Nostalgia | thesmartlychicago.com

That’s What You Get (for Waking up in Vegas)

August 9, 2011 By Dashing Gray 4 Comments

“Every city has its vices. We just advertise ours.”
~Las Vegas Cabbie

Vegas is unlike any other place in the country. It’s a continuous cascade of colored lights, punishing temperatures, booze, shows, food, and girls. It’s an oasis in an inhospitable desert–a town born from a dream. Being in Vegas is like living in a dream–whether it’s a fantasy or a nightmare is all a matter of perspective.

This town is a neon-studded dreamland of smoke, sounds, and alcohol. Here, it is far easier to find a bar than a water fountain, and margaritas flow by the gallon rather than the ounce. Each hotel whisks visitors to a new country of debauchery and glitz, each larger and more bedazzled than the last.

In this world, there’s no sense of time. The 110-degree daytime temperatures are imperceptible from the 99-degree evenings; the only difference is the absence of that big light in the sky. Days collide and overlap like tectonic plates as visitors ponder the pleasure of a midnight dip or marvel at the impressive eruptions of the world’s most famous fountain.

Tourists stumbling in from redeye flights and weekend escapes maintain an endless stream of caffeine, cocktails, and blackout curtains to overpower their circadian rhythms. Soaring daytime temperatures necessitate midday siestas for anyone wishing to venture down The Strip–the one street in America whose nighttime illumination jauntily competes with that of the day. Even the time zone caters to this routine-less, indulgent lifestyle–the clock reads hours earlier than most of the country.

Inside, it’s midnight 24/7–hotel owners can’t allow high rollers to recognize the time slipping away like desert sand. A single, gluttonous lunch lasts them all day, eliminating the rhythm of regular meals. Seasons are indistinguishable as frigid air conditioning clashes with nature’s oven, and slot machines sound their endless loop of clinks and whistles. Years of cigarette smoke soak into everything, joining a stale blanket that transcends brand recognition and is noticeable only in its consistency. Gamblers are honed into the glowing screens of the slots with such intensity that the ebb and flow of surrounding foot traffic disappears, save the personal service of scantily clad waitresses prepared to cater to every whim.

And among all this, you have to admire Lady Vegas for her unapologetic intensity. In a country of insecurity, Vegas flaunts her good and bad with equal vigor. She is as self-assured as any model, and why shouldn’t she be? She was founded with the money of mobsters and imagined in the minds of dreamers. Nowhere on earth is it easier to lose yourself in fantasy, and she excels at creating it. Men have ruined their lives in her casinos and made it big on her stages, but she watches over all of it with a neon glitter in her knowing eye.

She is the land of opportunity–and the city of ruin.

Filed Under: Nostalgia

Everything but…

May 8, 2011 By Dashing Gray 4 Comments

“I’m not saying that everything is survivable.
Just that everything except the last thing is.”

~Quentin Jacobson, Paper Towns by John Green

In speaking with a student today–an ambitious young woman who has endless creativity and enthusiasm and maturity beyond her years–I discovered that she was “sort of broken up” with her boyfriend of 6 years. He sees their recent history as her distancing herself from their relationship; she sees it as taking time out to figure out who she really is.

I commend her for this. The better you know yourself, the more ready you can be for a relationship because you are coming into it as one whole person–not a half of a person who seeks the other.

Yet she feels guilty about the whole thing. She is constantly being told by friends that she is selfish and foolish because she is not devoting enough time to “her man”–the man who, by the way, these same “friends” insist she needs to marry ASAP.

I feel for what she’s going through. It is hard to be a young woman, even in the advanced-technology, improved-womens’-rights era of today. The truth is that no matter how far women have come, people will always question us. Friends and family will want to know why we can’t just settle down already. The enormous wedding industry will tell us how we should run everything for “the big day” (consequently reminding us that there is no question about whether or not we should have said day). Womens’ magazines–I’m looking at you, Cosmo–will always focus more on men than women. All this mixed with our own fears, insecurities, and worries that we’re not doing things “right,” or that we’ll die alone.

And then there are all the choices. We live in a fast-paced, information-saturated society that is more advanced than any before it. We have access to countless ideas instantaneously and constantly–all in the palm of our hands. While the generations before were expected to take a job–with limited options, if you were female–for the rest of their lives, we have an overwhelming cornucopia of opportunities at the beginning of our careers and throughout our lives.

Yet with these opportunities comes a price. It’s a paralysis that seems to particularly affect the most ambitious and analytical of women. We see everything. We want to do everything, and we want to do it perfectly. We’ve been told since birth that we can do anything.

But the paralyzing truth is that we can’t. There are still barriers in our lives, in ourselves, and in society that keeps us from doing everything we want to do.

Once, there was the metaphorical path in the yellow wood. A path, and an elusive second option. Today, there is a multi-lane freeway in those same woods. They’ve ripped down the trees and radiated roads out in all directions. And as we stand at the center of all those roads, looking out further than we ever could before, we realize that eventually, we’ve got to pick one. Because we have to move forward in our lives. Because not picking one really isn’t living. Because we’re ambitious and we want to grow.

But we stand in those woods for a long time, struggling to choose our path. We eventually realize that, in opening some doors, we close others. We can’t do anything because we want to do everything. We’re meticulously hand-crafting the lives we want for ourselves, but there are too many question marks.

But that doesn’t mean that life isn’t worth the journey, even when saying “yes” is more terrifying than saying “no.” Because, dear student, there are countless choices out there. We can read and research forever. We can take in countless facts and advice, but eventually we must act. And when we act, things may not turn out the way we had hoped. But they will be real. We will be moving forward in the highway of life, and new exits and opportunities will pop up along the way.

And the truth is, not everything is survivable.

Just everything but the last thing.

Filed Under: Misc, Motivate, Nostalgia, Relationships, Spirituality

In Defense of Home

April 22, 2011 By Dashing Gray 7 Comments

I live in the far-west suburbs. Or rather, I live in a semi-rural area that most “true Chicagoans” would probably equate to shoe gum in the hierarchy of suburban prestige (assuming they were willing to admit that any suburb deserved any prestige, or that where I live even qualifies as a suburb). Nonetheless, it is more modernized and populated than most people give it credit for, and I generally find things here to be pretty satisfactory.

It seems that most people who live in Chicago proper are vehemently passionate about their lifestyle choice and are willing to engage in a heated debate about it with anyone who will listen. I don’t exactly mind this; it is good to show pride in where one is from. Maybe Chicagoans have always been this way because they incorrectly interpret “the Second City,” as an insult from New York, Chicago’s older and even more prestigious sibling. Or maybe it is because the most vehement people I know on this subject are from extremely small towns themselves—far smaller than where I live now—and are desperately trying to shuck off those past identities in an attempt to urbanize and modernize.

No, I don’t necessarily mind this ferocity because we should all be ambassadors to our hometowns; if we won’t defend where we live, who will? However, I do not apprciate the flak I’ve been receiving from these very city folk for my choice of homestead. Their arguments are always a “top this,” an “either-or.” They come out along the lines of “I love Chicago. It’s great. Too bad where you live sucks. I bet you wished you lived in Chicago.” I mean, not in so many words, but you get the point. This will not stand.

So, in defense of home, here’s my top-10 list:

I am a 20-something who not only lives in more than 300 square feet of space, but who also owns it. I don’t have to worry about leaky windows and dangerous electrical from the turn of the century because my building was built in 2004.
I don’t have to work two jobs to maintain my standard of living, which in turn provides me with the time to enjoy where I live.
I can hop in the car—without going outside—whenever I want and drive it to the location of my choice. Once I arrive, I can park there. My car is waiting for me upon my return, and the trip doesn’t smell like urine. My beloved garage protects my car from snow, and gas is as affordable as it’s ever going to be.
Free corn, anyone?
There’s a local place where I can buy mixed drinks for less than $5 regularly, and there’s no cover charge or coat fee. Similarly, I can afford to eat out regularly. Too regularly, probably.
I can go to any restaurant/club around whenever I want—and actually get in.
No random roommates.
I can walk down the street without being hassled for money.
I don’t pay the highest sales tax in the country.
There are actually trees here. And grass. And bike trails. And you can actually use them because a billion other people aren’t also there getting their weekly dosage of nature.

And, might I add, that the big-city benefits are a train ride away?

So there you go: why where I live is worth it. No, I probably won’t live here forever. No it’s not my ideal place. But it’s a pretty great start. You should come visit sometime—and hey, enjoy some roasted corn while you’re here.

Filed Under: Misc, Nostalgia, Opinion

A More Learned Faux Trixie

April 19, 2011 By Faux Trixie 14 Comments

I recently turned 30. From what I hear, it’s all downhill from here. I feel like the one truly fun decade of my life has passed me by so quickly, and I didn’t take full advantage because I was busy being a serious student and furthering my career. However, now that I’m older, I look back and realized I’ve learned a few lessons. I don’t know how serious or pragmatic or valuable they are, but if I could sit with my 20-year old self over a cup of coffee, I’d let her know this:

You look better tan. Stop trying to pull of that pasty, pale look. It doesn’t look good on you. Always be tan. You’ll feel better about yourself in pictures later.

You also look better brunette. I know, I know. You’re naturally blond, and you embrace it. However, think about changing your hair color before age 27. Also, those red streaks? They make you look more like a porn star than a lawyer.

Your dream is to live in the city? Move to a big condo overlooking beautiful downtown Chicago? City living is not really all it’s cracked up to be. Also, we don’t have a trust fund and you’ll never make enough to have a penthouse in the sky, so stop believing that you’ll be listening to Frank Sinatra and drinking a martini from your leather couch. You’ll be in an old apartment in Andersonville with no view, a hand-me-down couch, and a glass of cheap Lambrusco.

You’re never going to be rail thin, but you’ll look good, even with a little meat on your bones. Don’t sacrifice every burrito, piece of cake, fancy cocktail, or decadent meal to lose 8 ounces. This is why God created the empire waist.

Stop piercing your eyebrow. The piercer lied to you. It will leave a scar, and for the rest of your life, people will ask you what happened, wherein you will have to explain your wild streak in college.

Mom and Dad aren’t so bad. You’re just being kind of a jerk all the time.

Your friends will get married before you. Don’t freak out. It’s not that big of a deal. You’ll find someone eventually. And, by the time you get married, you’ll be so old that a big traditional wedding will no longer be acceptable and you’ll have to do a destination wedding. BONUS: Vacation!

Take more vacations. Your bosses don’t care as much as they think you do that you’re not in the office.

Stop smoking. For the love of GOD, stop before it is incredibly hard to do so, and you’re waking up every night hacking up a lung.

You and your college boyfriend are going to break up. That is a fact. You’re going to freak out a little when you find out that he’s engaged. Just remember, it was not at all meant to be.

Take better care of your car.

You always do whatever is easiest for you. Every once in awhile, try something that challenges you. Don’t worry, you won’t always fail. Sometimes, you’ll actually succeed.

You will be extremely belligerent and generally unpleasant to be around when drinking until age 28 or so, when you’ll become fun after a few cocktails. Lay off hitting the sauce too hard until that time.

Learn which angle of your face looks best in pictures. You’ll thank me when you don’t have 90 bazillion pictures of you looking horrible.

Don’t sign up for that credit card. It’s a just a bad idea. You’ll max it out and then be paying it off for the rest of your life. Also, learn how to budget. Sure, that designer shirt is cute now, but you’ll wear it twice. Do you really need it?

Someone will convince you at age 26 that you should get a tattoo of the scales of justice after you are sworn into the bar. Seriously stop and consider that choice before moving forward.

Your best asset is your sense of humor and outgoing personality. You’re never going to be the hot girl. Stop trying to be and use those assets you do have to your advantage more.

Not everyone is going to like you, and you’re not going to like everyone. That’s perfectly fine. Just learn to accept that some people are clearly not as awesome as you and move on. You’ll waste way too much time and energy trying to change their minds or exacting your revenge. It’s not worth it.

I can’t wait to see what my 40-year old self has to say to me in ten years. Just kidding; yes I can. Please pass by slowly, 30s.

Re-posted from the Faux Trixie’s personal site, which you can access here.

Photo used with permission from “irisb477″

Filed Under: Humor, Misc, Nostalgia

Lame.

April 11, 2011 By Deanna 3 Comments

Back in the late 1990s, before the internet was potty trained, I had an eBay addiction. I sneaked past their electronic watchdogs and bid to my heart’s content while still underage, flush with newly acquired after-school job income. I tread water academically in order to keep the job, motivated by this consumerist connection with the outside world.

After all, Knoxville, Tennessee, is not exactly known for its record stores.

I would buy records based on recommendations from fellow listserv users, typically older folks who lived in faraway cities like Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, Chicago, many of them survivors of the first waves of punk in the United States. When I obsessed over a particular band, I’d track down even the rarest promotional posters and plaster my bedroom walls with them. I had obscure t-shirts. I was an indie rock teenybopper, a trailblazer in purchasing a lifestyle.

Even though that music saved my life, and I viewed it as my duty to convert everyone else to it. Consider it a remnant of growing up in the Southern Baptist Convention. If a t-shirt silk screened in someone’s basement led an innocent lamb astray to the word of the K (Records, that is), I had fulfilled my promise to indie rock, especially if that stupid shirt cost me $40 (including shipping! it was from their first tour! it’s SUPER RARE!). Only partially imbued with class consciousness–I didn’t buy that working class chip on my shoulder, you know–I bought the right books, the right CDs, not to fumble my way into hipness but because my curiosity about these things got the best of me. I mean, I learned about Sleater-Kinney from Seventeen, for Christ’s sake–I’ve never even owned a fanzine. It’s not like I was mirroring anything in front of me. My high school friends all thought Warped Tour was really edgy.

This is why I’m so embarrassed for youth culture these days. While there are some folks creating their own universes, and God bless ‘em for it, so much of what passes for youth culture is handed down to kids. It’s not even the product of feverish hours of research. While I sincerely appreciate the internet for its potential to make information (especially electronic versions of obscure records, I won’t lie) insanely accessible, I feel like an entire generation is being cheated of the sensation of building a new world from themselves out of the bricks they’ve found. Hell, I’m clearly part of this generation–look at that above testimonial.

I’m embarrassed for them because I am one of them. I see parts of my younger self in the ironic ugly fashions and dull, beyond derivative music I hear wafting from open windows in Wicker Park. I understand the impulse to use Twitter and froth at the mouth over internet memes, because I do it too. This realization is why I’ve grown less self-righteous and judgmental as I’ve aged. We all start somewhere, and if I can (mostly) outgrow those consumerist impulses, that need to wear my interests on my chest, perhaps an entire generation will as well. Wishful thinking? Keep your cynicism to yourself, pal.

I was once lame to be cool. Am I still? I don’t know anymore, but I do still buy records on eBay. I’ll take a pass on the overpriced memorabilia, though.

Read more by Deanna at her personal website, or follow her on Twitter like the well-bred Gen-Yer you are.

Photo by Agroffman on Flickr.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Nostalgia

My nation is a procrasti-nation.

March 21, 2011 By Fabulously Awkward 4 Comments

My entire life has been defined by continual instances of procrastination. Whether it was college, law school, my job, or even most recently, wedding tasks, I likely would leave them ’til the eleventh hour.

When I had a paper due in college on a certain date, I likely would have started it the night before. I wouldn’t proofread, I would hustle, hustle, hustle and print it out, thinking, “DONE.” Finals in college meant going to my professor’s dinner party in his fancy house, drinking his wine, THEN I would go home and study. In college, this worked out fine. I graduated magna cum laude. I attempted a similar tactic in law school. Sadly, it turned out that procrastination wasn’t really effective when the professors usually grade you based on one final exam that comprises of an entire semester of reading.

I figured it out, procrastinated less and still…eked out mediocre grades. Needless to say, I did not graduate magna cum laude from law school. My procrastination meant that my first attempt at submitting my law review case note for evaluation, hoping to have it deemed “publishable quality,” was a shoddy and half-hearted attempt. Naturally, my first attempt was shot down. I know I procrastinated for my second attempt, but it was way more intense. For two weeks before it was due with massive efforts at research, footnotes and writing being my life for two weeks before it was due. This time? Success. AND publication.

Of course, these life lessons in “why you shouldn’t procrastinate” never have stuck. I still scramble to get motions and answers on file by the deadline. Such is my life. Most lawyers will probably admit to procrastinating once in awhile, if not often. I don’t think that this quality makes me unique.

My point? Well, in planning a wedding in a short amount of time, procrastination is not an option. I mean, it is, but you’ll really screw up your plans. In any event, I have mostly been staying on top of everything. It’s really a Christmas miracle, if you think about it. The procrastination queen is not procrastinating.

One of my good friends is a fabulous graphic designer, and she created our invitations that really inspired my decor and atmosphere for the entire wedding. She dropped them off at our house the other night and I went to work. By that night, I had nearly cut them all out with my new and nifty paper cutter. The next night? I had finished cutting them out and addressed almost all of them. Yesterday, I went to the post office (got the sullen POST OFFICE WORKER to be nice to me…another Christmas miracle), got our stamps and finished the invitations. Did you HEAR that? With my fiance’s assistance, I finished them in two days. The next morning, they went in the mailbox.

I assume this lack of procrastination must mean that I am ready to get married. I really am.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a motion due tomorrow that I haven’t started. You didn’t expect me to be completely reformed, did you?

Photo property of the author.

Read more from Fabulously Awkward here.

Filed Under: Humor, Motivate, Nostalgia

Death on a beach.

March 18, 2011 By JeffTobin 3 Comments

Wind grazes my cheek. Perspiration dries in my hair. My feet burrow into the cool sand as the sea momentarily flashes with a million photography bulbs capturing the seagulls’ graceful flight overhead. Waves crash. Jellyfish lie listlessly on the shore as manatee swim freely. Breath inhaled as if it could be my last…Exhale.

Death surrounds me.

However, a doctor has not recently informed me that I have months to live. The personal will detailing who will receive my possessions has not been created. A suicide note detailing the pain, the internal trauma, or the hopelessness of life has not been written. Not even a potentially tragic skydiving adventure has been planned.

It’s simply February in Fort Lauderdale: snowbird season. I feel completely out of place.

While basking in sun rays while the rest of the country is frigid, a sense of mortality is hard to shake when all one can see is withered skin and frail bones coating the souls of those tanning on the beach. If those wrinkles could talk, they may ask,

“Was this an eventful and purposeful life?”

Heat stroke must be imminent as I answer that question in my head with a logical response — but in the voice that could become an iconic character: an adorable rodent in an animated children’s film.

It could also be that the Bloody Marys have finally kicked in, which reminds me to partake in another swig. Although a sign states that there is no alcohol permitted on the beach, it is ignored: rebellion at its least dangerous.

The elderly relax in beach chairs as if they worked hard and long for years to reach this zenith. Peace at last. One company and one career was all it took to find the beach in the twilight years. Years ago, that was a possibility. I envy this generation.

Hopelessness gives me a great big bear hug as I admit to myself that there is a gap between roughly 30 years and my ability to claim Social Security which may or may not even exist when I reach the life goal of retirement.

My heartbeat must be racing as I can sense the panic kicking in again thinking of the thousands of days in front of me. It’s normal though. These waves and surges visit me every few weeks and have been doing so over the past 15 years. Deep breaths usually send them to the wayside. That and not worrying which is now a personal trait for those that know me.

Why worry? Many have asked, if not yelled it at me over the years. Perhaps they’ve been right as I cannot control any of this. My life situation hasn’t changed. If I focus on my breath count and calm my mind I can see that I can still pay my bills and carry out my responsibilities. I may or may not have a job waiting for me upon my return. Why dwell on the idea of a third career change when it would really just mean a new challenge, opportunity, and a fresh way to earn income? Why focus on what might be? We control less than we think. This is not a hint towards a God or thee God.

At this moment, I rest on a beach, buzzed on cheap vodka and want to convince myself that I have no responsibility other than to enjoy this day for what it is as I face a long succession of days unlike this tranquility…soon to be replaced by tolerable florescent lighting with cheerful co-workers.

Deep breath. Exhale.

Filed Under: Nostalgia, Spirituality

Characters of a city…and being called the “b-word.”

March 3, 2011 By Fabulously Awkward 7 Comments

Each large city has its own cast of characters. From our rather sensational political scene to the everyday people that roam the streets, Chicago is no exception. We have our mayor-elect Rahm Emanuel as well as our very own expletive-laden @MayorEmanuel. We also have our friendly Streetwise vendors and the guy that panhandles at the Subway and calls you names if you don’t purchase his requested food stuffs. This morning, as I waited for my blue chariot (also known as the blue line), I began to think more of these everyday characters.

There is the preaching man that nearly always rides in the very first car on the blue line around the same time as I do each morning. He wears a crudely fashioned crown, blue jeans always ironed with a sharp crease on the front. Each day, he sits patiently waiting as we approach our stop (Clark and Lake). As we leave the Grand station, he stands up, gathers his worn sandwich board and begins preaching. He doesn’t talk about God, or Jesus, or at least not that I’ve heard. He preaches about the government, and people taking your money, and not letting people making you feel “stupid.” (He always puts extra emphasis on the word “stupid.”) When the train pulls into Clark and Lake, he moves toward the front of the doors. When the train doors open, he sprints up the escalator to wherever he perches for the day.

There is also the guy hocking Streetwise occasionally on the corner of Lake and LaSalle who uses the same lines on the ladies day after day. He likes to come up to me and says, “Do you know what your smile is like?” I always respond with a “What?” He invariably response with, “It’s like a spring flower.” I tend to play along, but there was one day when my boyfriend was accompanying me down the street. The Streetwise man approached me and gave me the old, “You know what your smile is like?” line. My boyfriend, having heard this line before (and also having a bit less patience than I) responded FOR him. “Yeah, yeah. We know. It’s like a spring flower.” I’m fairly certain that that guy called my boyfriend the male version of the b-word.

There is also the rather mean homeless man that occasionally stands by the blue line entrance at the opposite end, not only panhandling, but also requesting specific Subway sandwiches if you appear to be entering the nearby Subway. I walked by him one day on my way to Subway for lunch. As I passed him, he says to me, “Hey lady. Get me a meatball sub? Extra olives.” I chuckled then promptly forgot about him as I waited in line. I left the Subway, my sandwich in tow, when I walked by the man again. I quickly realized that he was dead serious. “Where’s my sandwich?” he demanded. “Um, sorry, guy, I forgot.” I did feel guilty about it for a minute until he screamed after me, “BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!” I hate that guy. I don’t think I have been back to that particular Subway since.

I am pretty sure that if @MayorEmanuel called me a b-word, it might make my day. I suppose that’s just how I roll. Some characters can pull off the profanity and make it funny, while some characters are the villains. And there are so many characters, funny men and ladies to those rather nasty villains. One thing is for certain, these characters paint our Chicago a colorful one, and one that I won’t be leaving anytime soon.

Photo property of the author.

Read more from Fabulously Awkward here.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion Tagged With: @MayorEmanuel, b-word, Chicago, homeless, politics, profanity, Rahm Emanuel, Streetwise

A simple kind of love.

February 24, 2011 By JeffTobin 7 Comments

As a third grader, our class made Valentine’s cards. Mrs. Fox provided us with construction paper, markers, glitter, and glue. We used red construction paper because that’s the color of love — and our organs drenched in blood! No one would have black construction paper because we hadn’t learned the concept of cynicism yet.

We adorned our little cardboard paper hearts with stickers with possessive phrases like “be mine” and bold declarations like “I love you” and “you are sweet” that rosied up our little cheeks. Phrases were short and simple because “you stole my heart the way you stole my Star Wars lunch box,” and “please, please, please don’t let me be alone tonight,” and “nothing says ‘I love you’ like giving myself over to you completely while ignoring my friends” would be an overwhelming word count. Plus, it’s really melodramatic and the only melodrama many of us faced at that point in our life was whether or not we could play outside after the streetlights went black for the night. We also needed permission for a sleepover and boy/girl sleepovers weren’t permitted until college.

Hearts were distributed among friends in class. Friends reciprocated. Everyone felt appreciated. And really, it didn’t matter in the end, anyway. Man, do I miss those days.

What I miss about being a child is the lack of conditioning that would later have such power over me as an adult. Puberty hits and we then start developing romantic feelings and lust. Our voices alter. Breasts appear. Body hair sprouts. The desire to hold hands that weren’t your parents’… Madness! And that’s just being a teenager. We all know it gets harder from there as friends start dating, then friends get married, then friends start getting divorced, and then they re-marry before you’ve even gotten engaged. Once again, madness!

And it’s easy to let that destroy us emotionally.

Valentine’s Day could be just another day where we are thankful for the people that are important in our lives just like Thanksgiving but with fewer references to turducken and unacknowledged exploitation of an entire civilization. Instead, it seems to force loneliness to the surface. Many turn to cynicism for the day — a concept we have all learned by now — and some even adopt it as a lifestyle. The defense mechanism is most effective when humor can be incorporated as opposed to just complaining:

“Nothing says ‘I love you’ like buying your special someone gifts and expensive dinners on a day where everyone is doing the same thing. How ordinary, how typical…pfft.”

Or…

“Of course you have your special song! If it is one that has been played on the radio before, thousands of other couples share a similar experience. And if it’s an indie song, it’s the same concept, but you share it with other elitist jerks who drink coffee siphoned through a Chemex.”

If nothing else, at least you know now that it was only temporary. Store displays with hearts, chocolate, lingerie and other goods have been removed. Bars and restaurants have stopped promoting the holiday and have moved on to St. Patrick’s Day. Your friends probably ceased bragging or complaining about the loved ones in or out of their hearts.

Life goes on. Remember it’s only one day and be appreciative that the branding manager for Sweetest Day is terrible at their job.

On February 14th, a stranger passed by me on a bicycle. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said. She was older and had no intention of stopping; she wasn’t trying to pick me up. Her heart seemed to be back in third grade. I replied with the same good, kind words, and that was it. Simple and precious.

Now go and hug someone. Then start making your plans for St. Patrick’s Day.

Jeff Tobin switches gears over at Culinary School Adviser.

Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia

I was once an inventor.

February 17, 2011 By Fabulously Awkward 6 Comments

As a young lady, I was an avid reader. I would sneak my book under my desk in math class to read rather than pay attention. (As an aside, one book stands out to me: House on Hackman’s Hill, anyone? Now that was a page turner involving a mummy with the head of a jackal. It really doesn’t get much better than that.) I would read as late into the night as my parents would sleep (usually undetected, but I would get the occasional scolding for staying up past my bedtime). Because much of my reading was done in bed, a reading lamp was essential. I had one of those “clip onto the headboard” thingies that would enable me to have direct light on my book at the head of my bed. The one problem with this lamp was that the shade was made of metal. Left on for any length of time, it became quite hot. Any touch of it would sear my skin. It was not pretty.

One year, one of our class projects (I cannot for the life of me remember which class) was to come up with an invention. The constant burning of my skin due to late nights spent reading and my inability to fall asleep timely created the best idea for me: I would make a cover for my lamp. No more exposed metal and no more burns. I was truly brilliant, or so I believed.

My mom found some fabric for me and helped me sew the cover for the small lamp. Blue and fuzzy, leftover from some craft project, I’m certain that cover my mother and I so diligently crafted was a fire hazard. But me? I had that part covered. The blue fuzzy version was just a model. My actual invention would be of a fire-proof cloth. The specs indicated that my lamp cover would be crafted out of asbestos. To me, that was a brilliant touch. In my defense, as a 10-year-old, I had no idea that asbestos would cause cancer. How could I know that there would be millions of dollars invested in removing this material from buildings? Could I be expected to foresee that there would be billions of dollars sought for injuries sustained from this fire-proof material. No. I only knew it as a fire-proof material. Again, as a 10-year-old, this detail made my invention particularly efficient and practical.

Additionally, my dad always instilled in me a great fear of house fires. We had to ensure that every potential fire hazard was eliminated before we left the house. Toaster? Unplugged. Hair dryer? Unplugged. Clearly, my invention must be similarly conscientious of this fire hazard aware family in which I lived. Sadly, I did not get a patent for this invention. I used my blue, fuzzy lamp cover (that was not made of the approved asbestos material in my invention specs) unknown to my dad for awhile until I did realized it would get very hot as well. I threw it away eventually. Well, truthfully, my mom probably threw it away. Along with my bookworm-like tendencies, I also was a hoarder.

Let it be known that, to this day, my hair dryer gets unplugged every time I leave the house. I might not put it away, Dad, but it is most definitely unplugged. This is proof that I would listen to my parents occasionally. I still, however, can occasionally be found with a book under my desk. Some things never change.

Read more from Fabulously Awkward here.

Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia Tagged With: House on Hackman's Hill, idea, invention, kids, lightbulb, project, reading, school