Odd

I broke down and purchased a frying pan today.

My original intention was to live as simply as possible in this apartment in order to ease the next move into a house or more permanent living arrangement.

But frankly, I'm just getting a bit tired of taking my children out to breakfast on the weekends and dinners every evening so I broke down and added to my kitchen accoutrement.

Over my lunch break (which, oddly, did not include actually eating lunch), I visited Target which is almost my favorite store (just behind Bed Bath & Beyond and Costco) with the intention of arming myself to cook at least a few things for my kids this weekend.

The first thing I bought was a big box of Q-Tips. I actually ran out of them this morning, and I mean completely out. I was forced to use just a single Q-Tip which meant just one "tip" per ear instead of my standard double tip (the first tip for rough cleaning, the second for precision). Readers of the last blog most likely realize what a shock to my system this was. I reacted by buying a box of 750 Q-Tips, the largest one available. This is roughly an annual supply so is admittedly a ridiculous quantity of inner ear cleaning material, but nevertheless it feels so right.

Next, I meandered over to the cleaning products aisle even though I had nothing on my list from this area. I still somehow found myself slowing pushing the squeaky-wheeled cart around soaking in the pungent ambiance. It ended up being a good thing as I realized I needed to get a new pair of cleaning gloves.

I used to never let any petroleum based covering come between my passion and my body, I wanted to feel every crevice, every slippery surface, every filthy nuance. I 'm talking about my love of cleaning, of course.

However, the years of harsh chemical scrubbing on my hands and knees really started to take a toll on my hands. I finally broke down and started wearing gloves and taking fish oil and black currant oil for healthy skin, especially in the dry winter months. (I am not alone in this "cleaning to the point of injuring my hands" thing. My very dear friend who is also my daughter's godmother and namesake used to wear her fingers almost literally to the bone with straight bleach and abrasive products, which I think is kick ass.)

The last pair of gloves was purchased as an impulse buy while picking up some essentials at the local overpriced and understaffed grocery store Dominicks. This pair was very comfortable and served me well for several weeks of cleaning. They were pink in color. Wearing them made me feel pretty and domesticated. Paired with the fact that I like to clean my apartment in the nude it was an unsettling yet oddly pleasant experience.

There were no pink gloves in the group for my selection at Target, so that made things a bit less complicated for me. However, there were still choices. One of the pair cost $1 extra but advertised a "lemon fresh scent". God forbid your hands just smell like... well... hands. Disgusting. I decided upon a pair of Clorox "Comfort Choice" gloves. I didn't chose them for the "comfort" as this is not something I value while cleaning. I chose them because Clorox means "bleach" to me and bleach means the utter and complete obliteration of filth and has a very satisfying connotation for me.

Moving on, I decided to pick up an appliance to add to the microwave I got upon moving in; a toaster oven. I got one that is not only a cute little counter top oven but also has a thick slice toaster built in on top, a two-for-one job. Usually I shy away from dual purpose machinery as inevitably two functions put together are worse than the two separate (and I don't mean this metaphorically, I'm just talking electronics here). However, this was the only toaster oven that came in red, matching my apartment's color scheme. Sold.

It also said it was "Red for Women's Heart Disease" so I guess some of the proceeds go towards that worthy cause. I would like to believe it, perhaps if I close my eyes and press them hard enough together it will be true that a substantial portion of my purchase went to helping a woman prevent or cure heart disease. So, pink ribbons are popular for women's breast cancer and now we have red for the heart. I guess nobody is interested in wearing a brown ring to symbolize the plight of male colon cancer. I might have to champion that cause.

I grabbed a frying pan (selected solely for the fact it was on sale and therefore had the highest Dollar to Surface Area ratio. It was so inexpensive that I won't mind chucking it as my "bachelor pan" once I am able to upgrade my life again.) and headed for the front of the store.

Upon checking out of Target, the cashier eyed my items (which also included a dish rack not intended for dishes but rather for my running and biking bottles the maintenance of which makes me feel like I always have a newborn in the house) and asked if I was redoing my kitchen.

I paused for a moment, strategizing my response. On the one hand, I could be brutally honest and enjoy the resulting awkward conversation that would ensue. On the other, the cashier most likely meant this as an innocuous statement and not the opening for a deep conversation of the state of my personal life.

I wimped out and, not very cunningly but succinctly nevertheless, replied "Yes."

I moved on the neighboring Ultra Foods. I had hoped to collect the scant foot items I needed from Target, but disappointingly they were not present.

I was on a mission to find the perfect pizza for my son. This would be pizza with the crust as thin as possible and containing as little sauce as practical between the cheese. Basically, I was seeking pizza that least resembled pizza. I settled upon Freschetta Ultra Thin Golden Baked Crispy Crust because it was on sale and had a long ass name. It went down very well, I'm happy to report. It is also, I later noticed, produced by Schwan Food Company which is owned by the Schwan family (clever). I went to church with the Schwans in Sioux Falls, South Dakota where I grew up, oddly enough. The company logo is a Swan which I guess resembles the family name when annunciated by a drunken German.

I then purchased Grey Poupon Dijon Mustard. My Love is really into mustard so it makes me happy seeing this bottle in my refrigerator every time I open the door. It also makes my giggle because I still think the commercial for this product from the 80's is funny. I am not sure where I am going to use it, however. Does mustard go bad?

It was then I realized as the proud owner of a new frying pan I should pick up some items that could utilize it and therefore help to justify this purchase. Pancake batter & syrup for the kids' breakfast and eggs for mine.

As I stood in front of the egg racks slightly slack jawed, I couldn't help but find it odd there were so many different kinds to choose from. Do we really need to be presented with this many choices? As an oversized person myself, I decided upon the Grade A Jumbo Eggs simply because they were the largest ones there and that fact amused me. I would love to see the chicken that laid these babies. And then I'd love to eat that chicken. Circle of life.

Check out time arrived, and I had heard the cashier ask the woman in front of me if she had any coupons, and while I was sacking and putting my own groceries into my cart (ah, the discount grocery store, something I will have to suck up and get used to I suppose... very difficult for my high maintenance persuasion.) I heard her ask the woman behind me the same question.

I was still slightly offended I was not asked. Just because I am a single male (ok, not evident perhaps even though I don't have a ring on, but it is glove season, but what other male is going to shop at Ultra in the middle of the day to buy a carton of eggs and a bottle of mustard? That virtually screams to the world "I live alone!") that means I wouldn't think of saving even more money by contentiously clipping cents-off certificates?

I didn't have any coupons, though. I used to subscribe to the newspaper, and stocked up on them, especially in the Sunday edition. Moving to my apartment I cancelled my subscription. The world news is typically portrayed as shocking and/or horrible. The sports are better reported and more up-to-date on the internet or radio. The business section pales in comparison to "the Journal" (WSJ, baby). But, I always rationalized my subscription with the fact that I could save as much money as the paper cost by using the coupons I found inside. So, I was basically spending money to save money after performing manual labor on dead trees.

It's like every time I go to a restaurant with my children (which will hopefully now be less often!) the Maître de (aw, who am I kidding, the teenage hostess with too much makeup and too little ambition) asks me if I would like a table for four.

Only after I show up repeatedly to the same establishment do they catch on, "oh yeah, the divorced guy".

Actually, I am finding myself being frequently a table for 1. When I am with my children, it is 3. Adding up the kids from my Love, we have 5. All together, 7.

Odd is good.



So, I actually used my frying pan this morning for my children and smelled something burning as it rested on the stove top burner. I couldn't figure out what the problem was until I lifted it up and realized I had neglected to remove the big sticker completely covering the bottom advertising its benefits. So now I have yellow burn stains on the bottom of my new pan. Damn. At least the kids enjoyed hearing the smoke alarm go off.

High Maintenance

I awoke this morning with a start as I had just realized my artwork was coming due and I would have to return it to the library soon.

The main two items hanging on my while apartment walls were both checked out from the local Public Library.

From a tiny room tucked away in a discreet corner of the upstairs, I hauled down my little black and white Ansel Adams and "Victorian Winter" to the elderly woman and handed her my card. I was a bit nervous as the whole thing seemed so out of the ordinary, but she didn't bat a false eyelash.

"That'll be $4 please, $2 each." So, for $2 a piece I was out the door with my artwork securely wrapped in a big ass canvas tote marked "Property of Public Library".

I have no couch in my apartment, but darn it I have art. If only for 3 months. By the way, I was able to renew the pictures for 2 more weeks. This is perfect as it will allow me to keep them for the Super Bowl (American Football championship) party I am throwing. The invitation clearly states BYOC. Bring Your Own Chair. It may seem funny, but it's not a joke.

I don't really have much in my apartment but I have made it a well organized, clean and fun place for my children and me. What it lacks in amenities and comforts in makes up in freedom. I love my apartment. There are some oddities, however (due to my oddities, mostly).

I have towels hanging in my master bathroom (a term I use very loosely in this case) that have little tassels on them and match the color scheme of my bedroom comforter / pillow set. I do not use them, as I have put them there merely for show. They are not machine washable.

Seriously.

I store my toiletries in a tupperware container which I keep under the sink. Yes, it would be nice to have a proper fancy schmancy drawer, but this plastic bin does quite nicely, thank-you. It also stacks neatly on top of the other containers stored underneath containing medical supplies, back-up supplies, and miscellaneous, respectively.

My Love derides me for keeping the toilet seats in my apartment completely shut. She admires the fact I have bowed to her feminine preference to keep the seat down, but wonders why I spoil it by also closing the cover.

I do this due to my fear of losing stuff down my toilet.

One morning I was bleary eyed and more bull-in-a-China-shop than usual and I knocked my entire plastic bin off my vanity. The contents flew everywhere in the cramped quarters and most landed harmlessly on the white linoleum floor. Most, that is, except for my night bite guard.
As a still recovering stress jockey I tend to grind my teeth at night. It was worse years ago when I would wake up with headaches from this cursed nocturnal activity. Things have improved over this past year, but nonetheless it has been my habit to pop it in every night.

I didn't realize it was missing until after I had used the toilet.

This was during the morning hours, so when I say I "used the toilet", I mean in a complete and full manner.

Hours later I was grimly searching the bowl and inner plumbing for my over priced dental appliance. At this point had to ask myself, "If I do happen to find it, would I really use it again anyway?"

I decided to take this as a sign that I should let it go.

Which I was happy to do until I realized my toilet kept plugging up. The maintenance crew from the office came by and started doing their "rooting". All the while, the guy was asking me questions concerning my bathroom behavior. What do I put in this toilet, besides the usual? What kind of a diet was I subjecting myself to?

I tried to keep the conversation to a series of smirks, grunts and nods, and was mostly successful. I was torn between the desire for this guy to actually rescue my bite guard and hoping he would just clear the clot without knowing the cause to escape the inevitable awkwardness.

He didn't find it, so I'll just have to focus more on meditation and relaxation techniques. All for the best, really.

Back to my apartment, though, one oddity my Love points out to me is that my "bachelor fridge" is really out of the ordinary. Yes, it does contain the obligatory case of beer (alongside the occasional 6 pack of Two Brother Brewing company Bitter End or Heavy Handed Hop... shout out to the local boys!).

The trouble is that each of the beers is arranged standing in neat rows with the label facing outwards. It is my like my own little glass army of crisp refreshment.

The beers are kept company by a case of bottled water. All labels facing forward.

Usually, the only other liquid at hand is soda water. When I get to buy the variety pack at Costco (a local warehouse store) I arrange the soda water by colors, blue for plain, green for lime etc... These I keep in same-color rows.

All labels facing forward.

I can not accurately describe the satisfaction I receive upon viewing this every time I open my fridge door. I sometimes refrain from enjoying a beverage as the removal of that particular bottle would ruin the symmetry. Unless, that is, I have more in storage. In that case, I will replace every bottle I take out in order to keep the balance.

This leads me to my hoarding "issue" which I inherited from my father (you may recall from an earlier blog his family lost everything to a tornado). I have more paper products in my apartment than items of food. This is due to an irrational fear of running out of toilet paper which happens to be one of my top fears. It ranks just below dieing of cancer.

I have enough hair shampoo and conditioner in giant bottles from Costco that some would term it, accurately I'm afraid, as a lifetime supply.

Which raises the question from some people like my close friend and fellow blogger Sarah, "Does a man need conditioner?".

First of all, I am not just some "man". I am a high maintenance anal retentive metrosexual.

And yes, I do need conditioner. I do not roll out of bed looking like this, you know.

I even socialize with the entire value chain involved with keeping my hair neat, clean and healthy. I meet my coiffeur for drinks, and even attended a pool party at my stylist's house. It was there I met the sales rep for the Product I use (don't call it hair gel... you don't get a frequent buyer's card for hair gel. You get it for Product.)

I am termed "high maintenance" in what I choose to believe is a loving (or at least tender) fashion by my colleagues, friends and, most endearingly, by my Love.

She started getting a trifle concerned when every time she called me for a 3 week span it seemed I was shopping at Bed Bath & Beyond (BBB). It was right at the time I realized I actually enjoyed living in my apartment and didn't want to rent or buy a house for myself yet.

BBB is AAAwesome.

I live an easy walking distance from Linen and Things. It is actually right next to the CiCi's pizza. I consider this section of the mall a sucking black hole of cheapness and bad taste.

Linens and Things is to Bed Bath and Beyond what Walmart is to Target.

My high maintenance extends to other areas of my life. During a recent business trip I was accompanied by three of my office mates. I insisted on using the United 1K desk to check in, even though the lines for the self-check were shorter or non-existent. (1K is United class for people that fly over 100,000 miles a year. The number 100,000 can be represented by 100K or 0.1M, but 1K just means one thousand. Therefore the term 1K under represents my status and pisses me off).

I was the only one of the four of us to check my bag. It was sized properly to fit on the plane, I just couldn't take it on because I packed my hair gel, cologne, and some other liquids and gels (including running nutrition).

My colleagues gently reminded me I could take on 3 oz. bottles of gels and liquids. I not so gently reminded them my Product does not come in 3 oz. bottles. They then suggested I buy little bottles and squeeze or funnel my stuff into them and carry those on.

The day I actually do that will be the day I know the terrorists have won.

Resolution

I just finished working out at the club (a "sports center", actually, but it makes me feel more sophisticated to say "the club").

As I struggled to find a parking spot and then a free treadmill & weight machines at 7PM, I came to the realization I was right in the middle of the season inevitably following the holidays.

Resolution.

It's the young lady on the treadmill beside me. She cranks up the speed to a screaming fast pace but stands there with a wide stance, feet on the stationary rails, face down staring at the belt screwing up her courage, iPod blasting. Suddenly, she hops on, feet flying like a cute little jackrabbit with her long ears pinned back into a ponytail. Her sprint lasts a mere 5 seconds or so. Grabbing the console, landing on the rails, staring down once again at the speeding belt gasping for air, resting for a minute before the jackrabbit jumps again.

It's the older gentleman face down in the plank position, his personal trainer counting off the seconds. His pallid pudgy body shakes with the effort. From my perch on the weight machine, I stare at his dark brown comb-over admiring the masterwork involved in covering so much scalp with so little hair. The part starts so far down, further than I personally have ever seen. And I'm not talking far down on the side, but far down to the back. This is a maneuver I have not witness before. His dignity is preserved, however, by the silver Rolex proudly displayed on his wrist to match his cotton T-shirt, shorts and white tube socks. His beautiful watch ticking off the precious moments of his existence spent earning this timepiece, it seems.

It's my ex-neighbor plodding by in thick sweat pants and Ugg boots. And not the athletic kind of sweat pants, either, the cover up and stay warm and comfortable at the grocery store kind.

It's the conversation I had the last night I was in Las Vegas. I ended up in the sports book bar with my boss, big boss and colleague (while, mind you, my team enjoyed the fruits of the Strip).

For one blessed moment, my colleague opened a conversation not dealing with the work matter we had gathered to discuss.

"Did you all make New Year's Resolutions?"

My boss pounced on him, "Why do people have to wait until Jan. 1 to make a change? It's just stupid!"

Undeterred, my colleague directed the inquiry to me.

"I always find it more interesting to first review how last year's resolutions turned out."

My response was met with blank stares. More drinks were ordered from the waitress that never looked you in the eye; most likely because she was resigned to the fact male gazes were directed a bit lower anyway.

I took the break in the inquiry to recall the events surrounding my last year's resolutions. I was running mid December 2006 with my old group an overcast cold day, but not bitterly cold (weather wise, at least). We were cycling through subjects as usual, entertaining ourselves as the miles slipped by. I was asked for my NYR. I paused a second, and then blurted out the following.

"I resolve to push myself harder than ever before to the point of spectacular failure or extraordinary success."

Admittedly, it was an odd thing to say and it was met with understandable scorn, "I think this marathon training is finally getting to you."

I was as dumb founded as they were, but hid it. There it was. My resolution. I had no idea what it meant, but it was mine and somehow felt right.

"Mine is to have more fun."

I was roused from my reverie by this pronouncement from my colleague.

"Like how? What are you thinking of doing?"

"Well, I don't know"

"Seriously, you're going to have more fun. Like how?"

"Yeah, well, it's not like I have a kick-the-bucket list or something... I'm just going to take it all in, you know, relax a bit."

While I wish my colleague all the best, I can tell you his face is a billboard etched with deep lines spelling out a grim message for all the world to see: "Here is a man who has no fun."

I have traveled around the world with his gentleman and sat next to him for hours & days in planes, meetings and conference. I can not recall a single incident during which I heard him laugh or express mirth in any degree whatsoever.

That being said, I take no joy in my colleague's travails, quite the opposite actually.

You see, I was my colleague; the headaches on a Sunday afternoon when I tried to relax, "Wasn't there something I should be doing? Something I should be working on instead?" I was that girl; going to the gym, pushing myself so hard with no clue what I was doing. Torturing myself needlessly, stupidly. I was that man; feeling my man-boobs jiggling violently up and down as the plane made a rough landing on yet another runway on yet another international airport. Sacrificing my body to soulless pursuits.

But then, I got lucky. Blessed, actually.

I failed.

Spectacularly.

And I've never been happier.


(My neighbor passes by now as I sit here and pen this blog, sipping my bright pink recovery drink. It appears the only workout she has subjected herself to involves trotting around in those big old ugly ass Ugg's. I was never my neighbor.)

Vegas

This week I was in Las Vegas for the Consumer Electronics Show. This is the week Vegas is inundated with thousands of nerds showing products ranging from a living room lamp with a built in speaker to an R2D2 robot with a built-in projection TV so you can have it go from room to room beaming HDTV on your walls to impress your geeky friends.

This week Vegas also hosts the Adult Video conference. Coincidence? I think not. Not only does CES attract a large number of their target audience, it contains all the technology to record, distribute and watch skin flicks in increasingly life like detail and size.

The crowd pleasers on the floor are always the big TV's. This year everybody was showing TV's so large you actually have to stand in your neighbor's living room to watch them properly.

The TV's are so large watching them is like looking through a pane of glass at real life (only better). The people are "life size". I'm sure this conjures up interesting use cases for the nerds and sex people alike.

Speaking of sex, my company put us up at the Wynn hotel which is the sexiest place I have ever stayed in the world (and I have flown over a half million air miles, so I have seen some things).

The Wynn hotel is the masterpiece of Steve Wynn (good thing he wasn't born as Bob Lose... rimshot). At the Wynn, even the ugly people are attractive. This appears to be thanks to, at least in part, the extraordinary amounts of money they possess. Money, it seems, they can not wait to rid themselves of at the $25 minimum-and-up tables.

The only unattractive people allowed to roam the Wynn are the engineers in town for CES. These nerds are happy to go against convention and look bad; putting more value in brains than looks. They put the "glee" in ugly. God bless them.

Anyway, getting back to "sex", this seems to be a sensitive subject in our puritanical country (and especially the Bible banging 'hood in which I live). It seems people around here are either rebelling against their natural "evil" impulses or rebelling too hard against the forces of "good". I eschew both views.

As I exit the elevators at the Wynn to get my morning $4 cup of coffee, I pass a young Hispanic woman putting new roses in the huge vases standing at the doors. She delicately arranges dozens of brilliant red roses with heads as large as my two year old daughter's. As I pause to admire this, a smartly dressed black woman exits from the elevator sporting a tight spherical afro large enough to obscure the rose bunches as she struts by. Sexy. Not my "thing" perhaps, but sexy nonetheless.

I walk by the roulette table and hear the croupier plead with the lone elderly gentleman at the table, light blue sansabelt trousers sagging slightly as he bends arthritically to lean on the rail, "Sir, it is 7AM and your flight is at 9:30, you really have to leave now!". The man nervously waves him off and places another bet. Not sexy.

Later, as I was buying chips to put inside thank-you cards for my team (since most of us were there for the show I called a meeting for all day Thursday) I dropped a $5 bill on the floor. A guy had just walked up beside me at the counter and was greeted by the cashier with "Hey there again, I see you have chips this time". He noticed me retrieving my grounded cash and said, "In Vegas, people don't bend down for a $5 bill, man." I look at his slicked back black hair, nicotine stained teeth showing through his easy smirk and replied, "I'm not from Vegas" He nodded sardonically, "You're lucky, man... you're lucky."

Now I am back in Chicago, just arrived late this afternoon. I picked up my kids for the weekend and my son wanted to go to CiCi's pizza. This is a pizza buffet right next to my apartment complex. The pizza is shitty and the atmosphere is depressing, but my son subsists solely on plain Asiago cheese bagels and thin crust cheese pizza so my options are somewhat limited. CiCi's has his favorite kind of pie which is marinara (he doesn't like pizza sauce. Seriously).

The clientele at CiCi's pizza primarily consists of large families. And I mean large in a number of dimensions. The dress code calls for sweat pants and stretchy shirts, the non-athletic kind.

CiCi's pizza is the antithesis of sexy.

I'm signing off now and booking my tickets and Wynn reservations to return to Vegas with my Love immediately.



A view of the Strip from my room:

A sample of the decor at the Wynn:

One Year

This morning my Love and I are going to a memorial service. My friend Amy passed away one year ago and was laid to rest this weekend in 2007.

The end of 2006 was personally a very difficult time, and the terminal illness of my friend finally living up to its "terminal" tag made the holidays almost unbearable.

I was in Las Vegas for the Consumer Electronics Show (CES) when things were finalized. My plans had been to leave Las Vegas Friday for Phoenix, as I was to run my first marathon there. Instead, I got the last seat on the first plane out to Chicago for the wake that Friday afternoon.

Thursday evening, two other employees of my company had taken our customer out to dinner and the Celine Dion show. Four engineers fourth row center sipping strawberry daiquiris out of fancy plastic cups. Quite a sight.

The customer wanted to party all night & really let loose so we ended up at a club and then finally he and I sitting together at a $50 minimum blackjack table at the Wynn. This was the smallest bet table we could find during that evening at our hotel.

I won't detail my travails during that evening, but suffice it to say my Italian colleague had to go to his room to bring me $600 cash to keep me afloat. My customer finally left at 3AM, a few hundred dollars up. I hit a lucky streak and even though it appeared to the newly assembled crowd that I was raking it in (like winning over $500 in one hand), I really had just started to climb my way out of the hole I had dug during the last few hours.

I left Las Vegas a few hundred down as I boarded the cab at 4:30AM. Waiting for my ride and travelling companions as I stood in the lobby of the Wynn, I watched a sea of drunken clubbing young men and women making their way back to their rooms, or perhaps like me to their flights. The women with carrying their shoes, the men carrying their women. The somewhat sexy yet seedy side of the strip at sunrise.

I next found myself at 5AM with an enormous crowd of people at the airport. I hadn't slept a wink and could barely stand the sweaty, slow moving crowd. I put my iPod on high volume and tried to drift away, but found no solace in my thoughts.

My Italian colleague was traveling with me, connecting to Europe from Chicago. He pointed out my 180 degree change in complexion, from daring and exciting the evening prior to dour and miserable this morning. I explained to him my situation.

I sat in the back of the plane, trying to sleep, iPod full blast (mostly Celine Dion, by the way), fighting back tears as they streamed from my eyes.

Entering the room at the funeral hall I was bombarded; mourning friends, mourning family, mourning husband and young daughters, pictures all around commemorating Amy's life. And there, at the head of the room, my beautiful friend lying motionless.

A picture came up on the laptop slideshow, Amy and I together with a group at This Run's for Jack 5K running race two years prior, a fundraiser to combat melanoma.

I burst into tears and inconsolable sobbing, which seemed to last through the weekend.

My Therapist says my grief show have subsided in 9 months. Amy's husband, my dear friend Joel, was told he should start dating again in 1 year. I was told to wait one year before introducing a new woman in my life to my children after the divorce.

And yet, I am still saddened to the point of heart sickness by Joel's loss, by our loss of Amy. Joel is not yet dating and I am bringing my Love to the memorial service.

I guess the heart knows not the rules the brain creates.