Thanks to a friend’s Facebook post this morning, I learned that today is National Cabernet Sauvignon Day. Umm…HOW WAS I NEVER INFORMED OF THIS BEFORE?!?!?! Good thing I picked up a bottle the last time I was at Target as a self-defense weapon and didn’t need to use it. So how am I celebrating? At home. By myself. Consider me Grumpy Cat in human form.
I like to think I’m a “Social Drinker” as I often find myself in social settings…with a drink in hand. After surveying several other interior designers, I think it’s safe to say that cocktails and designers go hand-in-hand (literally). A good cocktail brings out the best in us and makes conversation flow more than it already does among us. Sometimes, however, I just don’t feel like being social and want to stay home in a pair of gym shorts with and enjoy a glass/bottle of wine alone. I still consider this a form of social drinking as I am frequently FaceTiming or texting a friend who is doing the same thing. For instance, I am currently multitasking between typing this and texting a friend – the same friend who thankfully informed me it’s National Cabernet Sauvignon Day – who is celebrating it at home with his boyfriend. Coincidence? No. We just like our holidays.
So in honor of National Cabernet Sauvignon Day, I’ve put together a little guide for how to celebrate it if you feel like being antisocial like I do tonight. I consider it a wonderful little 12-Step Program for nonalcoholics like myself. Continue reading
So you want to ask me out on a date. Great. I’d like to take a few minutes and give you a few pointers on how NOT to screw it up. It’s really not THAT complicated…
I recently went on a date with a guy that started off fine, but then went way south (and not in a good way either). Please learn from his mistakes.
First and foremost, I should probably warn you: I’m a judgmental bitch. Be original because I’m more than likely going to judge you based on how creative you are with planning a date. When you suggest dinner at your favorite wing spot, games, and fireworks, you’re definitely off to a great start.
Your favorite wing spot should never be Hooters. We are gay men. I do not want to be eye level with some girl’s fake knockers. Continue reading
So a couple weeks ago, I went out on a date with this guy. I wasn’t sure if it counted as a blind date since I couldn’t remember what he looked like thanks to giving out my number thanks to Grinding drunk the one night, but figured what the hell. A guy offering pizza and beer when you’re a poor college graduate is worth whatever awkward situation could ensue. I mean, at least I’d have chowed down on a free meal and (hopefully) left with a decent buzz to kickstart the night. At least he lived in a nice area of town in a pretty legit condo judging from the Google street view, otherwise it would have been game over right from the start and I would have “gotten lost” or something on the way there and had to cancel due to a “family emergency” or some other spur of the moment lie I could come up with to get me out of the awkwardness.
So I get to his house…and no, I wasn’t looking like a drowned harassed rat or anything (since it wasn’t raining, although I did have to take the train, and y’all know the MTA should stand for…well, I’m sure you get the reference) and blind date actually isn’t the type that would require a good paper-bagging as I’d worried he’d be since I couldn’t remember a thing about our drunken Grindr conversation (whoops).
Nice Condo: check
Good Pizza: check
Stella Artois: check
Conversation: oh…dear…god. Continue reading
Whenever I go to the Target in the Uptown neighborhood of Chicago after dark, I justify buying a bottle or two of wine each time I go by telling myself it could be used as a weapon in self-defense should someone try to mug me and steal my purchases on the walk back to train. The fact that said mugging has never yet happened is just an added bonus for my wine rack.
Seriously. This Target is in…the…hood. You get off the train and – legit – it reeks of ghetto fabulousness. Walking from the Wilson red line stop to the entrance of Target, there are more weave shops, smoke shops, and “African Hair Braiding” shops than I think I’ve ever seen in my life. To say that it’s in an “ethnic” neighborhood is an understatement. The one day, I even passed a lady trying to sell last season’s luxury Avon (hahaha…right…because Avon is sooooo luxurious, right?) products out of a suitcase on the street corner outside Target – we’re talking NYC-sidewalk-vendor-selling-knockoff-handbags-and-sunglasses style. I thought I had seen it all on the red line…until I got off at the Wilson stop. Yikes. Needless to say, even after three straight weekends of laying out at the beach opting for JWOWW One and Done lotion rather than SPF (sorry, mom!) I still feel slightly out of place. Continue reading
Growing up in rural northwestern Pennsylvania then spending two years in the football-obsessed capital city of Nebraska, you quickly become dependent on having a vehicle. For most people, driving to and from work and everywhere in between is something you get used to and take for granted. For 25 years, I never could have imagined a day and time when I’d gladly ditch my car in exchange for public transportation.
Living in Chicago, you quickly realize that cars are a waste of time, money, gas, effort, stress, high-blood pressure…you name it. It’s not worth having one in this city. When my family visited recently, I gladly sent my car home with them, essentially swapping out the headache of having to move my car twice a month for street cleaning (welcome to driving in circles for 30+ minutes each time hunting for a free parking space that you’ll actually fit in without having a dented/scratched bumper) for lower insurance rates thanks to a population a fraction of the size of Chicago while I finish out my lease that’s thankfully up in May.
Not having a car is, by far, one of the most liberating feelings ever. I now understand how feminists felt when they burned their bras during the Women’s Rights Movement (or whenever they burned them – perhaps while camping for fire-starters last weekend? – I don’t know how you ladies operate these days). Without a car here, public transportation becomes your best friend and worst nightmare, all at the same time. Continue reading
I’ve come to realize in life that searching for perfection is like searching for the Fountain of Youth. Sorry to all you Ponce de Leon wannabes out there, but – just like the fountain – it doesn’t exist. It’s an ever-elusive quest that some people get so caught up in that it practically eats them alive.
Before I get into this, I’d like to set the record straight. After reading over my first post, it makes me come across as a condescending, egomaniacal, self-centered smart-ass (in the words of the one and only Jen Lancaster – if you haven’t read Bitter is the New Black, go buy it…I’m not kidding. Do it!), but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Since I’m sure some, if not all, of my internet-savvy family members will end up getting wind of this blog at some point or another through the grapevine, I’d like to set one thing straight: I’m no better than any of you. Yes, I am the tall, tanned, well-dressed one – we can all agree on this, but am I any better than any of you for this? Not at all. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am in my life and without you I wouldn’t be who I am or where I am today, so thank you. I wouldn’t change a thing about how or where I was raised or about any of you in general.
Now, with that being said, perfection is not measured by the clothes we wear, how we look, what car we drive, where we live, financial success, who we date, NONE of that. I’ll be the first to admit that my life isn’t perfect and probably never will be. Perfection simply doesn’t exist. I mean, take Lindsay Lohan for example. Childhood star, had everything she could have ever wanted. BOOM. Look where she is now. Hanging with Oprah and talking about how big of a mess her life is and how she wants to change. Perfect life to perfect mess. Just like that. Continue reading
I get asked a lot why a good-looking guy with a good job, nice condo, future plans, blah blah blah is single. Six hours later, I’ll respond to them: “Sorry, I fell asleep.” Whoops. My life is pretty much an episode of True Life: I Have a Mild Case of Self-Diagnosed Narcolepsy. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had plans to go out – yes, even on dates – and thought to myself “I should really take a quick power nap so I’m well-rested since who knows what this night is going to turn into” and then slept through said plans.
Take last night for example. So I had been chatting with this guy for a week or so online who’s in design school and made plans to meet up with him around 9pm for a drink since we’re apparently neighbors (small world, right?). That’s the first thing you’ll learn about designers: We love to socialize. Preferably over drinks.
6pm Power Nap: ZzZzZzZzZzZzZzZzZz
Yes, that’s correct. My power nap turned into an all-out snooze fest. At 11pm my self-diagnosed narcoleptic ass woke up from a dead sleep wondering why it was so dark. Yes. Leave it to me to sleep through a date/networking/whatever-you-want-to-call-it. So much for connecting with another (future) designer.
So although well-rested this morning, single me reigns steady…and not hungover (on a Sunday of all days) in the least. It’s a rare occasion.
Sometimes I wonder who I fucked over in a past life to become such an obsessive compulsive perfectionist. Seriously. Nobody in my family is as much of a perfectionist as me. It’s a running joke that I was adopted, but my mom assures me that she pushed me out of her ladybits after what was probably a long and painful labor that I am perfectly content never thinking about or imagining. Not only am I the only OCD perfectionist in my large and highly dysfunctional family, but I don’t fit in lookwise either. Everyone insists I look like one side of the family or the other, but look at any Christmas picture where the whole family is together and trying not to murder one another and, oh hi, there I am! Standing out like a tall, tan, and well-dressed sore thumb on a hand comprised of otherwise frumpily-dressed (minus the occasional stylish relative who married into the family) fingers. While there’s nobody in my family remotely Honey-Boo-Boo-esque thank god, nobody is exceptionally model-worthy either, and it’s no secret that I somehow wound up with all the looks in the family. So needless to say, you’d think I was adopted. Possibly from a well-dressed family where OCD wasn’t looked at as anything out of the ordinary. I’d like to imagine if I’d been raised by my birth family that I would have grown up being best friends with Quinoa and Chevron – if they weren’t imaginary, that is. We’d live fabulously well-dressed lives be the wet dreams of every child model photographer. And then we’d grow up. The end.
So how does this obsessive compulsiveness relate? I’m not quite sure. All I know is that I’m unhappy if everything in my life isn’t clean and in its place where it belongs. Perhaps I think into things too much or expect things to be perfect outside the confines of my high-rise condo, but I’ve come to realize that you can only control so much before you turn into a psychotic bitch. Sometimes, you just have to let go and realize that everything in life isn’t perfect no matter how OCD your psychotic self tries to go on it. Continue reading