This I believe...

NPR has a series going right now that is an homage to an Edward R. Murrow series called "This I Believe." In it, people of all walks of life submit an essay declaring their belief in one specific concept, thing, person, etc, and, those that are selected read their essay on the air. I've heard everyone from Colin Powell to an annoying woman who said she believed in being nice "to the pizza delivery dude" (and, yes, she called him the pizza delivery "dude" throughout the whole piece). I hear this series almost every single time it airs, which I'm pretty sure is on Mondays during Morning Edition. With each declaration of belief I hear, I wonder to myself what I might write should I decide to write a "This I Believe" essay. Time and again, I'm stumped. I spent a while talking about this with my therapist tonight, and I'm not sure if I should be thrilled that I can't boil my beliefs down to one concise concept or if I should be horrified that I am so uncertain in my beliefs that I can't even come up with one single belief I find essay-worthy. I told my therapist I'd try to come up with a This I Believe essay, or at least some possible options. Here's what I came up with after very little reflection:
1. I believe in the power of premium denim to make any ordinary ass look smashing.
2. I believe I will never see the Cubs win a World Series.
3. I believe the asshole going 40 MPH in the left lane is from Wisconsin.
4. I believe Chicago is superior to NYC.
5. I believe in my grandma's meatballs.
6. I believe people who use religion as a justification for ignorant, oppressive and racist policies should burn in hell.
7. I believe in Murphy's Law.
8. I believe I will always pick the slowest lane, even if I was fairly certain at the time of my choosing that lane that it would be the fastest.
9. I believe in George Costanza.
10. I believe in Pinot Grigio (that one's for you Canadian Uncle).

That's all I got. See? Even my half-assed "This I Believe" potential TOPICS are shit. Even an NPR intern wouldn't select an entire essay on any one of those topics (except maybe #9) as one that might be worthy of air time on Morning Edition. What kind of people can actually boil their beliefs down to one essay? Can you? What would you write about?

Netflix newbie

I signed up for Netflix recently. I heard a story on NPR about the concept, and I was inspired to sign up for it. This in spite of the fact that I don't remember the last time I watched a movie unless it was suggested by another party. Still, the whole Netflix concept sounded too good to pass up. The first movie I selected was Glengarry Glen Ross, a 1992 film based on the David Mamet play. I've decided that I might be the first female Netflix member under the age of 30 (barely) to have this as the first movie in her queue, and frankly, I feel I should get some kind of recognition for it. It's not that this is the movie I wanted to see most in the world. It's simply that I was recently thinking about a guy I went to junior high who happened to be named Glen Ross, and I thought how weird it was that he had the same name as the second third of a David Mamet play that I have never seen. Don't ask me why I was thinking about this person, but I was and so Glengarry Glen Ross was the first movie I selected on Netflix. I'm glad I selected it; it was a damn good movie, but I found myself wishing I had a bottle of pinot with me because it would make an excellent drinking game film. Here's how I can guarantee you'd get loaded within the first 30 minutes:

- take a shot every time someone says "leads"
- take a shot every time someone says "close"

At this point you'd be in the ER with alcohol poisoning but in case you need more ideas...
- take a shot every time Alan Arkin repeats the last two words of Ed Harris' previous sentence
- take a shot every time Jack Lemmon pretends he has a secretary named Grace

And there you have it. Four foolproof ways to get drunk while watching a David Mamet film. By the way, I looked it up on IMDB and some douchebag submitted a summary saying that it is a New York real estate firm but it's not; it is, in fact, a Chicago real estate firm. I know this because:
- they have the 50 token "el shots"
- Ed Harris makes a reference to how things used to be on Western, meaning Western Ave.
- Al Pacino says he's going to Cuomo Inn, an old Italian restaurant in Chicago which no longer exists
- the cops are wearing blue shirts
- they use an address on Euclid, a Chicago street
One final reason this movie was so good is that Jude Ciccolella is in it. Who's that right? That's Mr. Mike Novik, the president's chief of staff on 24.

Workout couture

I belong to a nice gym in the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago. Contrary to why most people select a gym, I joined this one because of its exorbitant monthly fee of $90. I guess to some that's not a lot of money. But to a teacher, that's a shitload of cash to pay for 2 hours of torture 4-5 times/week. My logic here is that if I write a check for $90 each month, I am more likely to attend just to I feel I am getting my money's worth. For once my logic was not flawed. I can tell because I get a panicky feeling every time I miss a workout. These panic attacks have less to do with the remorse I feel from missing the physical activity provided by a workout and more to do with the money I'm throwing away each time I miss an appointment with the elliptical.

One of the many drawbacks to being a member of an expensive gym is that I am the only member who doesn't dress in workout couture. My workout wardrobe consists of faded Target yoga pants that are two sizes too big on me, men's Hanes ribbed tanks (dago-Ts as we call them in these parts) and a pair of cross trainers that desperately needed to be replaced roughly 3 months ago. My mom donated a couple pairs of expensive workout pants to me, but even those look sad next to the gear of the hot Lincoln Park trixies next to me on the machines. Well last week I had a wardrobe mishap that has unwillingly thrust me into the world of workout couture. As I unpacked my gym bag to change into my glamorous workout clothes, it occurred to me that I had forgotten to pack a pair of workout pants. I had missed my workout the night before, so going home was not an option. No fancy gym would be complete without a store fully-stocked with overpriced workout gear, and I figured this was as good a time as any to take advantage of the convenience. I put my street clothes back on and went into the store to buy a pair of workout pants. To my dismay, there wasn't a single pair of reasonably priced pants. All they had were two pairs of shorts (which I believe are completely inappropriate no matter how thin you are or how hot it is) in size XS, fluorescent pink swishy pants that were 30% off of $40, and a selection of black low-rise yoga pants with contrast stitching and, oddly enough, belt loops. Clearly the only viable option here are the yoga pants with the gratuitous belt loops. The only problem is that they were $47. Yes, $47, as in $3 away from $50. I walked them up to the counter and informed the women (a complete stranger) that I would, for that moment forward, forever wear these hideously overpriced yoga pants. Since that day, I've worn them to the gym at least two times each week, once to the grocery store, and I even wore them around the house for a few hours when I felt they were being neglected. I will say, they are tons more flattering than my baggy faded Target numbers. Not flattering enough though, for the cringing to go away every time I think about how much I spent on them.

But here's the best part of this story: Upon returning to the locker room after my workout, I rifled through my bag to find my hoodie to wear out to the car. Not only did I find my hoodie, but I also found the pants that I had, in fact, remembered to pack. A classic Sue Ellen Mischke blunder.

Are girls funny?

I overheard a few of my editors talking yesterday about a "Senior Superlative" survey that had been distributed this week. All schools have these things, where students are asked to vote on who is "Most Likely to Succeed", who has the "Best Hair" and who has the "Best Buns" (seriously). The students vote for one guy and one girl for each category. My seniors were discussing the category "Class Clown" and decided that they couldn't decide on a female for this category because girls aren't funny. There were even girls in this conversation who went along with this claim.

At first, I was offended, mainly because I think of myself as funny. But then I started thinking about it, and I wondered if they weren't on to something. I tried to think about female actresses that people think of as "funny." *Debra Messing? Not funny. Megan Mullaly? I guess. Lucille Ball? Not my type of funny, but widely-considered "funny" by people that know what's "funny." But even as I listed in my mind the women we consider funny, none of them can make me laugh in the same way male comics can, especially **Chris Rock, Dave Chapelle, Eddie Murphy, and Richard Prior, ***Jerry Seinfeld, Chevy Chase, Bill Murray, Johnny Carson, and George Carlin.

And then I was reminded of a conversation I once had with my ex. ****He said he couldn't find a funny girl. He said he hates that he feels like he has to be funny all the time. Like girls just sit back and wait to be entertained. So what do you think? Are girls funny? Who is the funniest woman you know? And . . . do you think of yourself as funny?

*Of course, both of these women have funny people writing for them, and when I searched, I found that most of the writers on this show are men. And it's not like I think this show is the funniest in the world, or even the funniest on TV right now, but I've heard people compare Debra Messing to Lucille Ball (including Ms. Messing herself) so the leading ladies of Will and Grace came to mind.
**Uh-oh, these are all black men... are black men the funniest people in the world?
*** ok, that's better
**** He claims I'm one of the only funny girls he knows.

Sparkling grape juice + Michael Damian=cop fetish

I've been trying to figure out the root of my fascination with men in uniform, particularly police offices. I searched into my past to find my earliest encounter with the police that didn't involve getting 3 moving violations in one night (that's a whole different post) or a parking ticket. After much consideration, I think have a pretty good idea from where it stems...

It was New Year's Eve 1989. My parents were out with their friends so my sister and I were home alone. In order to make the night special, my mom bought us sparkling grape juice and told us we could sleep in their big bed while they stayed in the hotel. What my mom didn't know was that this night would have been special with or without the sparkling grape juice and the master suite (not true anymore). That's because Michael Damian was performing in Times Square when the ball dropped. At this point you should be saying to yourself: "Michael Damian? Who the hell is that?" That's because he sucked. He was one of those soap opera actors who tried to become a rock star (ala Rick Springfield, Jack Wagner and John Stamos). At the time though, I thought he was incredibly talented and underrated. I even saw him in concert (opening for Sheena Easton; I bought a t-shirt with her face on it). All you have to do is look at this picture to know just how ridiculously lame this guy was.

Anyway, you must be wondering at this point how sparkling grape juice and Michael Damian led to a cop fetish. Well, I'm getting there. My sister Melissa and I, both crazed Michael Damian fans, were very excited that he was finally getting his due propers by being given the honor of performing at the ball dropping ceremony. As time ticked down to midnight, we settled into our parents' big bed, poured ourselves a glass of sparkling grape juice, set the burglar alarm, and geared up for a Michael Damian fest. Just as the ball dropped, Michael Damian came roaring (more like prancing) onto the stage and played some crappy ass song that sent me into a frenzy. I started screaming like he was playing live in my parents' master bedroom. I screamed so loud that the windows and sliding doors rattled, setting off the burglar alarm in the house. The alarm company called immediately and asked for the emergency security code, which my sister and I did not know. I promised them I lived at the house and it was a false alarm, but they sent a cop anyway....

And that one cop sparked a life-long fascination with the badge. The doorbell rang only seconds after I hung up the phone with the alarm company. My sister and I ran to the door to see a local police officer there in his uniform with his gun and all the cool (hot) gadgets that come with being a cop. I don't remember exactly what he looked like, but in my current fantasies he's tall, dark, has a chiseled jaw and is just a little bit dumb. I assured him that everything was okay (but maybe you should come in and do a search, just in case...), and he left us to our Michael Damian fest. But as Michael performed, I couldn't help but think he'd look even better in a blue shirt and a badge.

7 May 2006

Check out my post on Wordaholism to learn about my favorite day of the year.

Retail therapy

As you've probably noticed, things aren't going so well in Sue Ellen Mischke's life these days (so bad in fact, that I'm experimenting with writing in 3rd person to distance myself from my misery....George likes his chicken spicy!). In fact, it feels just about like everything is going to pieces. It's so bad that when I called my grandma, who recently had surgery, to check in with her, I nearly broke down. I'm so bad at masking my sadness that she could tell within the first 5 words that something was wrong. Then she started grilling me (in a way only my grandma can) to tell her what was wrong. I gave her my stock "I'm tired- long week" excuse, but she wasn't buying it. By the end of the (2-minute) conversation, I was crying as I said goodbye. Hence, I will soon be getting a phone call from my mom (who is babysitting my 2 nieces while my 8 months pregnant sister stays at the hospital with her husband who may have to have emergency surgery for some reason relating to his cornhole) who will rightfully be mad at me for making my 75-year-old sick grandma worry about me. I didn't mean to do it; but when she said "I Love You" I couldn't stop myself from crying. Now everyone in my family knows something is wrong.

In an effort to combat this sadness I decided to go to Old Orchard, a fancy mall in the northern suburbs. As you might recall from my previous post, I took a personal day today. I didn't take the personal day for the purpose of going to the mall, but I had lots of time to myself (which I did not want) so I went to Old Orchard in search of retail therapy on my limited budget. I started at Ann Taylor Loft where I got the cutest white shorts/capris and two cute summer tops. These were all under $40 so I did well. Plus I was using birthday money, so I'm still okay. This photo doesn't do these shorts/capris justice. They look awesome on me. For me to acknowledge that anything looks good on me is pretty rare, so that should give you a pretty good indication of how cute they are. Then I got a navy blue cami with sequins on it and a cute white (sale) tank as well.

But the coup de gras was these shoes from Banana Republic. No, they won't be as comfortable as the Aerosoles I've been loving these days, but I won't put as many miles on these. I tried them on with the shorts/capris and the white tank when I got home, and it looked almost good enough to bring me out of my depression. The good news is that my gift certificate covered all but $24 of the shoes. I plan to wear them tonight with my cutest jeans and the blue tank and my white jacket while I'm drowning myself in margaritas and/or Modelo and/or Pinot Grigio.

92

I don't have much to say. I'm only posting to ensure Esbee that I haven't fallen off the face of the Earth, even if I wish I had. Turns out the only thing worse than the birthday is the week after the birthday. But no need to worry; I'm still here. I just don't have much to say. I could write about the fact that I took a personal day for tomorrow in anticipation of having a good night of quality time with my boyfriend. And the fact that I won't be seeing him after all so now I have wasted a personal day. But I won't.

Just a few posts away from the 100th.