Day 92: If I Ruled Lichtenstein... Carrots Would Taste Like French Fries

It's hard to eat right and maintain a healthy weight when there are so many delicious calorie-laden options out there. While some healthy foods are quite good, no one ever says that their favorite food is broccoli or salad.

No, people point to French fries, chocolate, pizza, and tacos as their favorite foods. Yes they're unhealthy when eaten all the time* or in large quantities, but are fine in moderation. The only problem is once you take one bite of a grease-dripping slice of pepperoni pizza, you only want more.

*I could eat pizza every day for every meal if my health and waistline wouldn't suffer.

In Lichtenstein, our brilliant scientists have developed a way to make healthy foods to taste exactly like unhealthy foods without any harmful chemicals. I could tell you about all the science behind this technology, but I don't want to bore you.

Therefore, when you eat a carrot, you'll still be eating a carrot, but it will taste like a French fry. Or when you're eating a slim slice of whole wheat toast, it will taste like a donut. And the list goes on and on.

You can still eat carrots that taste like carrots or toast that tastes like toast, of course, but there will always the option to buy their French fry/donut-flavored counterparts that are delicious AND healthy! It's win/win, which is what Lichtenstein is all about.

Day 91: What Did Batman Say To Robin... About The Dominant Species

Holy squishy animals Batman!

I love all things squishy stress ball-related. So I have a lot of them at my desk at work, and by a lot I mean about 15. They range from fruit to animals to sports balls. Some are meant for their actual purpose of relieving stress, but most are there because I think they're fun and adorable.

And I like to see the way other people interact with them, which is why I display my animal stress balls on the ledge of my cube walls - a rhino, bear, bull, and pig. Whenever anyone comes over to talk to me, they inevitably either pick one up and absentmindedly play with it or rearrange the animals into a parade or couples with their noses touching.

(I'd much prefer that they play with the animals instead of a few of them moving every. single. thing. in my cube over one inch to the right every day for the last three days, confusing the hell out of me until I was like "Wait a minute... why is my computer so far over?" to which my cube neighbors replied, "Oh thank God you noticed. Moving everything every day for the past three days was getting tedious." I have to give them props, though. Well done Heather and Erin.)

This, however, took my squishy toys to a new level. This is how I found them when I came back from my meeting, and lasted as long as I didn't move at all at my desk, which was about 1.3 seconds.

So my question is, obviously, "What the heck is going on here?"

This whole thing started with the black bear. He was talking shit to the bull about how the lions may be king of the jungle, but bears are king of the world because they can rip a human in half and don't need any tools to fish. To prove his point, he climbed atop a globe.


The bull wasn't impressed. So the bear started going on about how humans may think pigs are the smartest animals, but it's truly the bears because they coax fish to come to them for meals. Plus, the smartest humans who can survive in the wilderness are named after their species (Bear Grylls, for example). To prove this point, he balanced an over-sized brain on his back.


But the bull still wasn't impressed. So the bear went even further and started boasting about how bears are the strongest species because they can knock down tall trees by simply repeatedly pushing on them. And to further emphasize this fact, he hauled a small car and balanced it atop the huge brain.


And as he's smugly bragging about how bears are the smartest, strongest, species in the world, the bull simply trots over and this photo is snapped just as the bull is about the nudge the bear so he loses his balance and the car topples onto him. 


"Smarter my ass," the bull says as the bear looks up at him dazed from beneath the car. "If only I were stronger. Than I could help get that car off of you."

Oh, and nearby there was also a female rhino balancing on a golf ball to prove that rhinos are more athletic than pigs, but the male pig didn't give a crap about who was more athletic because he was smart enough to know that a first kiss is so much better when it's unexpected.

Day 90: Never Have I Ever... Gone to Cosmetology School, So Why Are You Letting Me Go Near Your Head With Scissors?

"Seriously, are you mistaking me for Brittany or something?" I ask Brent as he's settling into a chair he put in the kitchen atop the wooden floor. Near him on the counter is a brand-new haircutting kit, complete with an electric trimmer.

"I trust you," he said, handing me the trimmer. "I'll walk you through it step by step. You just have to do a number four on the top and fade it to a number one in the back."

"What's a number four?" I asked him, eying the detachable combs, two of which were labeled right and left. "Do you use these based on whether you're right- or left-handed?"

My sister was the one who went to cosmetology school. She's the one who attended classes to learn how to cut hair. The most I've ever done is trim my sister's hair about a quarter of an inch when we were kids.

But since moving to Illinois, Brent has had one horrific haircut. He came home from this haircut with uneven hair on top, an uneven shaved line in the back, one sideburn, and a cut on his head. His barber was apparently blind.

The second haircut he went to cost him more than he was used to paying in midtown Manhattan, and the back of his head looked like a piece of notebook paper with all the lines in the back.


So asking someone with exactly no experience to cut your hair from now because you're sick of bad haircuts seemed like the obvious choice. Oh boy.

Never have I ever cut a guy's hair, and I most certainly have never used those electric clipper things. I told Brent that I'd be happy to try and cut his hair after Brittany showed me how to do it step by step if I felt comfortable doing so.

He promptly ignored that request and told me he was ready. So I took a chip clip and pinned an old towel around his neck, stuck my tongue out of the corner of my mouth, and followed the instruction manual on "How to Cut Hair."

Brent kept telling me I had to keep the clippers flush with his head, but I was so scared of either cutting him or cutting the hair too close, I kept lifting it higher than it was supposed to go and asking him if I was cutting too much. Cutting around the ears was nerve-wracking. And making the hair fade from a number four to a one seamlessly in the back took awhile. And I felt like I had to brush the blades free of hair after every pass.

But when I was done, I have to admit that it looked better than either of his Illinois haircuts. Sure, as the day went on, I noticed that I could have faded the hair a bit better on the left side and trimmed the sideburns a bit more, but I was quite proud of myself. All in all, it just looked like he got a normal haircut. Well, normal for somewhere other than Illinois.

Day 89: Shakespeare's High School Poetry... On Scrapping Poetry

When I've had to tolerate a coffee table in my home, I've always made sure that my "Found" books were prominently displayed mostly because they're awesome. These are books entirely made up of notes, pictures, doodles, and other scraps of paper that people have found in random places that give a glimpse into other people's lives.

A Found Poem is similar to the Found book in that it uses language from non-poetic contexts and turns it into poetry. It's like a collage put together with scraps.

Inspiration can come from anywhere, including horoscopes, bulletin boards, instruction books, graffiti, dictionaries, grocery lists, spam e-mails, etc.

For this poem, I walked in every room of my apartment and jotted down whatever words my eye happened to spot. The words came from a coupon for Starbucks, an empty can of Dr. Pepper, a box of spoons, the description for The Hamptons Diet Cookbook and the recipe I had it open to, a letter from an insurance company, a picture frame, a bottle of mouthwash, the covers of Fortune and Glamour magazines, a financial book, and a pair of shoes I just bought, and was surprised at how easy it was to come up with a great poem.

Day 88: A Picture is Worth 1,000 Words... On Intimidation

If I were that Indian, I'd be running too.

Last week's cliche: Let He Who Has Not Sinned Cast the First Stone

Day 87: Stop. Focus. Click... On Summer Days

The company I work for knows that sometimes its employees stay late or come in early or skip lunch. It's part of the job, and I'm more than willing to do that when it's warranted. 

But my company also believes in keeping its employees happy and rewarding them for such sacrifices. So they instituted "Summer Days" in which every employee can take off one workday in each of June, July, and August because theoretically they worked an extra 15 minutes here, an hour there, etc., which adds up to one full workday.

I took my last summer day today with lofty goals to have time to things like pick up the dry cleaning, make doctor/vet appointments, clean, etc.

And while I did cross off an item or two on my list, Chloe and I spent the day pretty much like this watching chick flicks:

I'm pretty sure that's what Summer Days are truly for.

Day 86: Remember the Time... I've Been Told I'm a Good Cook, but I Wouldn't Know Much of the Time

I like to cook. This is definitely not true during the week, but on weekends, I like putting together good meals.


I think this is mostly because during the week, I'd be cooking for myself and just don't find it satisfying to spend time in the kitchen trying new recipes for myself. I like cooking for other people.

When I had my own apartment, I'd love having my parents over for dinner so I could cook for them for a change. But I'd generally make meals that I'd also enjoy eating so we could sit down and eat together.

Remember the time that I lately often find myself not eating the meals that I cook? This will be especially apparent this weekend, as I'm planning the meals I'm cooking for Brent's birthday and notice that they all revolve around foods I hate, which unfortunately happen to be his favorites: salmon, mushrooms, and onions.

One side dish is strictly made of onions, shiitake mushrooms, and Gorgonzola, which any fork of mine would not dare go anywhere near. Another is an Asian-inspired salmon dish, so I guess I could prepare some chicken to go with it for me, but it's just easier to follow one recipe and be done with it. I want to make him meals he'll love, even if I have to eat a Lean Pocket that takes two minutes to make after spending hours in the kitchen. It's for his birthday. And I guess I actually like Lean Pockets.

Day 85: If I Ruled Lichtenstein... Constructive Criticism Would be Graciously Appreciated

"Honey, that outfit makes you look an 85-year-old librarian who should have retired 20 years ago. You should swap out that sweater with a sleeveless, billowy silver top; then the skirt would work."

"Your behind is hanging out of the bottom of those shorts, sweetheart. Try a pair a few inches longer and they'll accentuate your ass instead of actually showing it."

"Those shoes absolutely do not match your outfit. A bronze pair of strappy sandals would look fantastic, though!"


Last week I looked down at myself at work and wondered whether I had dressed myself in the dark. Sure, I didn't put the entire outfit on before I left the house because of the heat, but I should have realized that a brown skirt, tan shirt, gray sweater, bronze shoes, hot pink toenails, and orange fingernails did not so much match as they together looked ridiculous.


The day before, I had changed my outfit at the last second because I was told that it worked... for the sole reason that I work at an encyclopedia company and someone thought I was going for the stuffy librarian look. 


I used to have my sister to give me complete honesty on my outfits, and then help me fix it from her own closet. And whenever my cousins, Gillian and Alexis, are around, they are fantastic sounding boards. When it comes to fashion, I desperately need it. I just don't get why fashion is fashion, which is why I own mostly solid-colored pieces that undoubtedly match. Usually. But the times I have my family at my disposal are few and far between, so they will of course all move to Lichtenstein immediately.


In the meantime, it is against the law to let a fashion disaster run wild in Lichtenstein. When you see a woman wearing a tight tube top with no bra, causing her large breasts to sag and rest atop her exposed stomach hanging over too-short jean shorts (yes, I saw this on my way to work this week), it is your responsibility to go over to her and tell her not only why her outfit doesn't work, but what's needed to improve it. In this case, a good bra would have done wonders when paired with a good-fitting shirt and elongated shorts.


It's hard to take constructive criticism, but the people of Lichtenstein would be used to it, and wouldn't get angry over it. They'd take it like it's meant to be - constructive - and use it to improve their look. This way, you can take some risks and see if it meets the fashion seal of approval (because it's also encouraged to freely give people donning great outfits compliments).


Because let's be honest - letting that woman walk by me without saying a word should have been a crime.

Day 84: What Did Batman Say To Robin... About Not-Quite-Super Powers

Holy just missed the cut Batman!

This week's question is quite interesting, and fits into the whole "Batman and Robin" theme quite well.

The Justice League is a group of super heroes that fight crime. What five super heroes just missed the cut because their super powers were just a little bit too whack?

The league obviously consists of superheroes with super strength, flying abilities, and invisibility powers. But of course not every superhero has a supercool strength, and there had to be some cuts. 

The first one cut was The Tripper. While his power to trip people if they come in his vicinity can be hilarious, it's rarely effective at giving anything more than a few bumps and bruises.

Next is Stormer. This super hero can conjure up rain and thunderstorms at will. Though it may look quite threatening, Stormer can't control the actual storms. Therefore, he sometimes gets lucky when lightening actually strikes a bad guy, but generally speaking, pelting rain is nothing more than annoying.

The third one cut is Tree Man. Unlike the famous shapeshifter Mystique, Tree Man has the ability to shift his shape into any species of tree. He can morph into a tall Oak if his cat spots a dog or an apple tree if a friend is famished. While this particular skill can be extremely useful when a large group needs to hide at a moment's notice - or when trying out for a role in The Wizard of Oz - it's not as useful a skill anytime indoors.

The fourth one cut was Emoticonness. Unlike mortal women, this one takes emotions to the extremes. At the drop of a hat, she can conjure any emotion. She can make herself happy by conjuring up endorphins or conjure adrenaline in preparation for battle. But the liability surrounding Emoticonness was just too risky for the Justice League.

The fifth and final superhero who just missed the cut by the skin of his funny bone was The Jester. He was in the running in the first place because of the nepotism of his uncles - The Joker and The Riddler. Like his family members, The Jester has no actual superpower, but does have the uncanny ability to make up a lame joke in nearly ever situation. When peeling grapes, he mentions the fact that he thinks the task is "just 'grape' and quite a-peeling." While amusing for about five minutes, The Joker and The Riddler are more useful because they spend more time coming up with clever schemes instead of mediocre (at best) quip.

Unfortunately, the cuts had to be made, so the world will have to do without a tripper, a storm conqueror, tree shape-shifter, an emotional woman, and a jester.

Day 83: Never Have I Ever... Thought I Liked Diet Pepsi

"Ugh. They only sell Diet Pepsi. Let's go somewhere where I can get a Diet Coke," I said to my colleague, Mike, after volleyball last week while we were killing time at the train station. "These places act like they're the same thing, but they're so different."

"You sure about that?" he asked me.

"Of course! I can always tell," I retorted. "If you gave me 10 cups of either Coke or Pepsi, I'll be able to tell you which ones are which."

"I'll bet you you can't," Mike said, reminding me of what he calls the "Meller Theorem" which states: The degree of post-fact whining about living up to bet duties is directly proportional to the degree of pre-bet smack talk. "Let's do it. Right now."

"You're on," I said. "If I win, you have to watch The Notebook and get a passing score on a test I make up to ensure that you watch it or else you have to watch it again."

"Ugh, that would be the worst," he said. "I can't lose this bet."

After deciding that the most annoying thing for me would not be being forced to watch or listen to something, but to fetch an item at will, we popped into the 7-11 to get a bottle of Diet Pepsi, a bottle of Diet Coke, Saltines, and two paper coffee cups and grabbed a table in the food court at the train station.

We first established the rules: Mike was to hand me a paper cup of either Coke or Pepsi while my eyes were closed, and I would then smell and sip it. I'd then tell him which beverage I thought it was, and he'd record my answer on a piece of paper with no feedback. Between sips, I had to swish water in my mouth and eat a Saltine to cleanse my palate. To win, I had to get 10 out of 10. Piece of cake.

Mike hands me the first cup, and I smell it.

"Ugh, I can already tell what this is by the smell," I said, sipping and confidently proclaiming "Diet Pepsi."

"OK," Mike said, and I triumphantly munched on a cracker. "Well... do you want to continue? You already lost."

"You're kidding," I sputtered, shooting bits of cracker out of my mouth. "That was Diet Coke?!?!"

"I couldn't have asked for a better outcome," Mike said, laughing.

"Let's keep going. I can do 9 out of 10," I said.

So we went through the test, and I ended up with... 5 out of 10. I didn't even beat chance.

"Don't beat yourself up," Mike said, seeing my disappointment. "I've read studies [of course he has. He's a researcher at an encyclopedia company] and even people with good palates find blind taste tests difficult."

"I really thought I could do this!" I said, lamenting the fact that Mike now has two fetches I owe him. "Well, if we did this with Dr. Pepper, I'm sure I'll be able to tell the difference between that and anything!"

"Yeah, I'm sure you would," he said, wryly. "The Meller Theorem never lies."

Day 82: Shakespeare's High School Poetry...On What To Do. Or not.

A list poem is just that: A list. Though simple, the writer is still illustrating something in the poem, which should have a beginning and an end with each item written the same way.

Sometimes being an adult sucks, especially when I feel like I'm not living it on my own terms. Sometimes I just feel like ignoring the piled up laundry or dishes, or live on takeout while reading in bed. Rarely, but just sometimes. I deserve it sometimes, right?

What To Do, What To Do?

Don't sleep in on Saturdays.

Don't read before doing chores.

Don't keep pajamas on in the afternoon.
Don't leave clothes on the floor.
Don't put your hair in a ponytail.
Don't turn on the TV.

Don't leave the lights on.

Don't roll your eyes at me.
Don't burp while you're eating. 
Don't fart while in bed. 
Don't serve dinner a minute late.
Did you hear what I said?

Don't forget to wash the car

do the vacuuming, dust
And sweep.
Don't neglect the grocery shopping
the dishes, the dog,
the laundry heap.
Don't stop the dieting
Or show up in casual clothes
even if they're new.
Don't decide how to live your life.
Or take any breathing room.
I know what's best for you.

Day 81: A Picture is Worth 1,000 Words... On Perfection. And rock slinging.

There's gotta be a hot girl's bedroom behind one of those windows on the top floor if he's doing this in the middle of the day. 



Last week's cliche: Time Flies When You're Having Fun

Day 80: Stop. Focus. Click... On Family Fun

I can't argue with Dorothy. There really is no place like home. Last time I was home, my parents decided to see how long it'd take me to notice that they had taken down a decorative painting in the living room and replaced it with my ridiculously giant senior photo.

It took until I was walking back into the living room after singing the peeing song in the bathroom because my brother and sister were quick to help point out who's the favorite child, as there weren't any over-sized photos of either of them. Obviously.

Day 79: Remember the Time... I Have No Freaking Clue

Remember the time that I've known myself for 29 years, 3 months, and nine days and yet at times have no idea who I am or what I want or why I do what I do?

I actually said the sentence, "I don't know why I do what I do" today when a colleague grabbed my arm for the third time and asked me why I don't make sure it's safe to cross a busy street in downtown Chicago before attempting to do so.

I thought back on that moment during my 45-minute commute home (I tend to do a lot of self-reflection on walks and train rides) and felt the same again when I got home when I just found myself restless looking for something constructive to do.

This is a recurring theme with me, but it's just been especially prevalent lately. Sure, people change as they grow and learn, but (as a recent Facebook post of mine illustrated) I just feel like I'm having a midlife crisis or something where I know that I want and need something, yet have no idea what that is and am frustrated that I can't figure it out.

And I'm continuously surprising myself at what I believe to be true only to realize that I'm completely wrong when someone points it out to me. And then it just looks obvious. Like when I say, "My favorite dessert is Pinkberry!" and absolutely believe it to be true, and a friend stops me and says "Uh, no, Erika your favorite dessert is flan" and I then have to respond with, "Oh yeah, I guess it is" because I realize that my friend is right.

I don't really know what I'm trying to say here (pun not even intended). All I know is maybe the shock of life's curveballs is now catching up to me or maybe I'm getting extra tripped up on these weird moments I've been having where it's like I'm watching myself in this life instead of living it.

I don't know what it is, but I hope to figure it out sometime soon. Hopefully before another 29 years, three months, and nine days go by.

Day 78: If I Ruled Lichtenstein... "[Tweet!] Foul! Penalty for the Wronged!"

You are ready to start having children. You want two kids. Your partner only wants one. What's the compromise? Having one kid and a midget?


You get a job in New York City at the same time your partner gets a job in L.A. You want to stay together, so what's the compromise? Live between the two cities in Kansas?


My point is, there is no real compromise. Someone's gonna get what they want, and someone's gonna have to cave and give up what they want.


I've always maintained that every relationship should be between three people so there's always a tie-breaker for these types of life-changing situations. But since that's not exactly the way the world works, communication is key when these rare issues crop up.

But for the day-to-day disagreements, it's going to be a bit easier in Lichtenstein. Every relationship here will have 24/7 access to a referee. A referee will be available via a hotline at all times to listen to both sides of a disagreement and give his or her opinion to quash anyone who's being ridiculous or unreasonable.

The way it works is you'd call the hotline and ask to be connected to an expert on the topic you're having a disagreement on. The referee would give equal time to both parties to plead their case, and would then take a side that's backed with facts and solid evidence. The whistle is optional.


So then there will be no question that yes, he does watch sports way too much, and no, she doesn't spend too much money when she shops. No question.

Day 77: What Did Batman Say To Robin... About Living Inside Pink-Tinted Glasses

Holy "that's hot" Batman!

Yes, being a socialite and/or reality show participant are actual careers in today's world (well how else would the cast of Jersey Shore pay for their hair products if that weren't the case?), and nobody does absolutely nothing better than Paris Hilton.


A Day In The Life Of Paris Hilton


8:16 a.m.: Wake up to an armpit dog wearing a diamond-encrusted collar whining to be taken outside. Yell at personal assistant for not taking care of the pooch before being woken up.


8:17 a.m.: Roll over onto the custom-made, 4,000-thread-count sheets dyed to a custom shade of pink named "Paris pink," pull down the eye mask, and fall back into a dreamless sleep.

11:28 a.m.: Wake up to a crisp breeze blowing in through the bay window that your assistant opened silently while you were snoozing. Ring a tiny bell on the stark-white dresser next to your bed signaling that you're ready for breakfast in bed and your daily bouquet of fresh flowers flown in from remote regions of the world.


12:43 p.m.: Get out of bed and walk over to a nearby bedazzled recliner reupholstered with the fur of the most endangered species in Africa. Sit down with Modern Luxury magazine and repeatedly say "that's hot" while not actually understand why you're doing so. 

12:49 p.m.: Get impatient at how long it's taking for one assistant to dress you in thousands of dollars of gratis clothing, a second to twist your hair into a chic up-do, and a third to go through a suitcase full of makeup in all colors of the rainbow to find the perfect blend.


1:17 p.m.: Complain that you have to move your arm onto the chair's armrest so your manicurist who bends the rules and makes house calls can make sure your French manicure is even.


2:03 p.m.: Walk down a carpeted spiral staircase to a customized pink limo waiting outside to take you to a lunch with whoever you've asked to drop her plans so she can have lunch with you.


3:50 p.m.: Enjoy a second drink with a pink umbrella attached to it and pretend you hate the paparazzi snapping your photo because you're unaware that they're the reason that you're famous.


4:19 p.m.: Pay for lunch with daddy's credit card that to your knowledge has no credit limit.


4:47 p.m.: Start shopping on Rodeo Drive by lazily telling the limo driver to drive you from storefront to storefront, ignoring the fact that they're right next to each other.


7:32 p.m.: Plop down daddy's credit card for tens of thousands of dollars of clothing you don't need and probably won't wear, and tell your assistant - who's been waiting in the limo in anticipation of your shopping trip while you were at lunch - that you expect all the purchases to be dry cleaned and hung up in the bedroom that you've converted into one of your closets before you get home.


8:17 p.m.: Settle back down in bed for a nice nap.


10 p.m.: Grumble about being woken up for a party at an invitation-only club so your assistants have time to prep you again.


11:20 p.m.: Smile while walking down the red carpet into the club. Drink, dance, and be surrounded by admirers.


12:20 a.m.: Collect your paycheck for tens of thousands of dollars for your hour-long appearance.


12:21 a.m. to the rest of your life: Do whatever the hell you want with an unlimited amount of money because someone else worked hard so you don't ever have to.

Day 76: Remember the Time... I Was In A Sorority

"I'm going where and doing what now?" I ask my colleague with disbelief.

"We're going out," she said. "And wearing headbands. We're the Headband Hotties."

I work one day from home and what I get upon my return the next day is apparently acceptance into a sorority. (Unnecessary note: I have never been in a sorority nor ever had the desire to be in an actual sorority.)

My colleague informed me that during the eight hours I was gone, all the women under the age of 30 who work with me decided that we were going to have a girls' night. The only stipulation was that we each had to wear a headband.

The theory was that a headband is a natural ice-breaker for a guy. It's something a guy can comment on while not having to look anywhere but your head and thus strike up a conversation. While I have a hard time believing any straight guy would notice, much less comment, on a girl's headband, I was more than willing to give it a go.

The evening was supposed to begin at the art museum, followed by drinks. So around 4:45, my cube-mates and I started getting ready for the evening. By "getting ready," I mean I put on my headband and then watched the other two put on fiery red lipstick, heels, and shimmer.

"Well I feel under-dressed," I said, eying their adorable skirts, ruffled shirts, and one who topped off her outfit off with a tiara (which she thought better of soon thereafter, and replaced it with a peacock-feathered headband). Though my own white pants and plain gray sleeveless turtleneck sweater paled in comparison, I did have on my zebra-striped headband to "pull it all together." Or so that's what I thought, anyway.

So the five of us headed to the art museum only to find a security guard standing at the entrance to inform us that they were closed. We told him that our group had been really looking forward to spending the evening at the museum, and then I asked whether he noticed anything noteworthy about our particular group.

"Hey! That's a cool scar!" he said, pointing at a burn on one of my colleague's legs.

"Really? That's what you notice?" I asked him, thus debunking my colleague's theory.

Apparently five women wearing headbands is not as noticeable as, say, if we were all wearing pink, which is apparently the theme of our next outing. I had better practice my bend and snap.

Day 75: Shakespeare's High School Poetry

The Tanka poem is a Japanese-style of poetry dating back almost 1,200 years ago, making it the oldest type of poetry in Japan. It's similar to the Haiku, but with more syllables in its five lines. There are five syllables in the first and third lines, and seven in the three remaining lines.


Tanka poems generally use simile, metaphor, and personification, and are written about nature, seasons, love, sadness, and other strong emotions. Others may not feel so strongly about one of my great loves, but that's why they're the ones who are missing out.


A Novel Idea


I am a wizard
a hacker, a mockingjay.
Each new character

Allows rekindled freedom

From whom I don't want to be.

Day 74: A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words... On Timing

I hate it when this happens, though it inevitably always does...

Last week's cliche: More Fun Than a Barrel of Laughs

Day 73: Stop. Focus. Click... On Calm Waters With a Fantastic View

I only had my cell phone camera with me when I was unexpectedly invited on a dinner cruise, but the view of Chicago from the water at twilight was gorgeous. (It isn't New York, but still nice.)

Day 72: Remember the Time... I Am S-M-R-T... I mean S-M-A-R-T

I work at an encyclopedia company. This company prides itself on being the authority on, well, everything. We have thousands of experts and contributors who submit content for publication, which is reviewed by our section editors and their bosses for thoroughness and accuracy. In addition, every single sentence of every single article is verified line by line by a team of researchers.

Remember the time I feel like I'm in school and just totally lost sometimes at work because I feel like everyone is so much smarter than me?

Though I am well aware of this fact, I'm constantly surprised at the sheer amount of knowledge that my colleagues possess. I only need to ask the editors if an exact date is correct, and they know off the top of their heads. This is never more evident than when we play volleyball, which we are known to do on Thursdays for three hours after work.

When the score was 18-12, for example, instead of saying 18-12, the server would yell out a historical event that happened on that date, like "OK, British American War! 1812!" It's plenty enough to make me feel constantly inadequate intelligence-wise. (And I make it much worse for myself when I'm in a meeting and say things like "Well, how often do natural disasters occur really?" to which everyone starts laughing and saying things like "Um, like every few minutes!?")

But at least they all have a sense of humor. When someone yelled a score of 14-22, and no one said anything in return, Jeff, the science section editor, said "1422... the year of Columbus' second voyage!"

To which, of course, someone else of course said "Really? His second voyage? The one that happened 70 years before the first one? Really?"

Though I simply listen to most conversations because I have no idea what the hell they're talking about, I have to say I am learning quite a bit.

Plus I love both my job and my colleagues. Finally!

Day 71: If I Ruled Lichtenstein... No One Would Have To Justify Who They Are

Most people don't wear hats. But some people do.

Most people drink alcohol. Some people don't.

Most people decide to have kids after they're married. Some choose to have kids before they're married, without a partner to help raise the child, or never at all.

Guess what? Regardless of whether I choose to wear a hat or drink or have kids,  it's OK. They are my personal decisions. 

And all of those personal choices are none of your fucking business. Just like your decisions regarding these matters and countless others are none of mine.

Who are you to ask why someone is wearing a hat? Maybe she's embarrassed by the fact that she didn't get to wash my hair and it's greasy, and your drawing attention to the fact that she's wearing a hat today - which she doesn't usually do - just makes it more awkward for her. Or maybe she just likes her hat and wanted to wear it. Why are you asking her to vocalize my decision?

I don't drink alcohol anymore. And when people ask me why I don't drink - which annoyingly happens virtually every single time I do anything outside of work hours - I say, "I do drink. If I didn't drink anything, how else would I stay alive?" And then I quickly change the subject.

Besides, who the fuck are you to ask me why I made the personal choice to not ingest alcohol when most people do? Maybe I'm allergic to it, maybe I'm addicted to it, maybe I'm trying to get pregnant, maybe a family member is an alcoholic, maybe I'm on probation and wearing an alcohol-monitoring ankle bracelet and don't want to go to jail. I choose not to drink alcohol, so what gives you the right to question my decision?

And yes, some people get married. But why does that mean that you're going to immediately start thinking of having kids? Maybe you've been trying and it hasn't happened, or maybe you don't want kids. And people bringing it up over and over just adds insult to injury.

In Lichtenstein, people have class. I'm not saying they're perfect, but they respect people's way of life. They respect the decisions people choose for themselves and don't make them justify those choices or vocalize why they've made these decisions.

This is why the motto of my country is "Lichtenstein. To each their own."

Although it also works, the motto is a little more PC than "Lichtenstein. Mind your own damn business."

Day 70: What Did Batman Say To Robin... About Tiny Blue Shirtless Characters

Holy weird, tiny, blue, shirtless characters Batman!

Oh The Smurfs. Though they were a little before my time (they premiered on TV the year before I was born and the series ended when I was just 7 years old; and I was too busy watching Sesame Street and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to watch them too often) I remember occasionally watching the Smurfs.

 

The Smurfs represent a fun, carefree society (minus there being only one girl that everyone has to do in order to make more Smurfs). What is the opposite of the Smurfs and what would their names/personalities be?

 

My response: The opposite of the Smurfs are, obviously, the Sfrums. The Sfrums are a Playboy-esque society of all females and one male, who is quite content being the only way to repopulate their society. This male, Renffeh Sfrum, struts around like he owns the place, and rightfully so. He knows he's needed - not exactly desired - but needed all the same.

 

The Sfrums are giant orange people who only wear shirts, as they don't believe in wearing pants in case Renffeh sets his sights on them. However, in general, they are a society of non-stop drama and cat fighting. There is constant whispering and backstabbing because too many females does not a pleasant utopia make. There is too much pink, an exorbitant amount of glitter, and clothes strewn everywhere, but Renffeh could care less because he's always in demand and he loves it. And what male wouldn't?

 

My Partner In Crime weighs in: We all know what Smurfs are; little blue people that walk around topless with white hates. Minus there being only one female and a giant, (normal-sized to us) retired, old man wearing a onesie, they live pretty freely. They’re cute, have cute names, and use “smurf” as just about every adjective and adverb. They have cute names like Smurfette, Papa Smurf, Brainy Smurf, Lazy Smurf… etc.

 

We live in a world with yin and yang. Nature works in balance. For every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction. Balance. So, dear reader, what is the opposing community to the Smurfs? The answer is simply, the Fracks. The Fracks are a dirty brown, almost like theater carpet. They’re half bald and the female Fracks are missing teeth, ugly, and could use a shower, quite frankly.

The Fracks came to be as a result of a 2^nd female being banished from Smurf village. Her name was Frackin Smurf. She loved to frackin smurf. She fracken smurfed every chance she got and with every smurf she could frackin smurf with. Papa Smurf gave her and her smurf buddies an ultimatum. Either stop smurfing all the time or leave. She chose to leave, but not before convincing some of her other smurf buddies to come along with her with promises of all day smurfing. The Smurfs that followed her to the new village now named after her were also given names in honor of her.

Wrong Word Frack – always sings the wrong words to lyrics. “Salmon Rockstar” and “Don’t Pour Sugar On Me” and “Thunder Crashes” are some examples.

Obese Frack – eats a lot and is too lazy to walk anywhere so he uses a Segway.

Singy Frack – cannot sing and no matter what he says, his sexy operatic falsetto is not at all sexy.

Manipulative Frack – name suggests personality.

Con Frack – can’t be trusted and always winds up getting about $10 whenever he wants it.

Told You So Frack – always needs to correct you, your grammar, your facts, and always needs to say “I told you so.”

 

So what is the opposite of the Smurfs? Ousted Smurfs-turned Fracks/Sfrums who are far too obsessed with reproduction.

Day 69: Never Have I Ever... Had a Guy Ask For My Digits

I've never been that girl who's asked for her phone number by a guy at a bar or party. It's just never happened. Maybe it's because I've virtually always been in a relationship or maybe guys are just simply not interested.

Never have I ever had a guy ask for my phone number... but I gave mine to a really hot guy once.

I was probably 18 or 19 and it was at an Applebee's. I had gone there with three kids that I babysat for during my first few years of college, and the guy who greeted us at the door was super cute. He was tall, tan, and kind of shy, but had a nice smile.

One of the kids realized she lost her bracelet somewhere between the car and sitting down at the booth so, seeing an opportunity, I took her by the hand to the front of the restaurant and asked the cute guy if he had seen it. He hadn't, but we made small talk for a few minutes before I went back to the table.

But I couldn't get the cute guy out of my head, so I ripped off a corner of the paper tablecloth put there for the children, and wrote my name and number on it with a crayon.

I don't know what possessed me to boldly give my number to this guy who I knew absolutely nothing about other than he was cute and worked at Applebee's. Normal people would probably have just gone back there an unhealthy number of times under the guise of suddenly developing a daily craving for Applebee's in the hopes of seeing the guy again, but apparently I was in a confident state of mind, for I pressed the piece of paper in his hand and waltzed away with an over-the-shoulder smile on my way out.

Less than an hour later, as I was driving home from the kids' house, I got a phone call from an unrecognized number. I answered the phone and heard a quiet “hello” from a guy who said he was Jeff from Applebee’s.

“How are you?” I said, surprised that he was calling me so soon. I had thought he would have at least waited a day or so but that was OK, I guess.

The conversation that followed was one of the strangest conversations that I have ever had. Among other bizarre things, I learned that the guy enjoyed doing “nothing, really,” in his spare time just “hung out in his room,” and preferred to be alone.

“Oh, OK, well, I’m where I was heading, so I’ll talk to you later,” I said, knowing I never wanted to talk to this weirdo again.

I guess I learned my lesson, as giving my number out to a guy I just met was a one-time thing. Thankfully.

Day 68: Shakespeare's High School Poetry... On That Annoyingly Perfect Girl From High School

I have a rare gift that those closest to me are well aware of and no doubt truly admire, for when I share my gift with them, I see nothing but the wide-eyed, open-mouthed looks of sheer astonishment. I choose to believe this is admirable astonishment instead of the more-likely OMG-is-she-serious-what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-her scenario.


This gift is the gift of parody, as anyone who has heard my "I'm Peeing" song from the other side of the bathroom door (sung to the tune of Peter Pan's "I'm Flying") or any of the repertoire songs I have for my dog, Chloe (my favorite being "D.O.G." sung to 50 Cent's "P.I.M.P") can attest.


That's why this week's poem is the parody, which is meant to be humorous to entertain the audience, but are also designed to make people think. A parody poem is, obviously, a parody of a poem, but there are other types of parody out there, including songs like the ones that both I and Weird Al Yankovic sing or movies, including "Scary Movie."


I was originally going to parody my absolute favorite poem of all time - "Richard Cory" by Edwin Arlington Robinson (which I still have memorized and have been known to do a dramatic reading of) but then realized that I don't even want to taint the brilliance of that poem, so I chose a well-known one by Elizabeth Barrett Browning that I thought I could have fun with. It's helpful to read the original before you read the parody, so here's Browning's version:


How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count The Ways...


How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

And my version:

How Do I Loathe Thee? It's In So Many Ways...

How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways.

I loathe thee more than the 36-24-36 width and height

Your body has reached. For most, it’s out of sight

Like the perfect hue of your bleach-blond hair and acne-free face.

I loathe thee pretty much every day

Whether in class or in the hallway’s light.

I loathe thee secretly, as boys ask you out every night;

I loathe thee resentfully, as I sit by the phone for days.

I loathe thee with a passion of no real use;

It’s because of my own insecurities, and childish ways.

I loathe thee with a hate I can’t seem to lose

With my lost youth, — I loathe thee with the breath,

Frowns, tears, of all my life! — and, if I choose,

I shall but loathe thee because of simple envy to my death.

Day 67: A Picture is Worth 1,000 Words... On Why Would Anyone Choose Anything Over Monkeys

Given the choice, I choose the monkeys. Monkeys are hilarious!

Last week's cliche: Look What the Cat Dragged In.

Day 66: Stop. Focus. Click... On Memorable Signs

I love clever signs, T-shirts, and bumper stickers. You know, like the signs that say "all unattended children will be given free puppies" or dog T-shirts that say "bad to the bone."

Here are another two that I saw - the first in my neighborhood and the second right around the corner from where I work.

Be prepared for a lifetime of heavenly eternity when you break the church rules:

Will beat ninjas for food:

Day 65: Remember The Time... I Should Dye My Hair Blonde To Match My Brains (This One Time)

Remember the time I felt like a complete idiot in front of my really smart colleagues?

We were at a bar in Logan Square this past Tuesday, and there was a lull in the conversation between my colleagues Brian and Mike that I only listened to because it included the words "existentialism" and "Kierkegaard" (hey, I work at an encyclopedia company).

I then chose that opportunity to (very seriously, unfortunately) ask the following question regarding a sign I have seen around town, which was reprinted on cards sitting around the bar:

"So what I don't understand is why I have to choose between a dog and wearing socks to be a true Chicagoan?"

To which my (very cool and very good-natured, thankfully) colleague Mike replied, "Um, Erika, they're saying you have to choose between the Cubs and White Socks."

"Oh, well, that makes sense," I replied, burning with embarrassment then laughing it off. "Maybe the library should have had a better artist."

Yeah, that's it. It's totally anything other than I'm a complete idiot. Luckily in spite of this, my colleagues still want to hang out with me again. I'll just smile and nod during the "did fish truly evolve from tetrapods?" debate.

Day 64: If I Ruled Lichtenstein...

My mile-long walk to work is a long one. But it seems much, much shorter when I have my purple headphones plugged into my iPhone listening to the Lady Gaga station on Pandora.

I've had several hours-long mundane projects at work that require little more than being awake to get them done. And sometimes that's hard - especially right after lunch. But putting one of my purple earbuds in one of my ears and jamming to my favorites list on Grooveshark makes even the most boring tasks fly by.

Therefore, if I ruled Lichtenstein, everyone will be able to listen to music at work if they choose to do so and if it doesn't interfere with their job. They wouldn't be able to listen to music while at the cash register taking orders, for example, but could if they were in the back making the burgers.

Besides making the day much more bearable, it would be a huge boost in morale and all-around good feelings.

Day 63: What did Batman Say To Robin... About Tuesday Morning - The Place, Not the Date and Time

What is this place and why did they give it this name? 

My Partner In Crime weighs in: T.G.I.Fridays, Red Lobster, Uno’s, Applebee’s, Ruby Tuesday’s. What do all of these things have in common? They’re all franchise restaurants. There are tons more, but you get the point. The point is that there are tons of them. With so much competition and so much of the same food, how do you tell one from the other? 

Market researchers at Ruby Tuesday’s asked this same question. They wanted to set themselves apart from the competition. They tried a number of experiments. Failed ideas were some of the following:

·    

• A car wash/Tuesday’s (turned out to be a wash out *nyuck nyuck nyuck)
•  An internet café/Tuesday’s (it turns out, geeks can’t watch porn and rub one out in public while eating mozzarella sticks and chicken wings with the other hand.)
• A truck stop/Tuesday’s (no glory holes)

The list is pretty hefty, but these were the notables as you can see.

The researches saw that since breakfast was the most important meal of the day and received the highest votes from stoners/hung over crowds, the answer seemed apparent, an all breakfast Ruby Tuesday’s. The problem now was, do they change the entire theme or do they make breakfast available all day adding pressure to the kitchen? Again, as stated in a previous entry, “Some of the most complex questions have the simplest of answers.”

The answer was to open up a sister restaurant under the Tuesday’s name. Tuesday Mornings; the all breakfast, all the time restaurant. Enter music, fireworks and scantily clad dancing girls with too many daddy issues to bare.

*Note - contrary to popular belief Tuesday Mornings is, in fact, not the place where we go to think of questions for Tuesday posts. But how cool would it be to have an entire building dedicated for that one purpose.

My response: I saw this place and was immediately intreguied. It's commonly known that Tuesday is the lamest day of the week. Nothing ever happens on Tuesday, so when I saw this place, I assumed it was a magical place from Happyland that sat next to a gumdrop house on Lollypop Lane. In my mind, Tuesday Morning is a fantastic restaurant with amazing bite-sized finger foods. It's one where you can  meet with friends on a Tuesday morning to enjoy each other's company and redeem Tuesdays from its status as the armpit of all the weekdays.

With this picture in mind, I pulled up to Tuesday morning and breezed in to see... well... nothing. Absolutely nothing but a pair of escalators.

Curious, I started down the escalator and entered a huge concrete room warehouse full of housewares, toys, and gifts. And the prices definitely were cheaper, although I went on a Saturday, and not on the first Tuesday of the month in the morning, which is when they have big events to celebrate their namesake.

I was definitely surprised at how wrong I was, and not at all pleasantly so because the quaint restaurant that I imagined was so pleasant.

So what is this place and why did they give it this name? A Ruby Tuesdays-owned breakfast restaurant where you can meet with friends to make a crappy day of the week a little better.

Or a warehouse for cheap housewares.

Day 62: Never Have I Ever... Tried To Feel Comfortable Naked in Front of Women

Crap. I forgot to grab a towel. Now what do I do? I thought to myself, as the cool water from one of the gym showers pounded into my shoulders. I don't want to put my sweaty clothes back on now that I just took a shower, and I can't just walk out there naked.

Yeah, I'm one of those people. Never have I ever been naked in the gym locker room. I have no problem with other women walking around in the buff (and yeah, I admit it, I look. There's no harm in comparison shopping.) unless they're a colleague, in which case I feel a bit weird, but not uncomfortable.

So after peeking around the corner to make sure the coast was clear, I sprinted out past the rest of the showers to grab a towel, but not before a very pregnant lady got a great view of me nude and dripping wet.

Come on, Erika! It's normal and totally acceptable to walk around the locker room naked! I told myself. While women don't typically do this (normally, they dress in halves. If they are changing their top, they have pants on and vice versa) no one thinks it's weird if they do.

OK, you can do this, I thought to myself. It's the human body; it's fine; it's OK. Here goes.

After spinning the dial on my locker, I glanced around and made sure no one was in the locker room and then dropped my towel. I found myself tugging on my underwear with urgency, however, when I heard the door open and knew someone was about to come in the locker room. Unfortunately I was trying to put them on sideways, and then inside out, so I didn't get close to getting them in place before a woman cruised by me without even a glance.

Well that wasn't so bad, I thought as I finished getting dressed at a normal pace. Probably won't do this again though. What can I say? I'm modest.