No More Secret Life of an American 20-Something!!

It's over....it's ALL over, thank GOD!!! I had pretty clear skin up until a week ago and the stress of planning a surprise for my young lover manifested itself on my face. Do men have *any* idea how difficult it is for a woman to keep a secret? It's like medieval torture! But it's over now and everything went off without a hitch.

Thursday (his actual birthday), I took it upon myself to drink enough for the both of us. I had time to kill between lunch with an old friend and dinner with Michael and his friends. So I did what any other person over the age of 15 would do: I had a few cocktails outside Wrigley Field with my brother. We talked about life and being somewhat jobless, its perks and downfalls, relationships with people who creepily have the same birthday, etc. Ya know, the stuff of life.

You could easily determine our monetary statuses by the 'uniqueness' of our evenings planned for our significant others. He was taking his girlfriend on a bike ride (cost: almost free), and I was taking my boyfriend to a discounted sushi night (cost: $70 for 5 people). Man, we really pull out all the stops for those we love.

The next morning I was hurting to say the least. Michael's friends were flying in to surprise him, and I was planning to play chauffeur. Planning was the key word there. My voracious hunt for a Taco Bell where I ordered a Sierra Nevada instead of a Sierra Mist put a kink in my plans. Too bad my BAC level and time management skills were a little off that day. I picked up his first friend, L. She's such an awesome girl that she was just happy to be there, even though I asked her to hop a train ride half way across the city through the worst part of town.

We quickly met up with Michael and headed out for drinks and appetizers at a local pub. The journey to the pub was *treacherous*!! It started to hail, then rain like a Hanoi monsoon, then the air started to swirl. I quickly say, "We should get to cover." I'm no Tom Skilling but the green sky, our metal surroundings and mini hurricanes in front of our faces tend to not be good signs. We headed inside and then things got really crazy. The rain came down so hard that we couldn't see an inch outside the windows....just in the nick of time. Phew!

When things settled down we got ready and headed to the W hotel to meet A and then to Italian Village. Then the second bout of rain began. It was terrrrrible. We couldn't find the door to the comedy show and we resorted to survival mode aka heading to the bar, Casey Moran's. For the typical southerner (which our guests were) this place was not exactly conducive to their lifestyles. Loud music and posers everywhere. We ventured to Glascott's instead, a more subdued and understated establishment. The final surprise came when we met J there. Then V wanted to head to a semi-club where we ended up in a sweaty basement full of skanks on the hunt for their next ex-husband. Ah yes, the real Chicago...(?)

The following day we woke up bright and early and met at Wrigley Field for some rooftop antics. Free food and booze for 3+ hours? You bet your sweet monkey butt we took advantage of it. I did, however, have an altercation with some metal stairs that left me with a nasty goose egg on my forehead. The bartender came running across with a bag of ice to ask if I was OK. Not my proudest moment but an AFV-esque mishap for the books. We ventured to Murphy's and found my sister who was already 4 sheets to the wind. I later came to find out that she ended up lost without a phone wandering the streets of Chicago looking for a place to crash. That girl needs a tether of some sort...

Unfortunately, I had to go to work completely hamboned at 5 PM after the game, but I sustained my drunkenness for the duration of my shift free of charge. I had a great time but felt bad that I couldn't hang out with Michael's friends from out of town. The next day I was called into work when I thought I didn't have to. Showing up in the clothes from the night before, and being an hour and a half late to work after a week of employment isn't the best way to make a good impression. Oops! I made good money though and sympathized with the hungover dad's on Fathers' Day.

Tidbit: Most people don't realize it but bartenders are on their feet for 7+ hours a shift. You'll never know the feeling of wanting to cut off your own feet until you've worked three back-to-back shifts. I've been walking like a 3-legged coyote who gnawed his way out of a bear trap.

Either way, the weekend as a whole was a good time. Michael's surprise face was a little lackluster and not exactly what I was going for, but I know he was happy. But from now on, no more surprises for the big galut. Until he turns 30....muhahahahaha

P.S. No Mom Story for this entry but check back in oh, I'd say about 4 hours, and I should have something good to relay.

You're-Still-Alive-Days So Be Happy!

It's been a slew of birthday celebrations in the past week: Brother, Sister, Father, Brother's girlfriend and Michael's. Their eerily close anniversaries of expulsions from their mothers' uteri came to a head on Sunday at my brother's apartment in Wrigleyville. After working my first shift back in the bar biz, I made my way over, donned in white, ready to decimate my purely, clad bodice with stains from fermented grapes. The scene was expected. The beer flowed like wine. Several friends from days gone by and a few unknown faces speckled here and there. One of the celebrants (who shall remain nameless) was dropped after an over-the-shoulder episode. It was a good crowd and only a few casualties from the party, but I hear they made a semi-quick recovery.

Today is my dad's 56th birthday. I came home and forgot the date. My sleep pattern has been off since I got back from NC, and I kept thinking it was 2 days from now. He left to play golf in a sullen, woe-is-me manner. I felt awful to say the least. On top of it, no one made plans and my mother had a meeting that would go until 8 PM. When he got back from golf you could tell he was a little tipsy. We chatted for about an hour until my mother came home. He told me that 56 was the age his dad died and therefore, it is time for his departure from this earth as well. Pretty morbid...I know.

It got me thinking about when I was 23 and up until that year, I had lived my mother's life. I went to an all-girls, Catholic high school, went to a 4 year college, got a job downtown and lived in Lincoln Park (only a few blocks from my mom's original apartment). She married at 23.....and I was no where close to it. I could even find a date much less a guy to go on multiple dates with. But it hit me not even a few months after my birthday: I AM NOT MY MOTHER! This is not a good thing or a bad thing. It's simply different. It's what makes us human. We all have a plan and though some may not agree with me due to anal retentive control issues, it is what makes life fun. We don't know what is in store for us.

In the midst of the myriad of birthdays, I never thought I'd come to such a serious conclusion. It helps to have a span of them to get the different perspectives of what each year means to each person. As a huge endorser of birthdays in general (not just for the boozy celebrations), I can't get enough of the fun but also the lessons learned. We get the chance at the beginning of the New Year to collectively reflect on how humans as a whole have developed and grown, or even have experienced sadness and loss. But each birthday should be happy because it is a manifestation of our individual growth on a literal and figurative level. We have a moment to ourselves to see what we have done and to give ourselves a little pat on the back. Be happy you've been given the chance, because living in a 3-generational house has taught me that life is fleeting. Make sure time flies by by having too much fun. :o)

Fun mom story:

Our dinner was steak and asparagus. After a few hours, my mother heads to the bathroom while I (an innocent bystander, mind you) was watching TV. She announces with the door open, "Asparagus...Process: Complete!!" Such a character.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig(?)

Me: 25 year old, female. Status: living with my parents after a brief, quarter-life crisis.

Brief Life Synopsis from July 2009 to June 2010:

I hated my job working at a pregnancy counseling center. No men, too much alcohol and access to about $30,000 to start a new life and off I went. I moved to Charlotte, NC to see what I could find on my own (hopefully a human of the male persuasion). Background: I had been on 3 dates in 3 years and my only boyfriend was a drug addict, bassist from Daytona Beach, FL who is currently running from the IRS and government after the mortgage crisis imploded...need I say more? You would have pulled the same stint I did given the chance.

The last 6 months of 2009 were...interesting (to say the least). I dated the chode of all chodes. Lesson learned. Switched roommates and apartments after the new year and decided to get serious by looking for a 'real' job (if those even exist anymore). Too bad for me, I fell in love with a native North Carolinian who came home for Christmas...he lived in Chicago (my home town). Woe is me and oh the irony! I *finally* had freed myself from the midwestern curse of cruising bars for eligible (and extremely privileged, snotty and self-entitled) bachelors and come right back to where I started: home.

Long distance makes for an honest woman so I should be grateful, because once you realize you can't rely on your physicality, you inevitably get down to the meat of it all. Your real personality shows through and the receiving and unsuspecting victim either takes it or leaves it. Fortunately and oddly, he still likes me after 6 months of long distance relations via contemporary technology. Phew! Apparently making fart jokes and talking about my bathroom (mis)adventures hasn't scared him off...yet. With that in mind, I don't know if I should be relieved or worried in my choice of partner...

Current Position in Life:

After living a carefree and expensive life in the overly friendly South, I made an executive decision after consulting the last of my brain cells left from the Drunk Disaster of 2009, to come home and live rent/utility free with my parents. To be honest, living at home isn't too bad. My parents remodeled their basement to include a flat screen every 20 ft. and a bar where I can enjoy my yeast-laced libations to my heart's delight. Oh yeah, the free food ain't too shabby either.

As for the general ambiance, I am quick to forget the livelihood and crassness of my own mother's imagination. I always knew it before, but I really am my mother's daughter. Her mind goes from the gutter up and her sense of humor follows suit. The only difference is that although we both drank our faces off in college and in our early 20's, I retained my mental filter while my mother hilariously (and most times awkwardly) has not. As of about 2 minutes into writing this paragraph about the general environment of my childhood home, my mother referenced the abuse of Catholic Archbishops, damning their behavior while giving an overly vivid demonstration of the extent to which they abused. It went something like this: My mother pointing and extending her index finger in a poking motion while mouthing the words 'anal sex' as if she was teaching the birds and bees to a person who's IQ was below 70. On the Richter Scale of ridiculousness, my mother is at a steady 12...we cower at the thought of the aftershock from such demonstrations to anyone under the age of 15. But to everyone else in my family, it's just mom being mom.

If I can take pretty much *everything* she says with a grain of salt and supply some sort of emotional buffer between my parents, I'm sure I can stave off 'Empty Nest Syndrome' long enough to get her through the change. For this, my father will be eternally grateful. That may even help my inheritance a little, but I wouldn't count on it. You'd have to be super human to influence the uncanny, hormonal fluctuation of a menopausal woman. Just ask Joan Rivers' daughter Melissa. She's been dealing with Joan going through the change since 1968!

As of now, I'll be bartending downtown at a lil ol' place called Third Rail. Where the drinks go down easy and so do the women. Hah! I kid, I kid. Hopefully, I'll be able to make some dough to get my life back on track and to literally pay for my past 'sins of the fodder'. I'm re-assimilating into Chicago culture so I'm doing what every single, young, coed does: joining a softball league. There, I shall (not) live up to the family standard of athleticism and lead my team to victory via embarrassing running and awkward batting stances to which only a frightened turtle can relate.

Until then, my friends, don't fall ill to the temptation of hibernation.