Note: I deeply apologize for the slackage. Readers, I hope you can accept this message and we can continue having this beautiful reading and writing relationship. For those of you sending threats my way regarding my slacking, settle down and read-- oh, and leave me the hell alone!
Anywho, what have I been up to, you ask?! Have I gotten a job yet? Have I acclimated to living in my LSD apartment? Have I found true love in the big city? Have I found my ultimate favorite Chicago pizza place? NO to all of the above. I have tasted a whole bunch of superb slices though.
My new chicago hobby is hunting-- apartment hunting. It is not easy and absolutely stressful. I've been crawling from studio apartment to studio apartment, desperately searching for a killer bachelorette pad. To do this I've become a realty agent tramp. Yes, I go from one agent to the next and juggle multiple agents at the same time. I only do back-to-back days. I couldn't see two or more in the same day if I tried. I try not to let them know about each other because I'll feel bad I'm three-timing. It's not like I'm paying them or we had a discussion about being exclusive.
My first agent had her head pretty much suffocated by the clouds in which common sense went bye-bye. Every time we spoke, it was like speaking to her for the first time and she followed up with wide-eyed responses, secretly making me want to slap sense into her. On day one Agent A took me to a five-floor apartment building. Upon arrival to this apartment, Agent A said doctors and lawyers live in this building and it just went on the market with rent being $700. Great deal, right? Hell to the no.
Agent A was probably referring to Dr. Dre helping a shot 50 Cent on what used to be tan carpet (but less dramatic). This fifth floor tiny studio has no light, dirty carpet and broken tile. Agent A stated I had the option of getting the carpets cleaned or replaced as well as getting the kitchen tiles replaced. I'm a new Chicago resident who recently graduated and is sadly unemployed with no sugar daddy. What sense does replacement make? The window view also included a nice intrusive sight into my neighbor's window surrounded by brick wall. Separating the two windows was what looked like a pathway to hell.
After leaving the pit and not looking back, we went on an almost two mile hike north in cold, gloomy weather to the last destination of the day. We traveled all the way up to the place to find out we couldn't see the unit because the doorperson couldn't give us the key to see it.
Days later, Agent A set aside the whole day for me. She moved our 11 o'clock appointment back a half hour and was still 20 minutes late meeting me. She strolled in through the door into the lobby to meet me and shamelessly blamed her tardiness on the city transportation. As we were walking to the second place of the day she pulled an apple out of her bag to snack on, which she stopped at the farmers' market to get on the way to meet me. She also advised me that I didn't have to be so modest around her and could feel free to eat something. I politely declined and informed her I already ate. Previous to meeting her I shoved an entire bagel down my throat so I could be on time.
That same day we visited a place where the building's leasing manager tried to convince me that an apartment with absolutely no sunlight coming in through the windows was perfectly okay to live in for a year. It's on a low floor so when I become depressed from lack of sunlight there is potentially no danger when I jump out the window.
Agent B was a lot more helpful. She was cool and showed me some nice places that I liked, but not perfect. I think I might have been a bit much to handle though, because she pushed me onto a "more experienced" co-worker. Whatevs, I have standards, needs and wants. That's all I have to say in my defense. So, I will continue to annoy this new agent--Agent B.2.
Agent C is taking me out on Saturday. Our phone conversations involve awkward silences and strictly business.
Overall, this crib crawling game is tiring and is a definite form of exercise. If it were anything like bar crawl I might have a bit more fun. Instead, when I finish them for the day the prize is a nice cold lite beer. Leases, amenities and rent put a damper on the fun in finding Barbie's dream rental apartment.
My advice to readers looking to move in the future might be to go into the crawl with definite ideas, be flexible with your ideals (because you might not find your absolute dream home with everything included), and have great walking shoes. Take extensive notes and take photos to remember the mess of cribs you've crawled to; it will help with an overwhelmed mind. I don't think I've ever been this organized on a project than I am with this apartment hunt.
Also, if you become a realty tramp like me, juggle appropriately and make sure the places they find don't overlap. It would suck to go to the same place twice and have the building's leasing agent call you out on two-timing. Be slick--like me.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
My New Playground
"The world is not all about Two Dollar Tuesdays anymore," a wise one once said while signing an 18 dollar check in a dimly lit bar. "It's about nine dollar cocktails."
My eyes almost welled up with tears because of this sudden slap in the face. I was passively aggressively being told to grow the hell up.
Two and a half weeks ago, I broke out of the large IU fish tank and became a small fish in a big lake-- Lake Michigan that is. I moved out of the familiar college town and moved to Chicago, IL. I like to think I'm one step closer to being Carrie Bradshaw, who I not so secretly kind of want to be like.
Currently, I am searching for a job. I want a job to obtain some cash money to keep up my drinking and fashion habits. More than that, I want people to quit asking me if I got a job and for some to quit talking in such a condescending and pushy tone to me about getting a job. Yes, I know I need one, thanks so much for the cheery welcome into the adult world. I kind of figured the stay-at-home roommate position was not something I wanted to do forever. I do feel like a desperate housewife who spends the day lunching with the ladies, running errands, shopping and sunning. Maybe those people just bother me to get a job so I don't terrorize my new city of residence.
On a highly enthusiastic note though, not having a job allows me to explore the city. I love it here. My first weeks here I've been getting lost on the friendly streets and trying to learn my cardinal directions. I know the lake is east but when I'm in the middle of the city am I supposed to smell it out or feel the direction of the breeze and know where it is behind all the tall buildings?! Needless to say, I should invest in a high tech compass as well as comfy shoes for all the strutting I've been doing. As per usual, the corners are my friends.
I've also encountered many interesting people. There was the woman who ambushed my car's open passenger window pretending to be unbelivably upset. She screamed that her car broke down and ran out of gas and she had a baby in the car and had to get home and her brother didn't show up. Her plea was for 10 or 20 dollars. She also insisted on taking my address so she could send the money back.
My mother and I "searched" our wallets in the awkward moment and gave her a fiver. The donation was mostly to get her to go away and buy her crack. Homegirl, where was your baby, your car, and why the hell didn't you just call Triple A or ask the cops for help?! If you're going to hussle people for crack money at least stage something more believable. Also, like hell I'd give you my address, so you can rob me and I'd have to take time out of my "busy" day to kick your ass (my doorman's busy day to kick your ass). From now on I use the air conditioning when rolling down that street.
Days and nights later, a man taking money out of the Chase ATM sweetly hit on me. After no responses to any of his three mumbled comments, he felt the need to ask me how I was going to play him like that. Maybe taking out a twenty while wearing a dress was a pick up attempt to him. Maybe if I took out 40 it would be considered a saucy marriage proposal. Taking out 60 dollars would not be appropriate for the kids' eyes.
This is just a brief update. All in all, it's strange being in a new setting. I haven't really been in a completely new setting in a while and it will take some time to get completely comfortable. So far my personal advice about learning to love Chicago is to check out as many different hot dog and pizza places as possible and walk the Navy Pier dock at night while looking at the glittering city skyline. Those things alone will make you love being here. Not like there was even a question of if I'd love it.
My eyes almost welled up with tears because of this sudden slap in the face. I was passively aggressively being told to grow the hell up.
Two and a half weeks ago, I broke out of the large IU fish tank and became a small fish in a big lake-- Lake Michigan that is. I moved out of the familiar college town and moved to Chicago, IL. I like to think I'm one step closer to being Carrie Bradshaw, who I not so secretly kind of want to be like.
Currently, I am searching for a job. I want a job to obtain some cash money to keep up my drinking and fashion habits. More than that, I want people to quit asking me if I got a job and for some to quit talking in such a condescending and pushy tone to me about getting a job. Yes, I know I need one, thanks so much for the cheery welcome into the adult world. I kind of figured the stay-at-home roommate position was not something I wanted to do forever. I do feel like a desperate housewife who spends the day lunching with the ladies, running errands, shopping and sunning. Maybe those people just bother me to get a job so I don't terrorize my new city of residence.
On a highly enthusiastic note though, not having a job allows me to explore the city. I love it here. My first weeks here I've been getting lost on the friendly streets and trying to learn my cardinal directions. I know the lake is east but when I'm in the middle of the city am I supposed to smell it out or feel the direction of the breeze and know where it is behind all the tall buildings?! Needless to say, I should invest in a high tech compass as well as comfy shoes for all the strutting I've been doing. As per usual, the corners are my friends.
I've also encountered many interesting people. There was the woman who ambushed my car's open passenger window pretending to be unbelivably upset. She screamed that her car broke down and ran out of gas and she had a baby in the car and had to get home and her brother didn't show up. Her plea was for 10 or 20 dollars. She also insisted on taking my address so she could send the money back.
My mother and I "searched" our wallets in the awkward moment and gave her a fiver. The donation was mostly to get her to go away and buy her crack. Homegirl, where was your baby, your car, and why the hell didn't you just call Triple A or ask the cops for help?! If you're going to hussle people for crack money at least stage something more believable. Also, like hell I'd give you my address, so you can rob me and I'd have to take time out of my "busy" day to kick your ass (my doorman's busy day to kick your ass). From now on I use the air conditioning when rolling down that street.
Days and nights later, a man taking money out of the Chase ATM sweetly hit on me. After no responses to any of his three mumbled comments, he felt the need to ask me how I was going to play him like that. Maybe taking out a twenty while wearing a dress was a pick up attempt to him. Maybe if I took out 40 it would be considered a saucy marriage proposal. Taking out 60 dollars would not be appropriate for the kids' eyes.
This is just a brief update. All in all, it's strange being in a new setting. I haven't really been in a completely new setting in a while and it will take some time to get completely comfortable. So far my personal advice about learning to love Chicago is to check out as many different hot dog and pizza places as possible and walk the Navy Pier dock at night while looking at the glittering city skyline. Those things alone will make you love being here. Not like there was even a question of if I'd love it.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Don't Stand So Close To Me
Woah, woah buddy! Just 'cause my butt is not blocked and nobody else is up on it doesn't mean you should pull up quick to retrieve it. Baby got a back slap for you, Creepo.
On Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, or Saturday night I am inclined to go out to the bars with my friends. As we boogie on the dance floor I'm hesitant to be completely carefree. As I slowly sip on my grown-up drink and am surrounded by my girls, my concerns are: where's my butt, who's looking in my direction and who's lurking around.
I'm usually doing my signature dance moves or music video dance moves on the floor with the deafening music while standing in a circle with my friends. While enjoying this bonding time some random guy will come up and just start trying to grind with me. No asking if I would like to dance. He is just standing in my dance space, so close that he is practically polluting his lungs with my Garnier Fructice hair products. I don't know you buddy and I've been taught not to talk to strangers, let alone dance with them. Fun dancing fun, mambo, cha cha, salsa, macarena are all fine to do with unfamiliar men. Rubbing up against my back and butt is a bit uncomfortable. Especially when I didn't get a good look at the face, it's not always okay with me at the local bar. In my book, there is a double standard I do admit, as I'm sure other ladies also hold. However, right now I'm talking about creepy lurkers who are out there to grab an ass. To this type, ass is to bar as candy is to candy shop.
The guy who approaches a circle of dancing girls just makes things quite awkward. I never know if I should save my friend or if this is what she wanted. On that note, I'm terrible at saving my friends from a grinder. I'm never really sure how to go about the rescue and not seem obvious as to make things awkward or give off the idea that I'm feeling left out and want to join their two person surprise party. Instead I usually make some confused faces and kind of laugh and slightly back off. My favorite and most used rescue line when I put effort into being the hero is, "I think my friend here has to throw up" ::turn to the friend:: and ask her, "Don't you have to throw up now?" It's worked twice in the same night with the same two people. In short, I'm a bad friend on the dance floor.
Personally, I usually attract the 20 or 30-something year-old guy with the creepy gaze and gait. I also tend to attract the old fellows and occasionally homeless looking guys. Why older men, who look like they can possibly have a 5-year-old of their own are at a college bar is bothersome to me. That breed should be at another bar or be at home reading "Goodnight Moon."
I've gotten good at detecting when I should relocate or turn my butt to a trusting friend. My spidey senses tingle and I can usually smell heavy cologne or garbage approaching--the scent of my fans.
The basics success rules for these guys are simple. Look presentable, smell decent, be of a reasonable age, introduce yourself, have a little decent conversation and get some sort of consent to be on my tush. Guys, let's just nip the whole awkward situation of making five girls feel uncomfortable at once and you getting publicly humiliated while some hip-hop song is playing in the bud. Oh, and the loophole of a guy introducing himself to the bootay owner that he is dancing on randomly for 1.4 minutes does not count. Still a stranger danger.
Good luck with dancing the night away.
On Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, or Saturday night I am inclined to go out to the bars with my friends. As we boogie on the dance floor I'm hesitant to be completely carefree. As I slowly sip on my grown-up drink and am surrounded by my girls, my concerns are: where's my butt, who's looking in my direction and who's lurking around.
I'm usually doing my signature dance moves or music video dance moves on the floor with the deafening music while standing in a circle with my friends. While enjoying this bonding time some random guy will come up and just start trying to grind with me. No asking if I would like to dance. He is just standing in my dance space, so close that he is practically polluting his lungs with my Garnier Fructice hair products. I don't know you buddy and I've been taught not to talk to strangers, let alone dance with them. Fun dancing fun, mambo, cha cha, salsa, macarena are all fine to do with unfamiliar men. Rubbing up against my back and butt is a bit uncomfortable. Especially when I didn't get a good look at the face, it's not always okay with me at the local bar. In my book, there is a double standard I do admit, as I'm sure other ladies also hold. However, right now I'm talking about creepy lurkers who are out there to grab an ass. To this type, ass is to bar as candy is to candy shop.
The guy who approaches a circle of dancing girls just makes things quite awkward. I never know if I should save my friend or if this is what she wanted. On that note, I'm terrible at saving my friends from a grinder. I'm never really sure how to go about the rescue and not seem obvious as to make things awkward or give off the idea that I'm feeling left out and want to join their two person surprise party. Instead I usually make some confused faces and kind of laugh and slightly back off. My favorite and most used rescue line when I put effort into being the hero is, "I think my friend here has to throw up" ::turn to the friend:: and ask her, "Don't you have to throw up now?" It's worked twice in the same night with the same two people. In short, I'm a bad friend on the dance floor.
Personally, I usually attract the 20 or 30-something year-old guy with the creepy gaze and gait. I also tend to attract the old fellows and occasionally homeless looking guys. Why older men, who look like they can possibly have a 5-year-old of their own are at a college bar is bothersome to me. That breed should be at another bar or be at home reading "Goodnight Moon."
I've gotten good at detecting when I should relocate or turn my butt to a trusting friend. My spidey senses tingle and I can usually smell heavy cologne or garbage approaching--the scent of my fans.
The basics success rules for these guys are simple. Look presentable, smell decent, be of a reasonable age, introduce yourself, have a little decent conversation and get some sort of consent to be on my tush. Guys, let's just nip the whole awkward situation of making five girls feel uncomfortable at once and you getting publicly humiliated while some hip-hop song is playing in the bud. Oh, and the loophole of a guy introducing himself to the bootay owner that he is dancing on randomly for 1.4 minutes does not count. Still a stranger danger.
Good luck with dancing the night away.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Pool Party
It's summer time and that means attempting to work on my tan. Well, I haven't had a noticeable glowing tan in probably a year. My complexion more so resembles Casper the Friendly Ghost. I went through two summers in a short time-- one when I went to Australia in February 2009 and one when I returned to the United States in July 2009-- and remained pale both times. After time in the sun, I turn a beautiful shade of tomato red. Then after a few days it turns into uncooked meat pink, then finally I go back to being a totally envious shade of vanilla frap. Once my limbs actually blended with the white bottom of the pool. It was scary looking down and seeing almost nothing. Cool magic trick though. Well, when it's sunny outside and I have the down time, I slather on my SPF 30 obsessive compulsive style as if it's a fashion statement. Every 15 minutes I must reapply to my face and shoulders. I also consume water like a fish with a drinking problem.
During this glorious time by the pool or in the sand at the beach there is an awful species that brings about an unpleasant and uncomfortable presence. The speedo wearing male. I know this attire is popular in Europe and they're beneficial to swimming speedy laps, but yuck. Everybody sitting around can see every curve and crack. Even young men who have chiseled abs and happen to be part of an extremely skilled sports team enabling them to have a glorious toned form need not show the outdoor community their man bits. As a woman you just can't help but shift your eyes to it. Sadly, and at the risk of sounding cruel, the worst are elder men. If they're married their wives, should maybe stop them at the door and say, "honey, sweetie, sugar lips, do not wear that nautical themed bikini bottom...please."
If you see a familiar elderly neighbor wearing a banana hammock at the pool, there's no mystery and no need to ask, "Hey Mr. Wilson, how's it hangin'?" because you can already see his answer will be "it's long, shriveled and hanging to the left." I'll be swimming in a lap lane and a male sporting a speedo will be standing over my lap lane preparing to jump in. I do graceful flip turns when those situations occur.
Another unpleasant aquatic situation is swimming with the hairy back male. More specifically, swimming with the species in the wave pool at the water park. You come up for air after a wave crashes over you and you're just surrounded by more hair than is on your young little girl head.
After I'm done barbecuing myself, in most cases, I have to walk through the locker room to leave the vicinity. Every time I enter the ladies locker room, I always have to enter slowly. Why? Because I know, for a fact--because it's happened 95 percent of the time--that I will enter in on a completely nude lady. I enjoy being naked just as much as anyone else, but I practice naked alone time as opposed to public naked time. Yes, it's a locker room and the purpose is to dry off and get dressed and I have those same body parts, but I always walk in on everything. Full frontal and usually untamed. The word is shocking. I'm just not prepared to see a naked ol' butt in my line of vision. Maybe the older you get the more comfortable you are with being naked like that. Maybe it should be considered a perk with getting older. Nobody will say anything about it or tell them to put it away. I know little kids love being naked too. Heck, I did from what I hear. That's not as shocking though. Maybe I'm taking a break from being publicly stark naked and I'll be back to that phase in years to come.
On that note, happy swimming. Remember to wear your floaties and keep your eyes averted.
During this glorious time by the pool or in the sand at the beach there is an awful species that brings about an unpleasant and uncomfortable presence. The speedo wearing male. I know this attire is popular in Europe and they're beneficial to swimming speedy laps, but yuck. Everybody sitting around can see every curve and crack. Even young men who have chiseled abs and happen to be part of an extremely skilled sports team enabling them to have a glorious toned form need not show the outdoor community their man bits. As a woman you just can't help but shift your eyes to it. Sadly, and at the risk of sounding cruel, the worst are elder men. If they're married their wives, should maybe stop them at the door and say, "honey, sweetie, sugar lips, do not wear that nautical themed bikini bottom...please."
If you see a familiar elderly neighbor wearing a banana hammock at the pool, there's no mystery and no need to ask, "Hey Mr. Wilson, how's it hangin'?" because you can already see his answer will be "it's long, shriveled and hanging to the left." I'll be swimming in a lap lane and a male sporting a speedo will be standing over my lap lane preparing to jump in. I do graceful flip turns when those situations occur.
Another unpleasant aquatic situation is swimming with the hairy back male. More specifically, swimming with the species in the wave pool at the water park. You come up for air after a wave crashes over you and you're just surrounded by more hair than is on your young little girl head.
After I'm done barbecuing myself, in most cases, I have to walk through the locker room to leave the vicinity. Every time I enter the ladies locker room, I always have to enter slowly. Why? Because I know, for a fact--because it's happened 95 percent of the time--that I will enter in on a completely nude lady. I enjoy being naked just as much as anyone else, but I practice naked alone time as opposed to public naked time. Yes, it's a locker room and the purpose is to dry off and get dressed and I have those same body parts, but I always walk in on everything. Full frontal and usually untamed. The word is shocking. I'm just not prepared to see a naked ol' butt in my line of vision. Maybe the older you get the more comfortable you are with being naked like that. Maybe it should be considered a perk with getting older. Nobody will say anything about it or tell them to put it away. I know little kids love being naked too. Heck, I did from what I hear. That's not as shocking though. Maybe I'm taking a break from being publicly stark naked and I'll be back to that phase in years to come.
On that note, happy swimming. Remember to wear your floaties and keep your eyes averted.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Let's Get This Party Started
Hellooo and welcome to my new blog, "Party of One." Well, what the hell is this blog about? When I thought about what topic I would focus my blog on, I was quite unsure. "Write about what you know" was the key. I've always been somewhat of an underdog of all trades. So, focusing on one topic I'm the master of did not look promising. Well I thought about it and came across a pretty appealing idea and that was to write a blog on life. That description sounds kind of cheesy and boringly generic, but there will be no philosophy or intensely out-there thoughts. My posts will center around topics I run into in my everyday life with a side of deep thoughts, of which I'm sure I am not the only woman thinking them. Still not sure of what you're spending your time on?
Then I'll lay out some details about who I am and what "life and thoughts" could entail. I'm a 21- year-old woman (girl) who hails from Long Island, New York. Suburbia where you're assumed to be Jewish, wear spandex and have your nose up in the air (I am, I do sometimes and I don't). I recently unwillingly graduated from Indiana University in Bloomington, IN where I majored in Journalism and minored in Communication & Culture and Sociology. I may sound like an intelligent over-achiever, but I'm just an intelligent achiever. Not under, not over, I just achieve. Well, when I tell people in Indiana I'm from NY, they ask why I'm not hanging out with the other Long Islanders at a particular bar or live in the East Coast apartment complex. I guess I just didn't get a map to get to the promise land.
Instead I decided to become a stereotype triple-threat and joined a sorority at a school with a huge Greek life. Yes, I'm a sorority girl and it is probably the best thing I've done to date. I made awesome friends and have unforgettable memories (to add a little cheese). Now if you know me, I don't usually overtly portray these stereotypes, but telling people my labels of "Long Island, NY Jew in a sorority" makes me the butt of jokes at times. I can definitely dish it and take. Honestly, I appreciate the loving mockery most of the time.
Being at a huge university and living away from home provides a ton of material to write about. Generally, you do a lot of cool, new things, witness interesting events and hear terrible pick up lines. This point in life brings a lot of "f$#k my life" moments, as well as "my life is average" moments, completely awesome moments and "what the hell just happened" moments. Expect all these ingredients in "Party of One."
These usual and unusual events are experienced through a party of one, but familiar to a bunch.
Happy reading and please feel free to throw questions, comments, concerns and requests out there.
Love,
The Party of One
Then I'll lay out some details about who I am and what "life and thoughts" could entail. I'm a 21- year-old woman (girl) who hails from Long Island, New York. Suburbia where you're assumed to be Jewish, wear spandex and have your nose up in the air (I am, I do sometimes and I don't). I recently unwillingly graduated from Indiana University in Bloomington, IN where I majored in Journalism and minored in Communication & Culture and Sociology. I may sound like an intelligent over-achiever, but I'm just an intelligent achiever. Not under, not over, I just achieve. Well, when I tell people in Indiana I'm from NY, they ask why I'm not hanging out with the other Long Islanders at a particular bar or live in the East Coast apartment complex. I guess I just didn't get a map to get to the promise land.
Instead I decided to become a stereotype triple-threat and joined a sorority at a school with a huge Greek life. Yes, I'm a sorority girl and it is probably the best thing I've done to date. I made awesome friends and have unforgettable memories (to add a little cheese). Now if you know me, I don't usually overtly portray these stereotypes, but telling people my labels of "Long Island, NY Jew in a sorority" makes me the butt of jokes at times. I can definitely dish it and take. Honestly, I appreciate the loving mockery most of the time.
Being at a huge university and living away from home provides a ton of material to write about. Generally, you do a lot of cool, new things, witness interesting events and hear terrible pick up lines. This point in life brings a lot of "f$#k my life" moments, as well as "my life is average" moments, completely awesome moments and "what the hell just happened" moments. Expect all these ingredients in "Party of One."
These usual and unusual events are experienced through a party of one, but familiar to a bunch.
Happy reading and please feel free to throw questions, comments, concerns and requests out there.
Love,
The Party of One
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