The Year I Broke My Dad's Heart

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In the early 2000s, I made a major life change that was difficult to share with many people in my family. When I thought about it, I got a little sick to my stomach, and at times a bit panicky. The one person I knew this "life change" would damage the most was my Dad.

Anyone who knows me well will probably dub me a Daddy’s girl, minus the obnoxious princess complex. I knew that fessing up to my cousins, my friends from home, and other family members was going to be rough, but when it came to disclosing this change to my Dad, I got a lump in my throat. I cite this as the reason I can’t remember the exact year of the reveal. This confession was moderately traumatizing.

I had to come clean – I had become a Cubs fan.

My Dad was raised a die-hard Cardinals fan. My parents brought me up going to Busch Stadium, and any given season we were there for at least one or two games. My first real softball glove contained Ozzie Smith’s signature across its palm (he was my favorite). My Dad coached my softball team growing up, and we loved watching games at home together. I’ll never forget my disappointment when the Cards lost to the Twins in the ’87 World Series. I didn’t realize I still have some bitterness toward that team until last Friday night's Sox game against MN at Cell Field. In the ‘80s, I could rattle off the entire team’s players, stats and I even collected baseball cards.

Fast forward to the mid-'90s. I was in college, and most of my friends were from the Chicago area. I spent many a three-day weekend and a few spring breaks in Chicago, and in 1998, I made it to my first Chicago Cubs game at the beautiful and charming Wrigley Field. I’m proud to say my first-game experience at Wrigley was not only in the quintessential bleacher seats, but was also during the uber-charged HR record battle between Sosa and McGuire. I saw them each hit a HR at said game. I was clad in red, and appropriately heckled by Cubs fans that at the time I deemed jerkies, despite my Cubs-fan friends. But at that game, I became smitten with the ballpark and the neighborhood. It was the baby step that led to full-fledge fandom, and though I'd never admit it then, I was on my way to hearting the Cubbies.

I moved to the city in 2001 and was determined to maintain my central-Illinois, Cardinals-fan roots. The funny thing about growing up in central Illinois is that the fan base is literally split right down the middle for Cubs/Cards and Bears/Rams. (It is imperative to note that I have been and will always be a Bears fan.) The more Cubs games I attended that beautiful summer, the more I spent time on the north side, and the overall excitement and camaraderie that encapsulates the Cubs fan base washed over me.

One day, it hit me – I’m a Cubs fan now.

My new-found fandom was kept secret for a few years or so. I started dropping hints to various family members and friends. But I still wouldn't come clean to my Dad. If the Cubs lost, and he and I were talking, he’d say something rude-yet-funny about them, and I’d chuckle along. I felt bad enough I wasn’t living in the same city as my parents and family, let alone my transition to “the dark side.”

A more few years passed, I exhaled when each baseball season was over, then I dropped a few hints here and there directly to Dad. The ’03 playoffs hints specifically were subtle, yet evident. He and my stepmom even came to a Wrigley game in summer of ’03, and we had a blast. That year, I could walk to my North Center apartment from Cubs games if I really wanted, and soon after, I moved to the heart of the action---four or so city blocks away from Wrigley Field in Boy's Town.

My Dad's a perceptive guy, and eventually he picked up on the signals and hints. In 2006 or 2007, we had a conversation that went something like this:

Dad: “Don’t tell me you’re finally rooting for those Cubbies, Erin.”

Me: “Um, well, you see….it’s kind of hard living up there and NOT rooting for them.”

Dad: “There’s always the White Sox, you know.”

Me: “I totally support the Sox, but...I am a Cubs fan now. I’m sorry.”

I don’t know why I felt like I had to apologize to him, but I did. It felt like the end of an era. I thought throwing in the fact that I rooted for the Cards when NOT playing the Cubs was a bonus (this is true, actually). It may have cushioned the blow, but I still felt like I broke his heart just a little that day. Looking back, I'm pretty sure my own heart broke a smidge, too. Thankfully, my Dad is understanding and doesn’t rub it in my face…not too much at least. He’s a sarcastic guy, so he likes to jab me now and then.

I may be one of the few Cards fans turned Cubs fan, but I am what I am.

And I’m willing to hit the new Busch Stadium with my Dad anytime he wants.

Not Another Quarter Life Crisis or: How I Learned to Stop Ruminating and Love the Tarot

I had the quarter-life crisis in my mid-twenties. The "Where am I going? Did I pick the right major in college? I should have moved to LA or NY. Why am I not I writing for VOGUE/Elle/Nylon? I should have taken that internship junior year. I am mortal. I'm going to kick the bucket one day. Why am I unhappy in this relationship? Why have I settled for so many years? Where am I going? Why am I here? When will I get all of this figured out?

These and many other thoughts taunted me in my mid-twenties, and they still follow me. They harp louder during times of stress and conflict. They transform throughout the seasons of my life, but they're always there in some shape or form. Always.

I still haven't figured it out, and after two failed relationships, five moves, and a lot of vodka, I've learned some pretty valuable lessons. Some pertain directly to yours truly, were really hard to swallow, but put things into epiphanic perspective. Many have paved the way to my personal and spiritual successes and failures.

But I'm still freaking confused. Will I ever figure it out? I'm more all over the place these days than usual.

I'm paranoid about the economy and my job, much of which is fueled by my 2008 layoff that no matter how badly I try not to take personally, broke my heart on so many levels.

I regret not going back to get my Master's degree. Not a day goes by that I don't think about moving out west. I regret turning down that job offer in Tucson last year when I was unemployed. It just didn't feel 100% right. I am BIG on intuition and going with your gut feeling, so I try to model most of my decisions on this. Hence me not taking the job: even after planning and countless discussions with Phil, my best friend Anne (who lives in Tucson), and my Mom, I just couldn't accept the offer.

My thought process and actions are arguably spontaneous, but what the hell. I can speculate about EVERYTHING--and I do ruminate plenty--but ultimately, I know the answer from the get-go. I just muddle it over mentally because I'm a little kooky. If I always let the long-winded mental debates with myself be the decision-making factors, I'd still be sitting here, having a quarter-life crisis, seven years later. Wait a minute...

I'll admit I'm in a place of disdain these days. I'm sick of blaming the weather and the economy. We're all in charge of our own destiny, but no matter how many times I repeat that mantra--and I repeat it daily, multiple times daily--I'm still tied up with mixed emotions, fear and impatience. So it only seemed natural to get my tarot cards read, which I did yesterday by my good friend Adam. He's a fabulous reader. It'd been 5 months or so since he last read them, and this time, my focus was on something personal, not professional (my focus always switches between the two, depending on life circumstances).

He shuffled the deck, then I shuffled the deck, contemplating my current situation while doing so. I picked up a card while shuffling - the Death card - sigh, this is no good. Once I felt comfortable with the deck, I gave it back to Adam and he shuffled it a bit, then set the deck down. He asked me to place my hand on the deck and focus my energy into it while thinking of my situation. For those not familiar with tarot, the thought is that this act transfers the energies, thoughts and emotions of your situation to this to the deck. When I felt comfortable with that, he asked me to divide the deck into three piles and select one. I went with my first choice because as mentioned earlier, I'm big on intuition. Adam proceeded to lay the selected deck out with a semblance of order.

I'm a Virgo, so my residing card is always the Queen of Pentacles. She represents all things earthly. She's sitting on a throne in the forest surrounded by vines and greenery, with a running stream in the near distance. She's even got a bunny rabbit at her left foot, and I love animals (rabbits in particular). She's relaxed, mellow, under control, and surrounded by a natural bounty. All the other cards in the circular formation were laid down around the Queen of Pentacles.

If you haven't had a reading, and you're not a skeptic, I highly recommend it. Maybe I've just had the luck of having really good people read my cards each time, but it always tells a story that is so relative to my life at the time, and the question or issue I concentrated on while shuffling, that it's almost uncanny. I always have an "A-ha" moment during the reading. It puts things in to perspective, and makes sense of the nonsense (or the things I may deny or ignore). And don't be afraid of the Death card, because it rarely symbolizes real death. More often than not, it's the end of something. The cards only make sense in the order and direction that they're dealt.

I won't dissect the entire reading, but in summary:

I'm influenced by a man who is energetic and full of ideas, sometimes too many ideas. But the energy he has makes him try everything and sometimes he gains traction. My relationship with him is hindered by my own self-pity. Many past and present factors contribute to this self-pity. There's judgment and emotional loss, and gain. My not-so-distant future shows the male influencer and I happy and healthy and bountiful with love and earthly things. The distant future shows nostalgia as the resounding emotion. Adam explained it probably means having loving, pleasant, happy, reflective thoughts about the good times I've had with this male influencer and the good that he's brought to my life. Hmm....

I also chose to do the Yes or No question at the end of my reading. For this, you literally think of a question that can be answered simply by Yes or No via three cards. Adam laid the cards down and the answer was No. This was a good answer.

I'm not saying I live my life by the readings. But they're always therapeutic, and it's interesting and insightful to have your emotions put into perspective visually and verbally, with references to outside influences, the past, the present and the future. Plus, tarot card art and the metaphorical interpretation of each card is just super cool.

I bought a deck of tarot cards three months ago, and they're still sitting on my bookshelf unopened. I've wanted to learn to read tarot for years, and I've always known I will learn when the time is right. I haven't opened them yet, and these past three months, I think of them sitting there, unopened. I just haven't been ready.

Last night, when I was explaining my reading in great detail to Phil, I couldn't recall the visual symbol for the card I was citing. He said, "You have that deck, right? We can figure it out. Have you opened it yet?"

And I said no, I haven't been ready to open it.

But this morning, I want to open it.

I'm going to open it right after I post this blog.

Mommy, I Want it

I know we're in a re/pression. I realize that material goods and overall consumption right now is bad, bad, bad. I remind myself of this each time I find my way to various online sites (most recently Rue La La).

I have cut back considerably on all material goods in the past year. This decision came involuntarily via my being laid off in February 2008. I realized that no matter how fashion forward they may be, I just didn't need that new purse, or the new pair of earrings, or the killer pair of jeans. I had an entire closet, chest of drawers, and room full of fantastic clothes and accessories. And I'm crafty enough to create a multitude of ensembles with what I have. (I smell a personal challenge...)

But a new product was brought to my attention today that I just have to have. Phil sent me a text that read "The New Volvo C70 T5 is tight!" Being the car fan that I am, I immediately Googled it:



Although my ride is pretty standard, I have an ability to name car makes, models, etc. I've always had this, and I'm really not sure what it's all about. I don't fancy myself a gearhead; I guess I just really love cars.

I have always wanted a cherry-red convertible with light-beige leather seats. I have imagined myself driving around town, the wind in my hair, since childhood. My Dad had a convertible in the '90s - it was cherry-red, too - and I relished each opportunity I had to borrow it for important errands, like cruising around town.

It is amazing and glorious and WOW do I want it so badly!

I see the MSRP is around $40,000, and I immediately remember those not-so-distant days I spent living off unemployment, scraping by on the fantastic produce values at Harvest Time, and worrying, each day, as to when I would have an actual paycheck (it took 5.5 months, to be exact). I won't even go in to the panic attacks.

But there is just something entirely magical about this car that I feel compelled to have it.

In my dreams. In my alter-reality. Where I also own a home, with an in-ground pool, and I make it to Europe almost every year (and the years that I don't, I'm in the Caribbean.)

So there you have it: My first impromptu, outrageously extravagant, yet so-real-I-can-taste-it want for this year, induced solely by a shiny, pretty new car I referenced via Google Images. Amidst living in an economy where we're all finding solace in just getting by. I believe I'm back down to perspective already.

Spoiled Meat and Mixed Signals

I got crabs on V.D. No, I didn't contract an STD. It just occurred to me I have yet to blog about my Valentine's Day experience, so let me have at it.

First, there's the disclaimer: No matter how much I tout myself as the anti-girl, I am a GIRL. I love romance when it's not overdone, I crave attention when it's for something positive, and I want to cuddle until I get a back ache and have to roll out of the embrace to fall asleep.

The anti-girl in me thinks that Valentine's Day is a crock of shit, created by Hallmark-ish a-hole marketing execs somewhere. It makes people in relationships feel pressure to impress their sig other, and it makes many singles lonely or sad. This is just a cruel holiday, people.

So being the non-high-maintenance lady that I am, I told Phil we should just grab dinner out that night; no gifts, no marked-up-priced flowers, no frills. Just delicious food, a beer or three, and each other's company. He thought it was brilliant (of course).

The closer it got to V.D., the more we thought anticipated restaurant crowds. Our dinner plans involved Half Shell, and we didn't make a reservation (the place accepts none; ditto on credit cards). I got annoyed thinking about all the couples out for the night, imagined Phil and I huddled outside of Half Shell (the place is really small, so an outdoor wait is common). As delicious as those crab legs are, the plan was starting to sound less appealing. So, we decided to do the Half Shell thing Sunday night, and cook the steaks we had in the freezer for V.D. proper.

We went to the grocery Saturday for potatoes and asparagus, and saw that my absolute favorite cut of steak--the filet mignon--was on super sale. It looked great, and no past-due date stamp to boot. Change of plans again -- only the best discounted meat for our romantic meal!

At home, I opened the package in preparation to marinade. Phil was standing next to me. (This is how our cooking goes: one of us takes the reins while the other assists, and sometimes, back-seat cooks. All the while we're both jabbering on.)

A foul odor permeated the air. One small area on the steak was really brown; this was not boding well.

Me: "Oh no! Is the meat rancid?" (I try to work certain words, such as rancid, into conversation regularly.)

Phil sniffs the meat.

Phil: "Ugh, that's BAD meat. Throw it away! Wait, put it in this plastic bag. It's going down to the dumpster immediately."

And he did just that. When he got back upstairs, he said, "F it, let's go to Half Shell tonight. It's obviously meant to be."

If rancid meat was the fateful element of my culinary destiny, that's OK with me.

I took the other steaks out of the freezer, thinking ahead for Sunday night's dinner. I slapped on lip gloss, grabbed my purse, and out the door we went.

Half Shell was AMAZING. Really. If you love massively large king crab legs and shrimp cocktail, and don't mind a divey, small atmosphere, you must run, don't walk, to Half Shell. (I tried to SEO this to the website but not luck: www.halfshellchicago.com) This place is like a beach bar/restaurant on Sanibel Island, minus the beach.

Now's an appropriate time for me to mention that I picked up a card for Phil the evening before V.D. My boss told me about a boutique in our area, Hazel. She'd gotten her husband a card there with a Kurt Cobain quote. Immediately, I had to get it for Phil. He loves all things Nirvana, and the quote is so Phil: "I'd rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not."

And during dinner I thought, "Maybe he'll whip out a card or something. 'Erin, I love you so much! You are the woman of my dreams! Here is my card to profess my endless love for you.'"

(Why did the tangible element to measure love work its way into my psyche? Stupid V.D.)

Alas, at the conclusion of dinner, no card. On the drive home, I offer up, "So, I picked up a card for you..."

To which he replied, "Oooohhhh. Really? I thought we did dinner in place of gifts." (Cards are not gifts.)

Apparently, I'm a walking contradiction.

All of my "Valentine's Day is lame...it sucks...why do you need one day a year to tell someone you love them?...you should show and tell people you love just how much you cherish them every day...and so on and so forth," preaching to Phil had utterly confused him. (I can't imagine why?)

He informed me of said confusion.

After my obligatory "I know I said all that, but it's just that I thought about you, and I got this little thing for you..."

Oh, Jesus. I'd regressed to a teenager! It was not my brightest moment, but hey, I've got emotions, and as hard as it is for me to admit this, I AM NOT PERFECT.

We got past that whole ridiculous conversation, and actually, he sketched me "Spring Dream" (probably out of guilt). It's a landscape with a picnic set up under a big oak tree and hills in the background. He said he thought I needed a bit of spring to cheer me up. He said he felt bad about not getting me anything--even though that was our original, MUTUAL plan!

Fellas, I realize we women are complicated. We change our minds frequently, we're moody and we expect you to understand what's going through our heads without having to spell it out. You make up for it though, trust us. We love you anyway. And ultimately, there's only two sexes; we've gotta learn to live together, or at least laugh at the madness.

Sunday we did other romantic things, like laundry and cleaning our apartment. We also took a nice, long walk during the wash cycle by the Chicago river. We were so hungry from all the trudging and laundry doing, that marinating steak seemed like the best idea yet. We couldn't wait!

Once home, the steaks were broiled, potatoes cooked (rubbed with olive oil and kosher salt, just like my mom does), and asparagus steamed.

The first bite for both of us produced the same reaction: a gag reflex.

THAT steak was rancid, too! Purchased at the same grocery store and everything. I had immediately put it in the freezer when I bought it a month ago. Wtf?

It turned out to be a vegetarian dinner, the main course being a loaded baked potato. I even sliced fresh green onion and sprinkled on top of the mounds of butter and sour cream. Still, the double-duty steak funk-out was kind of a culinary wet rag.

During dinner, we watched Pineapple Express...which we really, REALLY wanted to like.

And that was my V.D. weekend.

Next year, I'm going to suggest an anti-V.D. get together with our group of friends. Shooting pool, playing trivia at a bar, or maybe catching a live show (hell, maybe The Hidden Dangers will play!). Maybe some wings at whatever bar. Less risk for spoilage (and less noticeable when washed down with a few beers). A home-made gift exchange (card, poem, song) that will be recession-friendly!

I think that sounds like a fantastically pressure-free V.D.

A Most Peculiar Collaboration

I saw the strangest mural on Damen last night, near the North Avenue intersection.

The colorful piece, which probably measured at least 12'x12' in dimension, hung proudly on the side of a to-be-unnamed southern-style, fast food, fried chicken chain. Or franchise. Whatever. The point is, the mural's content includes two men sprinkling spices and ingredients in to a giant bubbling crock. Mouths are watering, right?

It struck me as odd that along with the two men, were in fact, two chickens. Pouring wine in to the steaming crock. Collaborative kitchen prep for the sauce, marinade or broth that they were certain to be cooked in? And the strangest part of all, the chickens had vacant yet content expressions.

Has anyone else seen this mural on a southern-style, fast food, fried chicken restaurant chain? Is this part of their branding?

Just when I think the main has lost its twisted sense of humor, some corporate cat or franchise owner proves otherwise.

Midwestern Spring Madness

Here's something I find hilarious and sad all at once:

If you live in the Midwest--particularly further north--when it reaches 38 degrees you want to go outside armed with nothing but a light-weight coat and no gloves. Pu-SHAW to that down coat, hat, scarf, leggings, thermal somethings, etc. You're pounds lighter because you're wearing 10 pounds less of outdoor gear. You may have the sudden urge to skip or frolic, and you're certainly feeling more energetic and happy.

It's Midwestern Spring Madness 2009!

I am just as guilty as everyone else. As soon as we stepped outside this morning, I exclaimed, "It's beautiful out here!!" I thought about packing a change of clothes so I could go to beach at lunch. (I at least plan to walk to the bank.)

It gets better -- the five-day forecast calls for highs in the 40s people! It's quite sad when that will lift your spirits, but it does.

My friend Jen said earlier this week that she can sense spring in the air, and it makes her more hyper than ever (which is almost impossible). I'm sure we're all experiencing this much-needed spring fever. Even though there's a foot of snow on the ground and scattered ice patches, spring really IS right around the corner.

Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow last week, but I have an inkling that spring may come earlier this year. Or, maybe it's just a week-long break from the painful frigidity.

Either way, Happy Thawing!

The Marathon Date

My boyfriend and I don't typically go out on proper dates that often. We did for our first date, and after that, it pretty much has gone the route of casual/whimsical. We dine out every now and then, and catch a flick or two. But when you get down to it, we simply don't do the date thing that frequently. (I'd like to call my first witness, The Economy, to the stand.)

We cook at home, all the time. And order movies on demand, and watch "It's Always Sunny" reruns to the point of ridiculousness. We LOVE to frequent the beach from May through that last great weekend of September. I'm not a high-maintenance chick, but there does come a point when a girl's gotta go out with her fella and have a good time.

Enter The Marathon Date.

Prior to The Marathon Date was our previous date proper, which occurred in November. This involved the boyfriend taking me on a surprise date, which I had already figured out when we left our place and took a certain route towards a certain Lincoln Square theater. I was so excited, I had to call him out, "You're taking me to the new Bond!" and that wasn't sarcasm, because I totally heart Bond movies.

For The Marathon Date, it was my turn to surprise him, with the exception of the pre-determined IMAX movie. And being the competitive person I am, I thought to myself, I am so going to blow his date away. My surpise portion involved visiting the LEGO store (props to my friend at work for the tip) and then drinks at The Signature Room.

The Marathon Date, in summary:

We took the Red line in the middle of a snowstorm, on a Saturday afternoon.

Our first stop out of the subway was at Nordstrom to get snowboots, because mine were completely water-logged from snowstorm. (Oh, how I still long for the days working next to that place. And oh, how my wallet does not.) Purchased snow boots, wear proudly out of store (they were stylin'!), walk to Navy Pier.

Blisters form prior to approaching Navy Pier. I think maybe I'm just a wussy, and decide suck it up and see how they feel after the flick. A good rest should do the trick, right?

Super-fun adventure movie at IMAX.

Leave IMAX, blisters more evident/painful.

Hitch a free ride on the Navy Pier Trolley back to Nordstrom (Yes! No walking.) to return my recent-purchase. No other suitable snow boots. I put my old, waterlogged boots back on and we proceed to the surprise portion of our date.

Stop at LEGO store. Play with LEGOS, and pick out all the sets we want to/wish we could purchase to play with further in the comfort of our home.

Wander up Michigan Avenue, admiring the holiday lights (still up), trying to distract myself from the waterlogging (I will not gripe and moan on the surprise date!), and even excited to show him the Signature Room. He's lived here his whole life, and hadn't been there. It was a must.

Go to Water Tower, roam through sadly, try on snow boots at approximately 10 stores. (At one point, a manager told me one pair was "utter crap" and would leak, even though it claimed to be waterproof. I thanked him for his honesty). No boots purchased.

Slush just further north, approach the Hancock, and by now, he's fully aware of the surprise.

Consume two dirty martinis, six olives, and some brie, crackers and apple app. Amazing conversations, I truly bonded with my man in an utterly romantic atmosphere. We left well-buzzed from the liquor, the talks and each other.

We thought it'd be a great idea to walk around the beautiful church across from the Hancock, Fourth Presbyterian Church. We took pictures while taking it all in. We wandered west toward the red line, dropped our jaws for a few in front of the Lamborghini dealership, and I thought to keep taking pictures. I dropped my camera and it broke. (!)

After my minor breakdown over the camera, we were back on our way to the sub. It was only 8:30 or so, and I suggested a game of darts and hot wings at a little place by us on the north side. So we stopped in, played darts, and ate hot wings. Then around 9:30 a guy interrupted our game:

Guy: "I hate to interrupt, but are you guys going to wrap up this game soon?"

Boyfriend: "Yeah, we're almost done, but you can get in on the next round if you want, we don't mind."

Guy: "Oh, I'd love to, but I just need this space to set up for karaoke."

Me and Boyfriend: "Karaokeeee??!!!!"

Now I'll admit to ONLY singing karaoke with groups of friends, while intoxicated. I'm not pretending to be waiting for that big break or anything. My fella, on the other hand; he's in a band, and he LOVES the karaoke. He's got a good voice, too. Last year, we went out for his birthday, and he ended up singing the majority of the night. It was great!

On The Marathon Date, I had apparently consumed enough beverages to NOT care about the fact that I don't sing well.

Yet I sang the following songs that night--by myself--in no particular order:

"Once in a Lifetime" by the Talking Heads
"Kiss Off" by the Violent Femmes
"Wrong Way" by Sublime
"Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" by Billy Joel

I'm missing two or three songs, too. Check back; when they come to me, they'll be added.

The boyfriend and I sang a few duets, but I don't recall those. (Did I mention we closed the bar?)

We even collaborated with other singers (at their request, gasp!); again, don't recall the songs.

So we closed the bar, the karaoke guy prying the microphone from my grip, and the boyfriend and I running and jumping in the fresh piles of snow from that night. (It was still snowing at close). Thank god it was a fresh white snow, because it wasn't the same color the next morning.

And The Marathon Date was a necessity for the E./Fil combo, and we still talk about it today. It's the date that will go down in history.

"A 12-hour date, a 12-hour date."