What are you looking at?

Gimme All Your Money!

Relax, I'm not really holding you up. This picture was taken on Halloween night in 1993, moments after my dad showed me this really cool thing you could do with a stocking - pull it over your head! Needless to say, I wasn't very popular at 13, so I had time to hang out with my parents on major holidays. But that's OK; if I HAD been popular, this picture would have never been taken. Makes you cry with relief just thinking about it, doesn't it?

In more recent (and less scary) news, I blew $229 on my New York and Company credit card this weekend. Eeek! But it was sooo worth it. I worked out my bills today and realized that I can pay it off in full next month, which means no high interest rate. Nonetheless, I have to settle down and stay away from the mall. Every time I think I'm done, memories of Eddie Bauer khakis, Simple shoe casual wear, and sassy sweaters from The Limited keep me going back for more. All the money that I'm spending on attire should be going toward my Visa bills - especially since I'll graduate from DePaul in June, thus ending my glorious supply of student loan money.

But it'll be alright - after graduation, I'll land this fantastic job in the Chicagoland area and become the big-city woman I've always wanted to be - just like Mary Tyler Moore. Only my hat will be a lot more expensive than hers.

A Kiss By Any Other Name...

So there I was on this quiet Sunday, lounging around in my comfy PeaceFrog pajama pants, catching up with my family via telephone back in Chicago. When my 16-year-old brother gets the phone, we talk about school, home life and, at my prompting, his love life. I asked Geo if he had a girlfriend: "Not a girlfriend...." After some more coaxing, I finally get out of him the fact that while he's not courting any special lady, he does have lady friends. For, you know....

"For what?" I said."Making out?"

"Making out?" he cried, and had a hearty laugh at my ignorant expense. "That's from like the fifties." And laughed again when I told him I didn't kick it with a homie until I was 15.

"But he was 18, so that made me cool, right?" I asked.

His reply: "What's with you and all these old guys?"

So, peeps, in case you don't have the 411 on current lingo trends, know that if there's a boy or girl in your life that you kiss often but do not officially date, the two of you are kickin' it. When I was 11, I referred to it as "necking" because that's what Jeffrey Osborn called it in "Baby, Stay With Me Tonight." (And I was denied access to rap because it was dirty. I mean, do you hear some of the stuff they play on the Lite?)

While I may be out of the language loop, my parents have had at least one teenager in the house since 1993, so they're on the up and up. Mom closed our time together with "Word to your mother." ("You know that's you, right?" I told her.)

My dad? "Represent."

I so love my family.

Book It

I finally finished Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim (a true masterpiece, by the way) and began a new book. I've decided to tackle The Chronicles of Narnia series, so I'm reading the first installment, The Magician's Nephew. After the first line, I was hooked.

"This is a story about something that happened long ago when your grandfather was a child."

By the end of that sentence, I could already feel myself floating out of my body and into C.S. Lewis's world, which I just knew was going to be wonderful. And I'm 24 - imagine reading that as a child!

As I think about what kind of values I want to impress upon my future children, it's overwhelming. But when I think about the insights I've gained from books, the task seems a wee bit easier. Here are just a few.

Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret
From religion to menstruation, there's a time for everything. Plus, those handy "We must, we must, we must increase our bust" exercises.

Flowers For Algernon
Ignorance is bliss.

The Pigman
Creepy old men aren't always what they seem.

Fear Street series
Sometimes there are monsters in your closet.

Nancy Drew Files
Women can do anything...

Sweet Valley High series
...but some things should still wait until the second date.

Archie comics
Threesomes are cool!

The Baby-sitters Club
Duh, I learned how to baby-sit.

Flowers in the Attic series
Reading this at 12, I didn't learn a thing - in fact, I was left with even more questions. "Mom, what's an orgasm?" (You think I'm kidding?)

I love being a writer!

Post This

Why is it that co-workers feel entitled to use your stuff without asking? More to the point, why don't they leave my friggin' Post-Its alone?

I love pens, writing things down, and paper with adhesive strips on the back; thus, it shouldn't come as a surprise that I LOVE POST-ITS. They've conglomerated to form a bright neon-colored Post-It Mountain in the corner of my desk, a mountain with a variety of shape and color.

I suppose leaving them in plain view implies an open invitation to be touched by any person who enters my office, because every time I meet with our director of career development, he reaches across my desk in order to attack Post-It Mountain. He then completely destroys the mountain to find the shape/color of his choice, usually near the bottom of the pile. No "Hey, you mind if I use one of these?" I don't even get a warning: "I'm just gonna grab something to write on, if you don't mind." And it's not like he doesn't have his own pad of paper - his eyes must be held captive by the bright blues and yellows that make up Post-It Mountain, because it never fails. Every time.

I thought it was just him until yesterday when, at a content planning meeting for our employee newsletter, the managing editor (read: "all I do is pick out the fun quote for page four") ripped off a Post-It in order to make a note for herself. To her credit, she pulled it from the top of the pile, but still. Did nobody teach these people not to touch things that aren't theirs? Didn't their kindergarten teachers slap their hands when they reached for another kid's box of crayons?

The world may never know.

Limited Intelligence

This afternoon, I was preparing to mail out my September rent check; while looking for my landlord's address, I found my Limited statement tucked between the pages of my phonebook.

What a dofus. Yes, I mean me.

Limited Fear

I received my Limited credit card bill the other day and decided to pay it in person. I happily brought in my statement, got the bill paid in full (hooray!), and was then happily on my way. It wasn't until this morning going through the raggedy ole tote bag I call a purse that I realized the statement was gone.

I called the company and was greeted with a voice-automated system that says I can report my card "lost or stolen." I did it, thinking I'd be issued a new card and number and then be on with it. Nope. They just issue you a new card - same number - that features special coding to indicate it's the correct card to use. So I had to cut up my perfectly-good-not-lost-or-stolen-at-all card just to wait for another. When I tried to talk to a rep, the system told me they don't work on Sunday.

I'm a little PO'ed, but maybe paranoid, too. I'm imagining some sassy young thing will find the statement with a reciept showing the account is paid in full and then whoop for joy. She'll run to The Limited (since I probably lost it in the mall) and charge to her heart's content. Or she'll charge, charge, charge online, where they can't ask for a photo ID.

Somebody tell me I'm being silly. Tell me that a Limited clerk would have the smarts to ask for identification before charging to a piece of paper. That it was probably dropped in the store itself; or, at the very least, picked up by a 12-year-old boy who, finding the statement worthless, ripped it to shreds and threw it in the trash.

....

I just checked The Limited's Web site. You can't do online shopping. I feel a little better.

It's Just the Way That You Love Me

My mom called tonight with exciting news: my dad bought a brand-new 2004 GMC truck! He just picked it up today, so it'll probably take a while for the novelty to wear off. Or maybe it'll never wear off. The last new vehicle my family owned was in the early 1980's. Mom said he was grinning from ear-to-ear.

These days, people are so concerned with having the "perfect life" before they start a family - sometimes before they even start a life (is that a good example of ironic?). Make sure you finish college before you get engaged. Pay off your credit cards and get the big-money job before you marry. Buy a big house and drive an SUV before you have kids.

When my parents had me at 19, I was the ONLY thing they had. They struggled. My dad joined the Marines right before I was born, and my mom stayed in Chicago with me for almost a year before the three of us moved to Tennessee, then North Carolina. And they always needed money. Once, when I was four and Samantha was barely two, they received a coupon for a free family portrait from the gas company. When Mom went to pick it up, she found several different shots, but only one was free. After picking her favorite, she watched in horror as the receptionist threw the rest away.

As I got older, my family grew. We still struggled, but things got better. My dad went from taxicab driver to Chicago firefighter. My parents went from renters to apartment owners. And after I graduated from a middle school where students carried guns and threw books from the third floor, they worked even harder to keep me in a well-respected, private high school.

Today, two out of my parents' five offspring are college graduates, and a third just became a freshman. But there's still one in private school and another on her way. The only time my parents get new clothes is during the holidays, only it's less about money (though it's still tight) and more about them putting that money into other things. So when my dad got this new truck, it was hard-earned. If they had waited to have "the perfect life" before starting the future, where would they be today? Where would I be?

This entry isn't as concise as I'd hoped to make it, but I'm so proud of my parents for trusting each other, dedicating themselves to each other, and paving their own way. I believe they are the best example that "perfect" has nothing to do with status and everything with love.

And in case you're wondering, yes, the title is a tribute to Paula Abdul.

Entertainment Weakly

This past spring, I was spending almost $15 a month on magazines like Entertainment Weekly and Glamour. Ridiculous, right? Especially when these mags have 20 gazillion postcard inserts advertising subscriptions for as little as 12 bucks. So I took out those subscriptions and have saved myself a ton of money on reading material. There's just one problem: finding the time to actually READ it.

In this last week, I finally got to and finished my September Glamour and worked through the last three weeks of EW. Now, I'm finally on the current issue, which I need to get through fast or come Saturday, I'll find myself behind once again. And I have yet to mention the Poets & Writers subscription I paid for to keep myself abreast with current trends in the publishing industry. Thank the Lord that one is bimonthly - I haven't even touched the May/June issue yet. What's saving me money is costing me time.

I know what you're thinking: just don't read the friggin' magazines, right? But they actually teach me a lot. EW is no Weekly World News; the articles are in-depth, edgy, and mirror the kind of magazine writing I'd like to do someday. As for Glamour, the knowledge has more to do with finding a good pair of jeans and less about writing a catchy lead, but hey, I have to wear clothes every day, don't I? I'm constantly ripping out pages of great outfits to search for on my next trip to the mall.

Oh, well. If ever they release a pop culture edition of Trivial Pursuit, I'll be a genius!

Single and Loving It

On Friday, my friend Nicole dropped me a line to announce that she and her boyfriend recently got engaged. He did it at Navy Pier on the Ferris Wheel; halfway through the ride, he gets down on one knee and says, "We've made it this far with you as my girlfriend. Go the rest of the way with me as my fiancee." Who could say no to that? Then, while in Indianapolis yesterday, Luke and I found out that Matt and Patty, his brother and sister-in-law, are going to have a baby. Hooray!

Later on, I realized that as happy as I was for all of these people, who truly deserve their wonderful blessings, I was also a little bummed that nothing as life-changing was happening to ME. (Yes, in the end, it's all about me.) I'm in a great place in my life: Good job, cool apartment, great boyfriend, a nearly complete graduate degree, a ton of family and friends that I absolutely love. But still, I was sad. Until I came up with...

Why I'm Glad to be a Non-Pregnant Ms.

1. Taxes and FAFSAs are super-easy to file.
2. I'm shopping at The Limited instead of Babies R Us.
3. Fried food doesn't make me sick.
4. Bathroom breaks are the only reason I'm out of bed at 3:00 a.m.
5. I don't have to worry about fitting into a wedding dress.
6. I don't have to worry about not fitting into my other dresses.
7. It's still inappropriate for people to rub my stomach and coo.
8. It's cheaper.
9. I'm not losing vacation days because little Elaine has the chicken pox.
10. It really is cheaper.

A Semi-New Me

Since returning from my writers workshop a couple of weeks ago, my morning routine has changed drastically. Before said workshop, I woke up after 7:00 a.m., procrastinated in the shower, and then frantically fixed my hair before rushing out the door at 8:00 a.m. What a way to begin the day, right? One look at me and you knew the only reason I was up and about was for work.

But while in Muncie, I put my best foot forward and actually got ready FOR THE DAY. I was up around 6:45, had a nice shower, put on a little make-up, worked my hair a bit. It felt good. I felt good. Better than that, I felt ready to face whatever came my way. If I'd had a little beret, I would've thrown it in the air and done a little twirl, Mary-Tyler-Moore style.

On the last day, I resolved to stick to my new routine. And I have. And it's great. My hair isn't sopping wet, I'm not running from my car to my office, and according to my mom, I have a new glow. (I told her it was due to my "natural glow" blush, but she wasn't hearing any of that.) For the first time, I actually feel like a 24-year-old.

This afternoon, the semi-new me will drive to Chicago so I can accompany my family when they pick up Samantha from O'Hare. It'll be good to have her home, especially for my mom - she's been playing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" on her record player every one of the 10 days Samantha's been in Africa. You've gotta love my mom.

Frema Fifteen

This collection of musical genius just about sums me up. I'll let you decide why.

"Soul Bossa Nova" - Quincy Jones Orchestra

"Mmmbop" - Hanson

"All For You" - Sister Hazel

"These Are Days" - 10,000 Maniacs

"As I Lay Me Down" - Sophie B. Hawkins

"Closer to Fine" - Indigo Girls

"Penny Lover" - Lionel Ritchie

"Jealousy" - Liz Phair

"Alone" - Lisa Loeb

"So Much to Say" - Dave Matthews Band

"I Like the Way (The Kissing Game)" - Hi-Five

"Addicted to Love" - Robert Palmer

"Never Gonna Give You Up" - Rick Astley

"I Touch Myself" - The Divinyls

"Don't Worry Be Happy" - Bobby McFarren

Warning: Expect more awesomely bad lists in the future.

The Power of Peanut Butter

I'm back from another conference, and today, sitting here in my pink piggy slippers this Saturday morning, I'm excited at the prospect of spending a day in town. Who'd have thought? There will be laundry to wash, floors to clean, books to read, and manuscripts to proof. (Chris: sorry for the delay.) It's also a beautiful sunny day, so I might even walk to Brookside Park and have some fun on the swings.

In case you haven't noticed, I've been away from home a lot these last couple of weeks, and when I came home yesterday, I found the nicest surprise in my freezer: a quart of peanut butter ice cream from Busy Bee, courtesy of my sweet, wonderful boyfriend. It reminds me of one of the many reasons I love him so much: he doesn't just listen; he remembers. Last November, as Busy Bee was preparing to close up shop for the winter, the second-to-last "Flavor of the Day" was peanut butter, a flavor NOT well represented in grocery stores - or, at the very least, Pick and Save. By the time I got to Busy Bee to experience this coveted taste one more time, they'd run out. I was crushed. So when Luke saw they were stocked with it while I was in Chicago, he bought me my very own quart, just so I wouldn't miss it again.

In a world where many women measure the quality of their relationships in fancy dinners, expensive jewelry, and how successful their partners are at the art of mindreading, I don't think it's at all wrong for me to measure mine in peanut butter. I'll come out a winner every time.

Published Enemy

Well, I'm back from my writers workshop ,and I must say it was wonderful. I was in the company of published authors, people who turned their ideas into words and their words into a hardback masterpiece. Not only were the featured speakers impressive, I was amazed at the number of attendees who had published their own work. One woman had written an eight-book series about a pre-teen detective; others had clippings from magazines like Time, Writer's Digest, and other national publications. On my last day, I sat in on a "Time Management For Writers" seminar and was encouraged to create a long-term plan for my writing - map out my ultimate goals and then move Heaven and Hell to see them through. That's when I realized I wasn't sure what they were.

If you were to ask me where I want to be in five years, I could do it in less than a minute without batting an eye: I want to have (at the very least) a master's degree. Be married. Have children. Live closer to my family. Continue writing. However, if you were to ask me where I want to be WITH MY WRITING in five years, I'd have to scratch my head and say, "Argh?" Since I knew how to read, I knew I wanted to write. And I did. I knew I wanted others to read what I wrote. And they do, from old stories (Leslie!) to new stories (Chris!) to these very blog entries (you!). But that was as far as I got.

One of the points made over the weekend that I truly appreciated was that "being published" means something different to every writer. Some have their sights set on the Barnes and Noble best sellers table. Others are perfectly content with running copies from a computer and passing out stapled pages to friends and family members. What does it mean to me?

I want my ideas to be heard. I want to write about the most humiliating and earth-shattering moments in my life so that someone can say, "She had the guts to say what I couldn't. I know exactly what she means." I don't have to see my stuff at the B and N for that to happen.

I learned a lot about the self-publishing business over the weekend and have been seriously weighing its advantages. Taking ownership of my writing and deciding how and when it will appear to others is definitely appealing. We'll see what happens. For now, though, I'm going to work on an idea I have for a non-fiction story collection. Dave Sedaris isn't the only writer who can make a person wet her pants and wipe a tear at the same time. At least, that's what I'm counting on.