Part of me doesn’t even want to write this. We’re all so inundated lately with politics; it’s at the forefront of every form Read the rest of this entry →

It had finally happened.  After a solid month of waking up every single morning exactly twenty minutes before my alarm went off to the sound of chainsaws, jackhammers, large equipment being broken, and heavy appliances being dragged by loudly irritated construction workers, the apartment above us was finally complete.  (Seriously.  I don’t know what the fuck was happening up there, but I can’t wait to see it.  By the sounds of it, they built an entire bowling alley/theme park/festival grounds.  I had thought Mr’s Stomps-A-Lot, our previous neighbors, were loud.  They had nothing on these workers.  Nothing.  Plus, I’m a night person, so their bowling tournaments/boot stomping competitions at midnight didn’t bother me.  This was happening in the morning.  Not cool.)  For an entire month, the first words out of my mouth were “Oh my God why??!!!  Just shut up!!!”  So on Saturday, when we walked out to see two guys moving actual furniture in, I was elated. 

We met Preston, and he told us his girlfriend Courtney was moving in with him.  How fun!  The last female neighbor I had was awesome, maybe I’d make a new friend – and she’d have my name!!  How exciting.

Saturday was awful, weather-wise, and all previous plans went out the window in the face of cold pouring rain.  (Seriously, Spring, get your shit together.)  Anyhow, we planned on grilling and watching the Hawks game, but even we weren’t willing to stand in the downpour just for grilled sausages, so we elected to tailgate on our inside back porch instead.  That porch is shared with the other tenants, but it seemed as though they were done moving, so we didn’t think we’d be in their way.  We found an eighties playlist on TuneIn, got some beers, and hung out most of the afternoon.  We were having a lovely time. 

The day prior, I received a frantic call from my landlord, stating there was a leak in the first floor apartment, which is unoccupied, that seemed to be coming from our place.  Now, I’m no plumber, but I do know two plus two equals four, and I quickly deduced it was likely from the plumbing work that was being done upstairs the day prior.  But  no, he was pretty sure it was coming from our place, despite no water being on and never having a leak before.  Also, he didn’t have a key to our apartment because of course.  “I don’t know what to do, Mrs. Drobick!!  This is really bad!”  (Did I mention my landlord is 27
years old?  And bought up half of the damn city last year?  Ugh.)  He said they were going to have to break our deadbolt, but assured me that they would fix it right away and make sure the cats didn’t get out.  Based on the fact that he had also called the exterminator due to the complaints of giant rats in the basement and then texted to say they’d be right out with the ant spray, I didn’t have a whole lot of faith in this, but what was I going to say, no?  The kid was freaking out.

***Side note?  They drilled two giant holes in my pantry which shares a wall with our bathroom to be clear the leak wasn’t coming from us.  It wasn’t.  But that led to me being woken up that Monday by a gentleman pounding on my door, yelling in broken English, “Miss!!!  I’ve come to fix your holes!!!”  I have dropped so many f-bombs before nine in the morning the past month, I can’t even tell you.***

In the course of having to drill said holes in the pantry, they had to pull out all of our pots and pans because for some stupid reason we have no cabinets.  So all of my pots, pans, cutlery, baking dishes, etc. were piled on the kitchen table when Tony got home.  They had, of course, put the stuff they pulled out first – i.e., the stuff we actually use – on the bottom, meaning the top of the pile was oddly shaped tupperware, the blender, and three stupidly small saucepans that I cannot even fathom why I have.

Oh, and a cake mold shaped like a penis.  That was right on top. 

To be clear, it’s not like I use said cake mold.  For one, I don’t bake.  It has been used exactly once, almost thirteen years ago, for my friend Kelly’s bachelorette party.  Kelly got married when we were still really young, and that type of stuff was super funny.  But for whatever reason, it has traveled with me through five moves since then.  Sure, I’ve lost an entire set of tools, a box of ticket stubs, a set of flatware, and approximately seven pairs of shoes in those moves, but the cake pan?  Of course that made it.  (Other ridiculous items include the box full of marbles and dice, every stuffed animal any of us has ever won at a carnival, a jar of flour, a crystal rooster with its claw broken off, and a fake bronze monkey statue we use to hold a hackey sack.  Because we’re good at adulting.)

When I got home, I started putting pots and pans back, despite the holes.  I didn’t know when they would ever be back to fix them and didn’t want everything sitting on my kitchen table all weekend.  Tony and Tony, of course, thought the cake pan was hilarious, and decided that instead of putting it back, they would use it as an ashtray.  Which, okay, even I thought was kind of funny.  (Again, see “Adulting: Things we’re bad at.) 

Back to Saturday.  The three of us are hanging on the porch, singing along to a little “Buffalo Stance,” looking forward to hockey, and having some beers.  It was a good day.  Around 5PM, we heard someone walking down the stairs.

“Hi!  Do you guys always listen to such fun music?  And I’m being serious, this has been awesome!  I’m Courtney, I just moved in upstairs!  Thought I’d bring a beer down and introduce myself.”

It goes without saying that Courtney is super cute, about 24, and appears to be a yoga instructor, right? And that I’m wearing a hockey jersey, zero makeup, and my whole socks with sandals deal because I’m old and have bad feet?

She really is super nice.  We talk for a little bit, they met at Iowa State and just moved here.  She works downtown too and is asking about riding her bike to work, saying maybe we could go together the first time.  They’re sports fans, they love to play cards, and she says once they’re settled in they’d love to have us up to have some drinks and play.  Yay!  How fun would it be to have friends as neighbors again?

And then.  And THEN.  She lights a cigarette. 

Well, shit. 

I’m guessing she’s going to want to put that out at some point.  Which is worse, acting like we’re dirtbags who put out cigarettes on the floor, or handing her a penis-shaped cake mold?  Has anyone ever had to make this decision???

I do, apparently.  She seems pretty cool, hopefully she’ll think it’s funny? I reach under the chair next to me and say, “So, they’re using this, but there is a reason…”

“I did notice that, I have to say.  That’s hilarious!”  she replies.

Right.  Can’t you just hear how that conversation went when she went back upstairs?  “How’re the new neighbors, honey?”  “Well, they’re a little older, were listening to Rump Shaker, and use a dick mold as an ashtray, but other than that, they were great!”

I can imagine she was met with a slow blink.

Surprisingly, they did not take us up on our offer to watch the Hawks game at our place as their TV wasn’t hooked up yet. 

What the hell, universe?  It’s not like we ALWAYS  use a penis-shaped cake mold as an ashtray.  Why today?  Why??

In other news, Tony just told me that she came down earlier and knocked on the back door – which was open – to inquire whether the laundry in the washing machine was ours while he was lying on the couch in only his boxers.  Thank you, baby Jesus and all that is holy, for the fact that he had pants in there to put on and didn’t answer the door all Cousin Eddie style, beer in hand, like he did that one time to my cousin Sherri.

So yeah, this is why we don’t get out much.

I was going to take a picture of the penis-mold ashtray, but then realized that might not be the picture I want showing up next to my name. See? Sometimes I think ahead.

I posted yesterday about finally fixing a problem after a year and a half of throwing coats over chairs and hanging them on every possible surface that was at least four feet off the ground.  When we had company, every door would be overgrown with coats, scarves, hats and sweatshirts.  I would occasionally comment, “Hey, we should get a coat rack,” as I was balancing yet another coat on the one hook we had, but that was about it.  Yesterday, I went to Family Dollar and bought one of those over-the-door coat racks.  The entire process, from decision to installation, took exactly seventeen minutes and six dollars, and it made me so immeasurably happy that I can’t believe I didn’t do it sooner.

I do shit like this a lot, and it’s only partially to make my mother crazy.  For instance, every week, I take a train and bus each morning and afternoon to get to and from work.  This costs almost exactly $25 each week.  Each week, I know this.  The CTA is not going to change prices, the weather is not going to break enough that I can ride my bike – therefore, on Monday, the smart, adult-like thing to do would be to load my CTA card with $25.00.  Instead, each day, I like to play a game called, “Hmm, I wonder if I have enough money to get on the bus?” while running down the street with wet hair to catch said bus.  Inevitably, I do not, and then – you guessed it, load $5.00 onto the card just so I can repeat the fun the next day.  (I used to do this when I drove to work and it made my friend Kelly insane.  I’d be on the phone with her and she’d yell, “I hear you at the gas station!  Don’t you dare only put six dollars in that tank.  Fill up the fucking car!  I know you have money!”)

Before you ask, no, I don’t know why I do this.  It’s not about the money.  I have enough.  There’s literally no explanation.  None.  I don’t enjoy it, and yet every other day or so, I can’t seem to pull the trigger on pushing the $25.00 button.  It’s decision making like this that makes me occasionally question my ability as a functioning adult in society.  Here’s a few other things I learned this week.

1.    Just because you can use Tide pods in the dishwasher when you run out of dish tabs and they get the dishes sparkly clean doesn’t mean you should.  (See also, “How to Fix Your Dishwasher without Alerting Your Landlord to the Fact that You’re an Asshole.”)

2.    There’s really no good food to eat when you feel like you’re starting to get the flu, but the absolute worst thing to eat would be the delicious pot roast and mashed cauliflower that you love more than anything.  Throwing up your favorite meal makes it less favorite-y.  Beer is also a poor choice.

3.    The fact that it’s early in the morning does not mean that you can make time go slower.  Everyone does this to some extent, but convincing yourself that you can shower, make a smoothie, look presentable, and be at the bus stop in seven minutes is unreasonable and counterproductive.  Especially because you don’t have enough money on your card to get on said bus.

4.   By the time you’re yelling at and bargaining with the cats to leave you alone, you have already lost.  Go hide in the bedroom and take a timeout.

5.   When one decides to try and mimic the super fit girl  at the gym doing pushups using TRX straps, (Google it if you don’t know,) one should assess their ability to do a regular pushup on flat ground first  (nonexistent) instead of blindly putting their feet in straps and swinging wildly until they fall on their face.

6.    Speaking of the gym, one should never, ever glance at the full length mirror while trying to do a deadlift.  You do not look cute.  Trust.

7.    After you have spent the better part of 12 hours vomiting from the flu, two of which were spent on the bathroom floor (okay, fine, on the toilet) eating a popsicle because you were so dehydrated but afraid to leave the bathroom, if, when you walk out of said bathroom to go back to bed and step in a pile of cat puke, you WILL start to cry uncontrollably. 

8.    When your husband publicly calls you out on Facebook for not ever telling him that you’re out of dishwasher tabs or cat food, looking up as he walks in the door and exclaiming, “Oh, shit, we’re out of cat food!” will be met with homicidal glares.

9.    The next time you see a patch of ice and think that you’ll gracefully hop over it, remember that A) You are not graceful, B) You are wearing dress boots with no traction, and C) Your hands are in your pockets because you didn’t bother to put your gloves on.  When you fall, it’s going to hurt.

10.   If you are meeting a friend at Walgreens to then go shopping, coming up the escalator to meet him while proudly holding the bargain deal muscle roller you didn’t realize looked just like a sex toy will not be met with enthusiasm.  He will refuse to walk with you until you find a bag that completely conceals it.

11.   Engaging in debates on Facebook about whether “50 Shades of Grey” glorifies abuse will make you want to take a hostage.  (It. Doesn’t.)

12.   Drinking an entire pot of soothing tea before bed is a good idea.  Not checking to make sure its decaffeinated is not.

13.   Stopping at your gym on the way home from a night out to use the bathroom is acceptable.  Being half in the bag while doing so will get you mocked when you come in the next day.  (Whatever.  For 70 bucks a month I’ll do what I want.)    

14.  The cashiers at Reckless Records on Milwaukee Ave. are assholes.  Big smiles and attempts at conversation will be counteracted with huge sighs and eye-rolls, no matter how friendly you want to be.

15.   Proudly exclaiming you’ve seen New Kids on the Block eight times in concert will not garner you the positive attention you were looking for.

                                                                                              Whatever.  I got the coat rack thing done.  I’ll work on the rest.