Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, and while I am a religious person, I believe there is something for everyone in the season of Lent.

You already know that Lent is a season of penance, of “giving up” things, things like Pop, Candy, Gossiping. But, you may not know, Lent is also a season of reflection, a time for spiritual self-examination. Religious or not, this sounds like a pretty damn helpful endeavor to me.

I considered doing 40 Days of Blogging, not as a penance, but as a tool of reflection–heaven knows I need some sort of spiritual makeover, not only in terms of my Faith, but also in terms of my Life. You know, stuck in a rut, uninspired, unsure of your dreams, passions, goals, complacence. For Pete’s sake, I recently joined Pinterest and for 3 days I could not find one thing to “pin.” This doesn’t even sound

like me, as I generally LOVE everything– Bridget Jones: Edge of Reason? LOVE IT.

But anyway, I am rambling (the fasting doesn’t help, nor the heavy beer that the monks drink during fasting). These ashes on my forward are to remind me that “thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return.”

We’ll see if I am able to make it through 40 Days of Blogging, all I know is, I don’t want to waste any more time. I want to live now and make the most out of life, be the best version of me .

And, Peace be with you.

Iron-y is hard to chew and the universe tried to trick me.

Two days before January 1st, I woke up completely on the wrong side of the bed. Sick again with an annoying phlegm producing cough, an inch of bath water all over the floor, soaking wet hair, and only 20 minutes to get ready for work, I was in no mood. for. anything.

But I felt guilty as I walked out the door. I had no real reason to be mad, grumpy. So, I decided to just be happy. As my Dad always says, happiness is a choice. (And what an obvious choice it is.)

I suddenly enjoyed the morning walk to the train. I loved my brand new boots that I was wearing for the first time. The rain might as well have been sun. I got a special Starbucks coffee when I got to work. Cheerfully enjoyed doing my job. Wrote my husband a couple funny and loving emails. It was a great day.

Around 12:30 my co-worker came to relieve me from the phones and we had a conversation about how she couldn’t find her debit card and was hoping that it was just at home. I commiserated with her and empathized with the anxiety. I also told her how my phone was once left in a cab and how the driver returned the phone the next day.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “There really are good people in the world.” And I believed it with all of my heart.

I left the office and happily splashed my way outside to the nearest Pot Belly’s. I got my Wreck sandwich and Salt’nVinegar chips. Laughed with the cashier as I paid. Snuggled into a table by the door. Remembered happily how much I loved my boots. Throughly enjoyed my food.

(Okay, the ironic part is coming…)

When I sat down and put my purse on the table, I thought that it was not a safe place for it. Someone could just snatch it and flee out the door… So, I hung it on the back of my chair, tucked it safely between the wall and the seat, with the zipper towards me, and covered it with my coat. And, as I ate, I continually touched my bag to make sure it was there.

(I would like to point out, you’re already thinking it, wow, this girl is a bit totally paranoid and anal…)

But…When I got up to go, I put my coat on, grabbed my purse—and realized that the purse was OPEN—–and my grey wallet——was GONE.

GONE. Abbracadabra —–GONE.

I felt dizzy. I tried to think if I put it somewhere, dropped it, left it by the fountain pop machine. But, I didn’t.

SOMEONE STOLE MY WALLET

Right from under my nose.

Well, it could’ve been worse, I told people later. I only had my driver’s license, health insurance ID card, and a debit card, which I immediately cancelled. I wasn’t held up with a gun or jumped in an alley (Thank God).

I called the Chicago non-emergency police line and reported the incident–and I swear the officer laughed at me, but in the end I wished him a happy new year.

I think the worst part was how confused I felt, like the universe tricked me, or was attempting to teach me a lesson for believing in good people, or smiting me for trying to be happy.

Or…maybe it was a test to see how I reacted. The universe really wanted to know: do I really believe there are good people out there???

Hmmm.

Yes. Yes there are!!!!!!!

(Hopefully these sentiments remain true should I end up with a mysterious medical bill in my mailbox for a lobotomy I never received.)

My only faith that was left shaken was my faith in Pot Belly’s. I don’t think I can ever eat there again due to my PTSW–Post Traumatic Stolen Wallet disorder. Sorry PB!

My husband and I got into it last night. Because I did it again. Get ready for this folks…I fell asleep before 9pm. HEAVEN FORBID!

My husband was frustrated because while we were snuggled up on the couch watching TV, I fell asleep, which OK yes. This is my habit. I admit.

When we got into bed at midnight (time for my second night’s rest) he began a “conversation” about how I get too much sleep. “I don’t know anyone else who falls asleep so early.” He was adamant.

So of course, I, certainly awake now, became quickly defensive. How can I help it if my eyelids get so heavy that they simple must close? Is it really so bad that I am so comfortable and content that I can instantly fall asleep at a moment’s pause?

After going in circles about how “you sleep too much” and “I’m so tired,” the truth finally came out…

When we got married and started living together a year ago, we slowly carved out a routine that we are locked into today. We both work full-time, have a moderate commute of, on average, 40 minutes, both arriving home around 6:15. I leave an hour earlier in the morning. We work out (I Jillian Michaels the hell out of the living room), shower, cook really good dinners, and then we usually eat between 8:30-9:15pm. At that point we’re full and satisfied and usually end up watching TV until I fall asleep. At that point my husband will continue watching television until we go to bed. (I also want to add here that we are both involved in other weekly activities: midnight tennis for my husband–because he is able to stay up past 9:30pm–and I am in a church choir, and up until two months ago, I was in a band. We’re not lazy people, people.)

Anyway, the area of frustration for my husband was not that I fall a sleep abnormally early (which I still maintain is not true), but rather, that we are not making more of our time. At first this accusation seemed like a mean joke, because I feel like I do a lot with my time, but I realized (now) that I could certainly use my time more wisely, by:

1. Watching Less Television. Can you hear my heart breaking? My love for television is right up there with my husband, Jason Mraz, pop and chips’n dip. But (alack the day) it’s true. An hour of TV a day should suffice (am I blaspheming?)

2. Eating less for dinner. Is it possible for a heart to break more than once? But it’s true, again, eating less will make me feel more motivated and less like I need to fall a sleep immediately after that last tasty morsel. And probably more healthy too….

I have seriously been saying (for pretty much a year now) that I was going to start blogging again and actually make time for practicing (music). I have to stop making excuses and do more with my skills, even if it is just for one hour out of the evening. After all, I am afraid that if we continue in this manner, suddenly our child rearing days will be upon us and we’ll be running around after our kids with no free time to make the most of, because, then I really will be tired.

So, here I am writing this blog post on my iPhone, sulking in bed, not watching my beloved television, because although I am very bull-headed, I know my husband is right.

Oh and look at that, he just brought me the laptop…what a good husband!

Now I am going to feel really, really bad when I fall asleep in the next 15 minutes.

Here’s to my new goal of watching less television, and doing more with my creative arts!

Good night!….zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

You know you’ve been a very bad blogger when you can’t remember your username or password.

This intermission has gone on far too long. In Act II: I shall reappear.

I had to make a VIPC (Very Important Phone Call) the other day. Knowing I would be catching the person ten minutes before the end of the work day, I knew it would be a “close call.” I was just hoping, wishing that the lady would still be there and answer.

 But….

“Hi, this is ___ _____. Sorry I’m not here to answer the phone. Please leave a detailed message and I will get back to you as soon as possible.”

Oh dammit, I’m going to have to leave a message, don’t panic, don’t panic…

BEEEEP [cue my dooms day]:

…..SILENCE……*GULP*

“Hi this is ___ ____. I am call…ing in regards to the v-v-voicemail you le-ft me in re-regards to the p-p-p-position here…uh…in Chicago. Uh I amm v-ery in—terested in the j—ob. I look f-for-ward to spea—-king with….you. I’m a–a–available to talk tomorrow at 11:35-12:35 cen…uh..Ch-chicago time.”

 [I paused here to take a deep breath and regroup, realizing how tremendously terrible this "detailed" message was going.]

“You can reach me at XXX-XXX-XXXX. And again this was _____ ____ calling. Thank you. TAKE CARE. GOOD NIGHT.”

I click End Call.

WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST DO?

That was worse than The King’s Speech.

I spent the next five minutes, red in the face, threatening to jump off the bridge, convinced I had ruined my life.

Realizing that wouldn’t solve my problem and this was but a small bump in the road, I vowed to never again leave a bad voicemail.

The next morning I called again, hoping to redeem myself.

I left another voicemail:

“Hello, this is _____ _____ calling in regards to the position in Chicago. I am available to talk this morning, otherwise I will try you again later. XXX-XXX-XXXX. I look forward to speaking with you. Goodbye.”

Not a stammer to be heard, no “take cares” or “good nights.”

THANK GOD.

My call was returned the next day and I secured an interview for the same week. Do you have any voicemail horror stories, or better yet, voicemail tips???

The Yorck Project: Artist Egon Schiele

My husband and I found ourselves in a befuddling situation Wednesday night.

Earlier in the week our close (home-from-London) friend asked, in an e-mail titled “Borrowing That Room of Yours,” if he could stay the night in our spare room on Wednesday. He would be driving in to Chicago from a nearby suburb to dine with a dame he’d recently met, at Vito & Nick’s Pizzeria, a first date. Honestly we were a bit confused as to why he’d want to then drive all the way from 8433 S. Pulaski Road up to our place in Lincoln Square, when he could just drive home. But, as we do have a spare room (affectionately called my “playroom”) and a moderately luxurious air bed, we obligingly said yes. Plus, he’s our pal (we’ll call him Larry).

So, while I was expecting Larry to be staying the night, when I walked in to our apartment at 9:45pm after a very long day beginning at 5:30am, I was very, very surprised to see the girl, a stranger, sitting in the living room as well.

“Oh.” I said upon seeing Larry and the girl. “Hello. Everyone.”

 I then went into our bedroom to compose myself. I was confused as to why this stranger, of whom nobody bothered to introduce me to, was in our apartment. Larry had only mentioned that he would be needing to a place to stay.

I realized, then, that the girl would be staying the night as well, in “that room of ours.”

After several deep breaths, I headed back to the living room, climbed into the rocking chair, and tried to join the conversation. The clock ticked farther and farther past my bedtime, and still I had no idea who this girl was.

Around 11pm, Larry (and the mystery girl) made a move to head out to a nearby bar for drinks. As we would not be joining them (work in the morning), we were subjected to forfeit our keys to Larry and Lady No-Name. The boys talked about how to work the lock and the issue of getting up in the morning. But at no point, did the topic of the lady friend as an overnight guest arise.

I was waiting for one them to mention something, anything, about the girl staying the night. Such as, “Hey is it okay, if I stay the night as well?” Or, “Hey thanks for letting us stay, I hope I am not putting you out.” Or, “Hi, I’m So-and-So, I know it’s weird Larry didn’t tell you I’d be coming along as well, I hope it is okay. I’m not  a ‘clepto’ or an arsonist or anything.” 

But, the matter of lodging was simply not addressed.

As soon as the odd couple went out the door and to the bar, my husband and I looked at each other in complete shock.

“What just happened?” we both exclaimed simultaneously. I was hoping he’d have some clue of who this girl was. He did not know much, except that the girl did, in fact, have a name: JonBenet.

And so we went to bed, unsettled by the expected and unexpected overnight guest using our new apartment as their own, coming home late from the bar, using our bathroom at 3am, doing who-knows-what in my playroom, on our air-bed.

In the morning, JonBenet saw my husband in his bathrobe. And laughed. She also made herself at home on our couch, snuggling with my blanket. Larry, on the other hand, was lighting our scented candles…?

Later that day when I met my husband for lunch, we just sat in awe. We realized that Larry had planned to stay the night in our “aparmen-tel” spare room with JonBenet even before he had emailed us.  Had he simply told us of her accompaniment, we of course would have still welcomed them to stay. But the fact, that he never mentioned this, even when he showed up with her at our door, was a little weird.

While JonBenet was the one sleeping over with a boy on a first date in a stranger’s house, I was the girl left feeling used.

But, that being said, we still love Larry and his endearing ways and we’ll let it go and love him as always. But I just have to say, JonBenet, who are you? Next time you sleep over at my place, at least send me an email first letting me know you’re coming (i.e., “Borrowing That Room of Yours”) and maybe we can get to know each other first.

And, for the rest of you, my husband and I are now (apparently) taking reservations. We boast a modest spare room with an air-bed of lofty proportions, full amenities (including shampoo for curly hair), a set of keys and full use of bath, even at 3am. Simply email us at : lodge4free @ OurHouseIsYours.com

Bathroom "Break" At Your Own Risk

Something unfortunate has developed in the last few weeks at my job. I, along with the other front desk girls, no longer have a break room. This wouldn’t be an issue, if I could, say, eat or read at my desk during lunch. But when your (my) desk is the main attraction, commandeering the building’s lobby, there is no way I can properly enjoy my mayonnaise (and turkey) sandwich. Plus, to be honest, eating at the desk is just not allowed. And, as the Employee of the Year, I simply cannot tarnish my good reputation, or the desk (with mayonnaise).

So, as any thrifty front desk girl knows, a solution must be found. Thus, I have begun retreating to the 43rd floor restroom to read and eat my morning snack. And so, giving new meaning to the term “bathroom break,” I stretch out on the marble floor, recharge my batteries, and hope that no one comes in to use the restroom for its intended purpose, especially number two (YUCK!).

So, for these past few weeks, this lovely use of the lavatory has suited me quite well…lasting until, well, yesterday, when humiliation got the best of me.

I was headed to the 17th floor to the property management office (aka the big bosses’ office). There the PMO’s kindly gave us access to the use of their closet, for which to hang our uniforms and coats, as, we do not have a break room. I had a skip in my step and giddiness in my heart, as I was headed to the golden closet to retrieve my morning snack, a glorified Uncrustable. Then I was going to head to my pristine privy for my bathroom break.

However, one detail to note, about this luxurious amenity (the closet), it is located in the room with the conference table–where important people have meetings, to say plainly.

So, on this fateful day, I headed into the office, already feeling like an outsider, though excited for my peanut butter and jelly crustless treat. Before I came into full view of the table I saw two people sitting there (in front of the, my, closet).

What the hell, I thought. I am going for it. I am just going to go in there, open my cherry colored lunch box, and snag that sumptuous sandwich.

Upon entering further, almost to the closet,  now in full view of the table, I see, to my mortification, that the table is entirely full of very important people in the middle of a meeting. They all turn to look at me as I freeze mid-step. There is NO way I am going to go to that closet, a lowly front desk girl, crack open the door, get out my dumb lunchbox and childish snack in front with all these (business) men.

So, with my face stinging red, I turn right around and walk out. I quickly buy some overpriced, tasteless peanut butter crackers from the building “convenience” store and retreat to my restroom.

I slump down on the tiles. My lavish latrine bathroom break room no longer feels as such. I am now down in the dumps, in the crapper.

This is how your 20′s are supposed to be, right?

Flying Rat

Walking up the stairs to the ‘L’ platform (again), the stars were aligned and I was in exactly the right spot in the right moment in time, for a drop of water to fall directly into my eye from a pigeon excrement-encrusted mesh ceiling covering. I wonder how long until my eye begins oozing with some kind of infectious disease.

As this is my second directly indirect contact with the gutter bird, I wonder if next I am doomed to swallow an entire sky rat? I should probably begin seeking treatment now for Psittacosis.

One more day left this year! As I am at work and the visitors are few and far between, I shall use today to come up with my goals for the New Year. I’ve already been at work for two hours, so I have seven more to figure out my life’s dreams and how to achieve them…!

Perhaps all of my encounters with pigeons are symbolic–I think the universe is trying to tell me something. As pigeons were once a source of communication, perhaps they are trying to relay the message that it is time for a change–and I don’t mean that of a different mode of transportation.

“Yep.”

“How’d that work out for ya?”

“Pretty good.”

Yesterday, my husband (!) (we’ll call him P) and I celebrated our One Month Wedding Anniversary. We got out our beautiful wedding crystal and celebrated one of the best months of our lives; a beautiful wedding with all of our family and friends, a (yes-I-will-have-another-strawberry-pinacolda) honeymoon to the Riviera Maya, moving-in together, and (a merry) Christmas (plus bonuses)!  

Of course…every day of our first month of marriage was not perfect–getting back to waking up at 5:30am for work, battling the (piercing) Chicago (lake effect’s) winter, soapy coffee, post-wedding depression, post-honeymoon depression, Christmas shopping on State Street, jealously over P having two weeks off for vacation versus my measly two days, cranky baking (all me), and P wearing his public pants (pants worn while riding the El) on the couch. NOT PUBLIC PANTS!!!

But every mundane, unsmiling moment, only made us cherish the better moments all the more. So, while yesterday we recognized our 30 days of married love, and my parents’ 35 years (!!!), it was a true celebration. Of the good moments and the bad.

So, raise your wedding crystal (or your red solo cups) to marriage, friends, favorite TV shows (Modern Family), terrible TV shows (Two and a Half Men), perfect cups of coffee, burnt cups of coffee, Fantasy Football (good and bad, depending on your point of view), and love and un-love.

Oh yes, and I won’t be at work tomorrow. I’m calling in love.

Dear Friend,

It’s nice to see you again. I’m sorry I’ve been away, though maybe you did not notice. I’ve been lost in the land of wedding planning and with twenty-two days (!!!!) to go, my head is still filled with tedious things like reception timelines and seating arrangements and floral centerpieces. Oh yes, and I still need to ask my brother-in-law if he’ll be an usher…and if he can bring the three weiner dogs and dress them in tuxedos…the church will approve right(?), even though they won’t let me walk down the aisle to the Home Alone Theme song?….oh and yes, can you believe we STILL have not yet met with the priest? Twenty-two days, twenty-two days.  

Back on point, forgive me for my posting hiatus. There are after all, too many wedding planning blogs (you should thank me). I hope you’ll give me another chance as a blogger. Once the wedding is over, I will be fully loaded (down) with the post-wedding blues and ready to take my mind off of it and back onto other (and all) things magical!

So yes, I love you, I have not forgotten about you. And of course, I miss you too. Don’t forget to feed the cat and unplug the toaster before you leave.

Sincerely,

Long-Lost BirdieBee.