Misc | thesmartlychicago.com

On being your own worst enemy.

April 1, 2011 By Uncorked V 9 Comments

There are a lot of things I consider myself to be very good at doing. I understand this probably comes off as conceited, but usually when I try something, I’m good at it. Or at least not totally crappy at whatever it may be. But there has always been one thing that I’ve never been able to really excel at, and it’s the one thing that I think has held me back in my professional life. And probably my personal life too.

I cannot self-promote.

I have won negotiating competitions in law school. I can sell just about any idea to anyone at any time. I’m extremely persuasive when I want to be. The other night I went to a networking event for women at a local business school, a really good one. I met some amazingly successful women and made some great connections for business and for personal endeavors. At this event, however, I came to the conclusion in one of our roundtable discussions that I am a loser and would fail out of business school. I could go in and negotiate on behalf of any person at that table after knowing them for five minutes. I could give a speech honoring their accomplishments and gush over their success, but when asked about my own successes in life I clam up.

Part of this is the fact that I never saw myself has extraordinary in any way. When people tell me I’m unique or different and rare I always wonder who they hang out with, because my friends are all … better. They’re smarter, funnier, prettier, and I’m okay with that. But there was a statistic about how individuals stand to lose $500,000 by the time they reach 60 years old if they don’t negotiate their first salary.

Holy. Crap. That’s a lot of money.

And I did not negotiate my first salary after law school. As an attorney, I know better. As a relatively intelligent person, I know better. So why didn’t I?

Because I still feel like a dumb kid playing dress up in a suit.

But I intend to work on this. And I will succeed. I guess if there is a moral to this little story it is to not be afraid to see value in yourself, and to go for what you want. And if you’re not getting what you want, to be secure in yourself and walk away. There have been some changes in my life recently, and I no longer look at upcoming change and immediately have a panic attack. I know deep down that I am good enough and worthy of the things that have come my way, and those which will come my way. But it is those things that I still need to chase down which will really determine my path.

Picture courtesy of Blogtrepreneur.

To read more by V, visit *uncorked.

Filed Under: Misc, Motivate Tagged With: attorney, business, confidence, negotiating, networking, salary, self-promote, women

“Trixie” Clarification

February 21, 2011 By Faux Trixie 10 Comments

I obviously write under a pseudonym, The Faux Trixie, which I created almost five years ago. To me, the meaning of the term is clear. However, I forget that not everyone is from the north side from Chicago, and thus, the term trixie may not be known to some of the American population. As such, I thought I would take a moment to clarify.

According to Urban Dictionary, a “Lincoln Park” Trixie is defined as follows:

“A 20- or 30-something female found in Chicago, IL. Their migration patterns, though originating in Lincoln Park, include Bucktown/Wicker Park, Lincoln Park, Gold Coast, Wrigleyville, Lakeview, and, increasingly, the West Loop. They are easily identifiable by their fair skin, blond hair (or at least with highlights), good purse, manicured feet/hands, and Starbucks cup. They are born in the Midwest but have found Michigan or Ohio to be so passé, so they moved to the big city. The preferred form of transportation is the VW Jetta or Honda Accord. They have typically graduated from large state universities with good football teams and mediocre academics. Trixies tend to live and work in Chicago but hate their job although they will tend to stick with it as it accommodates their “urban” lifestyle. Trixies have nice belongings (clothes, shoes, purse, car) but tend to be cash-poor as they must maintain their standard of living. Trixies are typically attracted to Midwestern, frat-boy types: 30 years old and still wearing baseball hats backwards and rugby shirts with horizontal stripes. They will stick with these douchebags as they are buying time until they can get married as the large engagement ring is a sign of rank in their social circles, much like chevrons & rockers in military insignia.”

This is pretty accurate.

Think of all the sorority girls you knew in college (minus me and a few other awesome ladies. Yeah, yeah, I was in a sorority. What of it?). Now, imagine if the most annoying of the sorority girls grew up and moved to Chicago. Those girls are trixies. There are no finite rules in determining whether you are a trixie, but the following may be of some help:

You carry a really, really, REALLY expensive handbag.
You don’t know what your natural hair color is anymore.
You use bronzer or tan incessantly — not just in the summer, when it’s appropriate to do so.
You have an iPhone or Blackberry or a Droid or other trendy smart phone. You would not be caught dead using a flip phone.
You read Twilight, but not ironically.
You still only like guys from the Big 10, particularly if they were in fraternities, and you know if they were, because you still ask.
You don’t realize that there is a world outside the North Side, specifically, Lincoln Park, Wrigleyville, Lakeview, or Bucktown.
You buy really expensive clothes and accessories, but sacrifice your utilities to do so, because honestly, you cannot afford both on an administrative assistant’s wage or entry-level PR salary.
You will only accept an engagement ring from a high-end store and only if it’s a certain karat size.
You’ll stuff your face with La Bambas while making fun of girls who are heavier than you.
You own a Tiffany’s mesh ring or bracelet or whatever overpriced item they’re selling in a blue box now.
You think men love you, but they just want to sleep with you because you have.
You have ridiculous vanity plates.
You can’t afford membership at the East Bank Club but will find any way you can to get onto its rooftop in the summertime.

The No. 1 thing to remember is this: TRIXIES ARE VAPID.

Hence, this is why I am The Faux Trixie. Do I have expensive handbags? One or two. Do I stuff my face with La Bamba? Um, no comment. In fact, I kind of do a lot of these things: I own a Volkswagen and a Tiffany key necklace and an iPhone. What makes me different from a true trixie is that I’m not vapid or shallow. My other “faux” trixie friends and I are smart, witty, whatever. Oh, and we’ll slum it at Target for clothes and go to dive bars and drink beer and watch sports and fart. The picture I use? Sums me up perfectly (except for the whole bare midriff).

So, now that you’ve been schooled in trixies, you should have an adequate background when I refer to them in the future. And if you are a trixie, sorry. I have a lot of trixie friends, really I do. I mock them with the utmost love. I’m just not one.

Republished and edited from a previous post on The Faux Trixie’s personal site, which you can visit here.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Misc Tagged With: Chicago, Faux Trixie, Trixie

My new digitized normal

February 15, 2011 By Garima Nahar 2 Comments

It was just a few years back that I took pride in saying- I am on computer at work all the time, once I am home except a quick email check, I am offline completely. If I needed to get in touch, I’d call. If I needed to buy something online- I’d ask hubby trusting his deal finding skills way better than mine! I would always ‘lecture’ two of my closest friends- Get off the laptop. Ok not lecture as much but shout! I just didn’t get it.

Slowly and surely it changed. I got more and more online from home. I finally caved in and signed up for my data plan on cell and since then there is no looking back. This followed by Facebook, blogging and now really enjoying the new Android toy ‘Ok fine, it’s a phone!’!

I am online all the time via my phone or on my laptop. Simple. There was time prior to kids, we’d finish dinner and go for a walk in our area, or occasional weekday bowling or try out new hobbies like oil on canvas or read a book in the patio or just curl in couch with a good pre-selected Netflix movie. Lovely times. After kids, once V would sleep, we would continue to watch our movies, sometimes play a board games or if we had family home, we’d still go out for a walk once in a while.

Then came my digitization. Our weekday evenings are marked by tucking in V and then opening our respective laptops and being online for a bit. Only after that we’d look up and then chit chat. Only to have the laptop light shown in our faces. I now “need to” go to my daily go to sites. Of course I suffer from “every email must be read the minute its received” hence the frequency on being online is way more. That’s my new normal.

Hmm…

The good thing is we are reverting back to board games. We have increased our paper magazine subscriptions and signed up for book clubs. This is keeping us offline just a bit longer. I am defining a new normal for me.

We recently visited the Apple Store. I have been against owning an iPad, iTouch for a while now. You see I don’t want to be a net addict in denial! But I saw little V play puzzles so effortlessly on the iPad, enjoying the Coloring on Android and navigating the words so easily, I feel she will get digitized at a faster rate than you and me.

My newly defined normal might just change again!

Filed Under: Misc, Nostalgia, Tech Tagged With: Garima

I went to Jared … once

February 8, 2011 By Uncorked V 13 Comments

I am extremely attracted to shiny things.

They don’t have to be expensive things, though it never hurts. I am a complete sucker for a car that just comes out of the car wash, disco balls, coins, silverware, anything really. If it sparkles, it will undoubtedly get an “ohh” or an “ahhh” from me. There was this crystal saddle that served as a disco ball at a honky tonk in Texas where I went to law school.

That saddle glistened and sparkled when reflecting the light. I could stare at it for hours.

One time I remember seeing a couple two-stepping on the dance floor. They were the perfect little Texas couple. She had big, but still stylish, blonde hair, wore a cute denim mini skirt and cowboy boots. He wore Wranglers that were maybe just a bit too tight and this look of pure love and adoration on his face. Then I was temporarily blinded when her engagement ring caught the light from the saddle.

From that point on, I wanted a shiny, sparkly, potentially seizure-inducing ring of my very own. It had nothing to do with wanting to be engaged or married. Really, those were the last things on my mind. I graduated from law school, moved back to Chicago, took and passed the bar and got myself a job.

And then I went to Jared. A phrase we all know too well because of some clever marketing techniques. Bravo, Jared. Bravo.

I bought myself a right hand ring. With my first official lawyer paycheck. My entire first paycheck.

Stupid? Maybe. A waste of money? Probably. I didn’t even wear it that often, but I loved it. It was always a little reminder that I had accomplished something. Something that … well, a hell of a lot of people actually accomplish. But still.

I was proud of myself.

So who cares about this story now? Over four years later? I do. Because today I realized that I lost it and it made me really pretty sad. Leaving Mexico a few weeks ago I put all of my jewelry in a little black pouch and in my purse to carry-on the plane with me. I know for a fact that it was in my purse. I have been holding out hope that maybe for some reason I left it up in the suburbs when I was visiting my parents. No such luck. The little pouch is gone. Inside that pouch was some of my favorite jewelry, mostly replaceable but still pieces I loved, and my ring. It wasn’t the same as the one pictured above, but it was very close.

I know it’s not the end of the world. And I know I’ll be able to buy myself another one sometime, but I’m a little upset about it today. So tonight I do not go to Jared. No, tonight I go to Discount Liquor (it has the brightest neon lights) and buy some vodka. And toast myself for being able to buy it for myself in the first place. Cheers.

Photo is the property of Jared®

To read more by V, visit *uncorked.

Filed Under: Misc, Motivate, Nostalgia Tagged With: jared, jewelry, law, righthandring, ring

The Ritual

February 7, 2011 By Zel-kun 5 Comments

My life as an adult is defined by routines. Some routines are burdensome and monotonous, such as attempting to sleep through the first two songs after the radio alarm goes off in the morning, or regularly leaving the lunch on the dining room table. Other routines are annoying, like following my wife’s footsteps and shutting off all the lights of the rooms she’s been in. My father used to ask me if I thought he was made of money, and now I ask the same thing of her every day. You know that curse parents place on you when you’re a kid? The “I hope when you grow up you have kids just like you” curse? Yeah, it comes true. And if you try to avoid it by not having any, the curse is happy to substitute your wife in place of kids.

Now she spends late nights with her friends in the basement laughing, drinking Mountain Dew, and playing the D and D. It’s the devil’s game, I tells ya.

Some routines just confuse me. Every evening I’ll walk over to the washroom, and turn on an imaginary light just outside the door. I don’t know why I think there’s a light switch there. There has never been a light switch there, nor have I ever lived in a house with a light switch outside the bathroom. But every day, like clockwork, I’ll try to flip that imaginary switch. I guess it’s only a matter of time before I start trying to walk through imaginary doors and lifting imaginary boxes. After that I might as well move to Paris and become a mime.

There is one routine, however, that gives me comfort and a bit of pride every time I do it. Recently I’ve taken to calling it the Ritual. Every night, after my wife heads upstairs to bed, I take a moment to make sure everything is in order. I turn off the television, make sure the X-box (we usually stream Netflix) is off, and walk into the kitchen. I make sure the stove and oven have been properly turned off, and walk over to the fridge. I open it and peer inside a moment, and most days I just shrug and close it. I always find myself examining the inside of refrigerators, even when I’m at other people’s houses. I don’t have to be hungry or thirsty, but if I don’t catch myself in time, there I am peering inside of whatever refrigerator happens to be nearby. I’m guessing it has something to do with the imaginary light switch.

Afterwards, I go to the back door and test the lock. Sometimes it’s locked, sometimes not. I walk back to the living room and pause at the base of the stairs by the front door. I check to make sure the front door is locked, and then take everything in a moment. There’s a sort of pride in taking the time to make sure everything is just right in the home before bed. It’s not just that, it’s knowing that I’ve worked hard enough to HAVE a house to make sure is in order, when it wasn’t too many years ago I was working at Wal-Mart trying not to punch my manager in the face.

I guess that’s what the ritual is all about, just taking a moment to appreciate where you are, where you came from, and how you got there.

Adulthood, huh?

Go figure.

Zel-kun out.

Filed Under: Humor, Misc Tagged With: adulthood, locking the door, opening the refrigerator, parents, rituals, routine

Chicago at its best and worst.

February 4, 2011 By Garima Nahar 2 Comments

You know what this post is about…the historic snow storm! Where some of us got stranded, some of us made it home safely, some of us froze due to power outages, some of us could work from home, some of us had to take a day off and in all- all of us got affected by snow in some form or the other.

Knocking on wood, I came home before the storm hit, and could stay home the next day and didn’t really have to worry about possibly missing work the next day. The snow storm was a mid-week break for me. Minus a few deliverables getting done, I got an entire day of playing with V, snapping a few things and enjoying the snow, making snow men, snow angels and above all rolling in powdery snow, – the most I have ever seen!

As we saw the local news on Tuesday night with warm coffees in our hand, I felt so guilty. There were hundreds of people stuck on Lake Shore Drive for hours, people out of power and stranded in the middle of nowhere. My brother and husband decided to walk over to LSD in the night to at least take a few bottles of water for those who were stuck. Sadly with 60 mph winds and the tunnel effect of tall buildings in our neighborhood, they could not even make it past the stop sign half a block away. It felt like sky diving, with the winds as high as they were.

Next morning, we woke up, to see artery roads cleared up in our area. The salt sprayed on the pavements and building driveway shoveled. Impressive. Hats off to the tireless city staff and building management who made our next day so simple. We could enjoy a few hours in the snow, playing; snow ball fighting and enjoying knowing very well that Thursday will be even better.

I came in Thursday to work, with my commute eased, my husband’s drive ‘not bad’ and my daughter could resume school and the teachers were all happy to report that commute was painless and City of Chicago didn’t come to a halt or choke up with this storm of epic proportions.

I don’t know whom to thank or who to pay the gratitude to. I am just thankful that I could enjoy the blizzard from indoors with my facebook stream lighted up while the city officials made my next day of commute “Business as usual!”

Filed Under: Misc Tagged With: Chicago Snow Storm, Garima Nahar

My dead friend

January 27, 2011 By Amie Kus Curie 18 Comments

The first time I heard the phrase, a new classmate just dropped it into conversation. “I used to go to that park with my dead friend.” I was startled. It seemed so blase, so callous. “My dead friend.” The dead friend didn’t even get a name.

As I got to know the classmate better, I realized that she regularly mentioned her dead friend. The cute sweater she was wearing? “I got it from my dead friend.” A particular song on the radio? “My dead friend and I went to their concert.” Every time it came up, I paused. I never knew a proper response.

Eventually, I learned that her dead friend was named Betsy, and Betsy died in college from something horrible. Nobody dies in college from anything not horrible. It’s too young. What I didn’t know was why she always called Betsy “my dead friend”, instead of her proper name. It made me uncomfortable.

And then, one day, I understood. It all became so heartbreakingly clear.

Because I had my own dead friend.

I cannot forget my dead friend. Sometimes, it feels like she’s still alive. I want to call her and gossip about the latest Grey’s Anatomy, or complain about lackluster talent on American Idol. I want to go to Starbucks with her for her favorite vanilla lattes. She is present as a part of my life, and I don’t want to lose those memories. I want to remember her.

When she died, I spoke to my classmate. “Now, I have my own dead friend.” She nodded, sympathetically. “It’s going to suck,” she said, “a lot. And eventually, it’s going to suck a little less. But it will always suck.”

My dead friend’s name is Julie. But when I say “Julie”, a flood of horrible memories come along with all the good ones. Her long illness, the hope that she was finally recovering, and her sudden death.

Julie died two years ago, on January 27, 2009. And it still sucks. I hate that I have a dead friend. I hate that my classmate has a dead friend. But sometimes, talking about my dead friend is the only way to cope, and to keep memories alive.

So I call her “my dead friend”. I tell people I saw Wicked with my dead friend. That my dead friend visited Australia and played violin. How my dead friend was beautiful and smart and funny and wonderful. And nobody knows how to respond, unless they too have a dead friend. The ones with dead friends understand completely, and know that there’s no need to respond or react. It just is, and it just sucks.

Photo of Julie is property of Amie.

Read more from Amie on her personal site here.

Filed Under: Misc Tagged With: friends, grief

Opposite Moms Do Not Attract

January 25, 2011 By BeaTEP 2 Comments

Click for more DeviantArt

Well, I survived the holidays.

Mister Me came home with me to spend a few days in my backwater hometown. Being home with him reminded me just how different our families are.

More accurately, our dads and stepmothers are carbon copies of each other. It’s our moms that are polar opposites.

And I’m not talking polar opposites in that adorable way where they’ll learn to appreciate each other’s differences and become a lovable, if unlikely, comedic duo.

More like polar opposites who will be so irked by each other’s mere existence that they can only interact through pursed lips.

Take the evidence: My mother is quiet and reserved. She likes bluegrass and gardening. She heats her house with a wood burning stove and lives 20 minutes from anything that could be considered civilization. Her idea of a crazy night is two glasses of chardonnay, after which she has been known to literally fall asleep standing up. I’ve seen it. We spend every Christmas Eve decorating our tree, listening to instrumental Christmas music and drinking eggnog, which I was finally permitted to spike in my 23rd year.

Mister Me’s mom celebrated Christmas Eve by wrapping herself in strings of lights, going to the bar, and plugging herself in.

Yes. When it comes to Party, Mister Me’s Mom is a force to be reckoned with. My first introduction was watching her throw her cocktail-dress-wrapped 90 pounds all over the dance floor until the wee hours of the morning at a wedding. Among her friends, she’s known for going to the bar and getting one pitcher of beer and one of ice, then mixing the two to create twice as much beer. She’s like the Water-to-Wine Jesus of dollar pitcher night.

He loves her, but Mister Me’s mom is a source of discomfort for him. Although known to tie one on, he likes to keep his behavior relatively appropriate. Party Mom knows no such social norms.

I dread the day when our moms will meet… Dinner at a nice restaurant, everyone’s chatting while responsibly enjoying wine. Suddenly the restaurant staff gasps as the doors burst open and in walks a tube topped, body-glitter-bedecked Party Mom, yelling for Patron shots all around.

Mister Me will die of embarrassment, my mom will die of shock and I’ll be needing that shot of Patron.

Filed Under: Humor, Misc

Well, I find me funny…

January 21, 2011 By Uncorked V 9 Comments

Do you ever have those moments where you completely just crack yourself up? And no one is around to share with, but you laugh anyway? Just stop what you’re doing and laugh hysterically? To the point where your dogs would straight-jacket you if they could?

I have this little storage stool thing I got from IKEA. It is probably the only thing I can say I’ve completely put together on my own in my entire life. Which is why it also requires constant maintenance and upkeep. And is a jerk.

The other day I noticed one side of the stool was coming apart from the rest of it and the towels I store in there were spilling out the side. So I grabbed my tool box. Okay, not a tool box so much as a small pink case with a few tools inside it. But no, I haven’t bedazzled it. Yet. So I fixed it and went to go put the little tool box away when I remembered one of my kitchen cabinets has been loose for … well, for forever. So I figured I could probably fix that with a screwdriver too.

And it worked.

Then I became a woman on a mission. I fixed two more cabinets, a closet door handle and tightened up some dresser handles. Then as I was running around looking for something else to fix I had an inner dialogue which caused me to stop and uncontrollably laugh.

V: What are you doing?
V: Fixing stuff.
V: You mean running around screwing stuff?
V: Yep, running around screwing everything in sight!
V: Whore.

More uncontrollable laughter. And this really isn’t nearly as funny as it seemed at the time. My apologies.

I’m still giggling over it.

Rage against the (wedding) machine.

January 20, 2011 By Fabulously Awkward 5 Comments

I am a member of the newly engaged. Yes, I was one of the thirty-seven people on your facebook friend list changing my status after the holidays. Right before Christmas, my handsome man got down on one knee and bestowed me with some bling. While I did not start sobbing, the moment was very special. We celebrated with champagne, wine and an expertly-cooked pork tenderloin.

The reality of the whole wedding planning set in soon after that. Not even a month after that snowy December evening, I am realizing the various stages of being engaged.

Of course, the first stage is utter excitement and wonder. I finally get to be the bride. My friends? Those girls better get ready to don some floor-length taffeta and FIGHT TO CATCH MY BOUQUET. People get to buy me fancy kitchen gadgets. Cuisinart food processor, come to mama! Buying bridal magazines is fun! Yay for weddings!

The next stage is the feeling of being completely overwhelmed. How will I pay for this wedding? How do I get everything done? When am I supposed to get married? Who will be my bridesmaids? Do I even WANT bridesmaids? What if no one gets me my Cuisinart? The questions just do not stop.

That overwhelming feeling has since turned into a state of anxiety. In fact, just last night I had a dream that I had forgotten to bring my wedding dress to the venue. (As an aside, who else besides brides-to-be and party planners use the word “venue” in daily conversation? Seriously.) What if people don’t like the wedding? Am I doing it right? What about all of these etiquette rules?

I feel all of these things at various parts of the day. One constant emotion that seems to be ever-present throughout this whole wedding process is my general rage at the whole wedding machine. Theknot.com has infiltrated my life to the point where their “Make your wedding unique!” emails are now delivered directly to my spam mailbox. While I want to wear the white dress and eat cake and drink champagne as much as the next girl, I refuse to go into debt to do so. Something tells me there is something wrong with the world when the sample “budget” weddings are $25,000. That is ludicrous.

One might think that a girl like me might say, “Screw it!” and choose to elope. I considered it, I really did. However, upon careful reflection, I decided that I do want to say those vows in front of my family and friends. So have a wedding? We shall. I am not spending $25,000, though. Screw THAT. Oh, and the bouquet toss? Not doing that either. Save the dates? Emailed out. Sorry, Emily Post, I feel you judging me from there. Regardless of whether I choose to make my wedding by the so-called appropriate standards or not, I will be married in less than four months. That’s the name of the game, right? Not color-scheming or keeping up with the Joneses, but marrying “the one.” Consider it done. Sans theknot.com. (Oh, but with the Cuisinart. I really do dream of that food processor.)

Photo is property of the author.

Read more from Fabulously Awkward here.

Filed Under: Misc, Opinion Tagged With: bride, budget, Cuisinart, Emily Post, etiquette, wedding