2.) There should be daily drinks specials. This way I can say to my friends, “Hey, what are you up to tonight? You know it’s $2 PBR draft night at (fill-in-the-blank)’s!” And everyone will say, “Oh yeah, it is Tuesday! Sure!”

3.) There should be a short-distance factor. Obviously. There’s no point in having a watering hole if it isn’t local. I haven’t heard anyone say the term “distant watering hole” in a while.

4). There should maybe also be a theme to the bar, to allow for crazy decorating and a sense of uniqueness. Maybe there are Italian flags on the walls, or all of the glasses have little glow-in-the-dark sombreros on them, or the bartender doesn’t really speak English. I don’t know, something fun like that.

So, help me out. Do you know any place that meets all of these requirements? Suggestions are welcome! And I can reward you by calling you up one day and saying “Hey, we’re all meeting at Joe’s/Jake’s/Sanjaya’s for a drink, wanna come?”

And it will be beautiful.

Because, boy, can the stress build on a person. What with the big life choices and the job changes and the electric bills- not to mention staying on top of your laundry and your Netflix queue- life can start to feel like one big whirling dervish after another (and I’m referring here to the small but rapid tornado formations, not the famous dancers of the Mevlevi Order of Turkey, although those are rather frightening in their own way as well).

Throw in a dating dilemma or two (I’ve read about them, mostly in Bridget Jones), and it’s enough to drive a girl to the edge (Of Reason).

But when life starts to spin out of control, throwing cows at your windshield and forcing you to find cover under a highway ramp, just take note of the following de-stressors that I have found useful in the past:

Shut down Much like your computer screen does when you leave the office for the day, allowing you to free your mind for…well, nothing, which is kind of the point. Some people accomplish this process by using yoga, or meditating, or just listening to those tapes you can buy for $4.99 at gas stations that have pictures of fall trees on them and titles like “Relaxation and You.” I, of course, prefer to watch trashy reality TV, but it’s all relative.

Boot up This is the reverse of the Shut Down technique to relaxation, and it involves leaving your stress behind by kicking into high-gear-fun-mode. It usually requires liquor. And sometimes Bon Jovi.

Find a friend Friends are the great de-stressors of life. Unless, of course, your friends are like those kids on The O.C., who will probably up your levels of stress by sleeping with your stepmother and stealing the answers to the SATs before crashing your car into a homeless man or something. You should probably abandon friends like these, and stick to more boring friends, if you can- friends who will support you while doing absolutely nothing to further complicate your life. I hear the Amish can be quite hospitable, if given the opportunity.

So try and just follow these steps to de-stress the catastrophic tornado that is your life, and trust me, you will feel the results. If not, I guess there’s always tranquilizers.

But before I light all of my shoes on fire and toss them out my window into the alley below, I have decided to provide a list of pros and cons to my previous footwear experiences. Read this, and then let me know if I’m overreacting (which I hardly ever do).

Experience #1, or, How the West Lake monster ate my jellies I was maybe seven or eight when my dad took me for a spin in his small motorboat on the lake behind my grandparent’s house . It was a peaceful evening, and we were lounging in the middle of the lake when the engine suddenly started to smoke and caught on fire, forcing us to exit the boat (via jumping into the cold water) and swim to shore, leaving flaming wreckage behind us. We both survived the swim. My favorite clear plastic jelly sandals, however, were not so lucky, and are probably still resting on the bottom of Portage’s West Lake today. Con Thus began my string of shoe-related traumatic experiences. Although, oddly enough, I still very much enjoy boat rides Pro Jelly shoes weren’t long for the world of fashion, anyway.

Experience #2, or, How European feet are grossly disproportioned I know there are tall people in Europe. I’ve even seen them on occasion. But for some reason, these people are very misrepresented in society, or at least in European shoe stores. Because for the life of me I could not find one single pair of shoes during my whole three-month stay there. There was one notable incident in a shoe boutique in Italy where a rather petite shoe clerk actually dropped her jaw in disbelief when I told her my shoe size. ”Quaranta-due?!?” she cried out. She had the decency not to laugh when she brought me the only pair of shoes from the entire back room (man I hate those back rooms) that was in my size, and that in all its brown velvety, bejeweled glory could have really only been designed for someone in the circus profession. Con Emotional trauma, freak-like feelings, general blows to foot self-esteem Pro Learned a little something about the metric system

Experience#3, or, How I learned that heels don’t have traction on ice I’ll only give you the basic elements of this story: multiple Kamikaze shots post college-graduation; late night trip to an iced-over Taco Bell drive thru; a stalled motor in said drive thru; my mistaken belief that if a car is on ice, it can just easily slide out of the way when pushed by strong enough force; my mistaken belief that my own arm power could act as said force; my face connecting with ice, hard. I understand that it wasn’t only my high heels that let me down that night. But they sure didn’t help a lot, either. Con Bruises, scars and other bodily harm. Plus I didn’t ever get my Taco Bell. Pro Turns out I left my college years with about the same amount of grace, class and common sense that I entered them with.

And these are only the highlights. The list of heels that have broken at inopportune times and sandals that have snapped while on vacation goes on and on. I simply don’t have time to record them all and light my shoes on fire at the same time. So if you see me in the future, barefoot and happy, you’ll know why.

Oh, and please stay out of my back alley for the next ten to fifteen minutes. You’ll know when it’s safe when the smell of burning rubber subsides.

Styx.

No seriously. Go ahead and get in your car, roll down the windows and cruise down the highway blasting "Lady" or "Come Sail Away" and just try not to sing. Seriously, just try.

That is all. Domo.

This tan-ish glow I have been slowly building, these spreading freckles on my face, none of them are “real.” Yes, that’s right, I fake the bake. I submit myself to synthetic UV rays on a semi-weekly basis and I’m not ashamed to say it.

There, are you happy?

I’m tired of having to come up with excuses both real (an impending beach-side vacation) and imaginary (offsetting the effects of Seasonal Affective Disorder) in order to explain away my time in a tanning bed. Why, when someone comments on my darkening skin, do I feel the need to offer a valid excuse for my after-work habit? Why do I feel the need to lower my face and hide the truth? Which is, really, that I just like being tan.

I can understand the stigma attached, what with the skin cancer, the unsightly moles, the premature aging, etc., etc., yada, yada. But I refuse to be ashamed any longer. So I’ll subject myself to your scorn and judgment, to your possible analysis that I’m throwing away my money and skin cells on a cheap vanity. It’s all true. But I don’t care. Because you see this tan? (No, I guess you probably can’t…but it’s pretty awesome. Like Tori Spelling awesome.) I can now stand up with pride and announce- it’s fake.

But these nails, baby, these nails are all me.

And it was mostly worth it. I took a breather this weekend to entertain my pint-sized houseguest, and I’m glad for it. It was nice to take a break from all the booze-filled nights and head-achy mornings that a Chicago weekend generally has to offer. Aside from spending quality time with the little sis (and once again reaffirming my decision to not have children for a loooong time), it was nice to see what this city has to offer in the way of wholesome, good-time fun.

And boy, is wholesomeness ever expensive.

The exorbitant Aquarium fees were the least of it. Mini-golf and McDonald’s on Navy Pier easily cleared $20, although trying to trying to keep score with those little golf pencils while keeping an eye on a 7-year-old at the same time takes the ability of a CIA-trained operative that I lack. Entrance to the Children’s Museum was $8 each, even though to my sister the highlight of the exhibit was the 20-foot dinosaur that we saw for free in the lobby while waiting in line to buy tickets.

I know it’s kind of silly for me to bitch about these prices when it was my parents who eventually footed the bill- but I guess what I’m trying to say is that my sister had just as much fun hanging out in my living room with some colored markers and a Disney movie as she did swinging a tin golf club in 40-degree weather. And so did I.

And, in theory, I spent more money in one day on all this wholesome fun than I ever did on a raucous night on the town. Although, maybe that’s because wearing a tight shirt has less pull in getting a discount from the ticket-taker at Spongebob Square Pants’ 4-D Adventure than it does in getting a free drink in a bar…but I digress…my point (and my life lesson today) is that while it’s fun to sometimes take a break and see what this fine city has to offer besides drink specials, it sure isn’t economically advisable.

Viva la cheap beer!

But then wear protection. Kids are expensive.

If you ever find yourself going against a cacophony of reasonable objectors (your conscience, you empty wallet, the frowning middle-aged woman at the bank who has to lick, seal and send you all those overdraft statements) to buy a pair of stupidly expensive shoes, and then take them out of town for the weekend without bringing a sturdy backup pair, only to find yourself at a local bar playing what can be only described as a simulation of a pool game (sticks + balls are hard to control) in a dark smoky room when suddenly the very expensive heel breaks off of your very expensive new shoe, you should remember this:

A well-chewed tablet of Orbitz gum placed between heel and sole of the now-sad shoe will not remedy the situation. Not even slightly.

Consider that my hard earned, overcooked life lesson of the weekend served up on a steaming plate of bad luck just for you. Reheat at 150 degrees alongside your leftover ham and enjoy.

What I learned, besides the fact that I can be insanely long winded (as I guess you know), and that I had unbelievably bad penmanship the summer of my sophomore year of high school, was that sadly, not a lot has changed.

Which really surprises me.

When I do put the effort into trying to remember who I was in high school, the first thing I see is reflected in my class pictures- a quiet girl who did well in school and obeyed her parents and resisted peer pressure (you know, mostly). I was awkward and timid and reserved, and I mostly believe that I have come miles and miles from the place I used to be. At least, that’s what I thought.

Am I the only person who has thought this? Thought that who you are now is so different from who you used to be, you’re almost like two separate people who happen to share memories? I thought that I had become so removed from that girl, that she barely even registered with my tastes now (except for a shared love of French fries and REO Speedwagon).

But upon reading her thoughts- my thoughts- and struggles, etc., what I have realized is that I haven’t come far at all. I’m dealing with the same shit now that I was at sixteen- only I have a better vocabulary and a nicer haircut.

I have the same friends, and we’re all basically the same people; I still can’t find a decent pair of shoes; I’m still not entirely sure what I want to be when I grow up; my parents are still the most amazing and maddening people in my life; and I still deal with homework, only now I mostly get paid for it. If I dig deep enough, I can see the pages of my journals are laden with the same insecurities, in slightly varied textures and forms. Everything stupid I worried about then, I still worry about now, with the exception of whether or not my teeth would look too big without braces…

So when does it stop, when do you grow, transform, leave the shell of awkwardness and split ends completely behind? I thought I had, but now I’m not so sure that person will ever leave me. Do you guys know what I mean?

No?

That’s right- I have been lifted from my roots and have tasted the sweetness that is first-class life. And there’s no turning back.

On a recent business trip to Washington D.C., I did more than attend a business forum and run my hands along Abe Lincoln’s enormous marble shoes- I also experienced first hand the joys of hotel suites bigger than my whole apartment and expensed dinners worth a whole week’s worth of groceries.

There was crème brulee and fresh down pillows and expansive city views. Plus carpets and morning newspaper delivery and free cable! Free cable!! And did you know that business-class flyers have their own separate waiting rooms in airports? They’re available by super-secret covert ops elevators and they offer free magazines and Diet Pepsi for as far as the eye can see!

I’m not making this up. There is a whole other life out there, one that I sometimes read about in the pages of magazines that were too glossy, and therefore too expensive, for me to afford. And for two brief, shining days, I too was a very important person (even if, in my TJ Maxx suit, I didn’t exactly look the part).

And there’s no coming back from that. Now for me, life is going to be all expansive leg room and free headphones on airplanes, four course meals that involve all six food groups (there are six food groups!) and endless free coffee. My life has been upgraded, baby, and there’s no going back!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to take my two pounds of quarters down to the Spin Cycle on Broadway to catch up on some laundry. You’ll find me there in the VIP section- it’s between the Pinball machines and the row of broken dryers. Lata.

Does anyone else think that when you’re 23, you’re maybe a little too old to pour cheap flavored Smirnoff into a Diet Coke bottle so you can inconspicuously get drunk at a holiday parade at 11 am before bouncing from bar to overcrowded bar donned in a green lei and plastic green hat where you can drink $5 green beers and any shots that may happened to be offered to you by drunk guys who seem a little too old to be doing this themselves (and you can not figure out why they would want to buy you a shot anyways, because wearing a small plastic green hat and a sweatshirt makes you decidedly uncute) only to become so ridiculously intoxicated that you can’t remember that your phone died six hours ago and you keep trying to text message people from a blank screen and then wonder why no one is texting in return and then all the faces blur together and someone, at some point orders nachos and then it’s dark outside and you finally stumble into a cab before midnight only to make it home and pass out and spend the rest of the next day a wasted, useless shell of a human being?

Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Good thing I kept my arsenal of blinking green battery-powered necklaces for next year. 24 isn’t too old either, is it??

Any worthwhile character traits I may have built during that time (I’m guessing my parents were shooting for work ethic, patience, and a basic dejected acceptance of minimum wage) have been totally shot by the Information Age. I’ve become used to instant access to solutions to any and all of life’s problems.

If I don’t know how to get to a new restaurant I want to try, I no longer have to fish through the yellow pages, locate a phone number and then spend ten minutes trying to get accurate directions from someone who speaks English as a third language. I just Mapquest. 30 seconds. Bam.

Anything I want is seconds away- tickets for travel and concerts, weather information, movie times. I can pay my bills, find out what’s wrong with my iPod, read my horoscope and order used DVD’s through Amazon (dude, just bought used copy of “Donnie Darko” for $1.99- Amazon rocks).

Anything I want I can have right away. And this includes all information garnered by stalking people through Myspace, Facebook and Google. I don’t have to call home anymore to find out what friends are up to. And I don’t have to lower myself to the gossip mill to find out who ex-boyfriends are dating. (Yeah- I look into it. And you do too, so don’t judge. We’re all in the same boat here.)

All information is at my fingertips. And I’m kind of afraid it’s making me lazy. I’m kind of afraid it’s taking away my “character.” This worries me. I spent a lot of time accruing that character- scooping ice cream until my fingers went numb, wearing a sandwich board on a busy street in the middle of July, selling vacuum cleaners door to door, spinning pizza dough until 1 am, carting screaming toddlers around in the backseat of my Ford Escort, teaching the importance of semi-colons to international students who stare at me with blank, uncomprehending eyes. And don’t even get me started on that summer I spent as Jared Fogle’s sandwich bitch.

I don’t want all of that experience, all of that hard-earned character to be for naught. But I can’t give up how easy life has become. I can’t go back to the Dark Ages, no matter how dangerous this reliance on quick and plentiful information is.

So what do you guys think, oh friends of mine that have taken to reading this blog instead of picking up the phone to hear my voice? Do you ever feel that by staring at a computer screen for 8 hours a day, your best character traits are slowly being eroded? Or am I just crazy?

The answers are only a mouse click away.

I suppose on the surface I’m excited for the same reasons as most to see our glorious city in the sunshine. (That’s right, living here for more than a year and officially filing taxes with the state of Illinois has given me the privilege to finally use the pronoun ‘our’ when speaking of Chicago.)

I’m excited for the baseball games (and the subsequent hot dogs), for taking a run (okay, a jog…okay, a stroll…) along the lakeside, for getting into museums for free, for relaxing in beer gardens, for perusing outdoor used book sales, and for going back to MI for bonfires and S’mores.

And there are other, smaller things that I’m looking forward to, like being able to wear my enormous sunglasses again without fear of ridicule (I don’t care what anyone else says- they don’t look stupid and they’re not going out of style- although God I hope leggings are…)

But mostly I’m looking forward to the way that spring seems to put a sunshiny glow on everything, and how this first week of warmish weather puts everyone in a good mood, from the usually cranky bus drivers to (hopefully) that lively group over in the MasterCard Receivables Department.

The smiles around the city are growing in direct proportion to the number of bulky outerwear items that are being peeled from pale, out-of-shape bodies. Even my own hangover this morning, the residual effects of some hard-hitting mugs full of Germany’s finest, seems to be less a sharp pounding ache than a soft fuzziness in my head that makes everything I look at a little rosy around the edges. In like a lion, out like a lamb. Or something like that. So yes, here comes the spring-

-And I say, it’s all right.

Here it is: Candy + alcohol = an amazing good time, with just a mild aftertaste and the slight potential for developing early diabetes.

That’s right, my revelation is startling for both it’s accuracy and simplicity. And yet, I had never thought of it before. It seems like I should have, given my oft-stated love of candy and alcohol, not to mention anything that has a theme. But this weekend, my mind, taste buds, and potential for tooth decay were all expanded when I tried something called a ‘Starburst martini,’ made up of pretty much exactly what you’d expect- Starburst candies and, well, whatever the hell goes into a martini.

But my appetite was not quenched. The sugary treat left me thirsty for more, so I went on the hunt for other do-it-yourself drinks that could simultaneously destroy both my liver and my calorie count. Google left me with a dizzying amount of choices, including the Tootsie Roll, Sweet Tart, Creamsicle, M&M Drink and the Candy Cane.

I thought it only fair that I share my discovery with the rest of you, with the expectation that you drink (and eat) responsibly. That’s right- I’m passing this on with the hope that no one does anything too crazy, like throw a Laffy Taffy into a Vanilla Stoli concoction. With great privilege comes great responsibility people, so let’s not abuse our rights…

And for those of you who want a little holiday-inspired cocktail (and come on, who doesn’t), I found this little treat on drinkoftheweek.com. Enjoy.

Morning with Leprechauns 1 1/2 oz. Bailey's Irish Crème 1 oz. Irish Whisky 1/4 oz. Cherry brandy 3 oz. Cold black coffee (strength to your likeness) Combine all the ingredients into a highball glass filled almost to the top with crush ice and stir well.

As I walked across my office hallway the other day I looked down at the ground and was met with an unpleasant, creepy-crawly reminder of the approaching spring. Now, I’ve been wishing hard for summer just like every other bone cold Midwesterner, but in my daydreams of 75-degree weather, I forgot the one true downside to the otherwise idyllic summer-in-the-city lifestyle: freaking apartment centipedes, man.

The freakish, gazillion-legged spider/centipede hybrids that move at the speed of light are back.

And I’m so, so unprepared.

Now I generally pride myself on being a relatively confident, independent girl. I can change a tire, bang on a radiator until it starts working, and walk home at night through the Chicago streets without fear. And thanks to Billy Blanks, I’m also mastering what I think is a pretty damaging uppercut (at least it felt pretty damaging the one time I followed through too hard on the punch and hit my own jaw).

I’ve come a long way from my scaredy-cat days, days when I was afraid of strangers, clowns, the dark, basements, tornadoes, creepy-looking dolls, gorilla masks, and basically anything that was ever transformed into a horror movie, ever. I’ve mostly moved beyond all of these childhood fears (except for my fear of basements- poisonous mold spores are no joke). I’ve grown from a wide-eyed kid who races to bed immediately after hitting the light switch at night to an adult who is wise enough to invest in a bedside lamp to save the trouble. I was beginning to feel myself fearless, indestructible.

Enter the apartment centipede, arch-nemesis and mass producer of shrieking hysteria.

Spiders have never been my thing. And although they can grow pretty big in the backwoods of Southwest Michigan, I never really had too much trouble with them. Mostly because I’m not the kind of person who would ever be found in the backwoods (or any woods, really). And whenever any spiders managed to crawl their way into my home life, there was always someone- a parent, a friend, a roommate’s boyfriend- to take over and politely wrap the offender in a Kleenex while I squeezed my eyes shut.

But I never felt more vulnerable or alone as I did on the first day that I sat innocently in my studio apartment, and a three-inch apartment centipede skidded over the wall above my television. Two hours, eight pairs of shoes and one hanger-rigged scraping device later, the creature was dead and I had won the battle.

But not the war.

For the remainder of the spring and summer, I would have to face my nemesis at least once, sometimes twice a week- waiting for me at the bottom of my sink, crawling on the ceiling above my bed, hanging out on my shower curtain when I pulled it back in the morning- they would never hesitate to stoop to new lows to shock and surprise me.

The only thing that seemed to work in successfully eradicating them was winter- the snow and cold seemed to drive the bastards into hibernation.

But now my protection is past, and as I stood face to face with my old enemy the other day for the first time in months, I could feel the old fear rising up, and I knew that I would have to surrender.

Because my life lesson here is that it is impossible to defeat these crafty, super-intelligent (I’m convinced) and crazy fast bugs. No- I’ve tried that before, and all it got me was a broken lamp and scuffmarks on my ceiling (don’t ask). What needs to be defeated is not the bugs themselves, but my own fear.

And for that, I’m gonna need a bigger flyswatter.

1. Fry up a hearty potato

2. Make vegetables taste good

3. End world hunger (someday, maybe, though. Someday)

4. Soften butter (a lot of recipes call for softened butter, but leave no instructions as to how this is to be done. Let me tell you- the George Foreman is NOT the way to go here)

5. Trigger up an alarm system that will send an automatic text message to your cell phone if your VCR ever malfunctions and fails to tape a vital episode of your favorite TV show. Okay, so yeah, I’m still on the Lost thing- it takes me awhile to get over stuff, all right? In narrative structure, we don’t call that ‘obsession,’ we call it ‘continuity.’ So.

I’ll spare you the whole ‘this-is-a-manufactured-holiday-and-we are-under-the-tyranny-of-greeting-card-and-chocolate-companies-rant,’ partly because it’s been done to death, and partly because being under the tyranny of a chocolate company doesn’t really sound so bad.

Still, this day marked by pink carnations and subterranean weather doesn’t fall into my top ten of favorite holidays. (Although it certainly beats out Flag Day.) So my great plans originally involved eating some leftover hot dogs and watching the new episode of Lost. But when my friend Beth invited me out to a nuts-and bolts themed party at Mad River Grill, I decided it was time to put aside my tired V-day plans, set up my VCR to record the antics of those crazy addictive islanders, put on my drinking hat (I kno