As you all know, most of my blogs are either about what has sparked my latest emotional roller coaster or babies. I’ve been brainstorming on how to make these posts more relatable to people other than my close friends and my mother.
The other night I’m at a bar and on of the bartenders is especially cute so I turn to Anika and say, “He’s definitely not on tinder.” She turns to me with a confused look on her face and says, “What’d you say?”
So, a little louder, “He’s definitely not on tinder!”
Another confused look.
“HE’S DEFINITELY NOT ON TINDER!”
After her third confused look I moved in closer and say again, “He’s definitely not on tinder.”
“Ohhhhhhh. I thought you were saying ‘He’s definitely not into you.”
Which I thought was hilarious and was all, BLOG IDEA!
I go over to Ryan and start explaining the idea to her when, “What?? I can’t hear you.”
So I start to explain again, a little louder, “Wouldn’t it be funny to write a blog about things people mishear at…”
“…bars.” I start over for the third time, to no avail. She still can’t hear a word I say, so I get my phone out and type, “A blog about things you mishear at bars.” She looks at the screen and seems to register what I wrote, then looks at me and says to me, “Nora. It’s spelled miss-hear, not mishear.” And quickly walks away.
Whatcha gonna do.
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Turns out, finding a place to live isn’t the hardest part about moving, moving all your shit is.
And we’ve got a lot of shit.
If you’re wondering what I’ve decided to pack first, the answer is my feelings about moving, which I’ve packed into the back of my brain and use that method to pretend that all of my stuff is going to transport itself into the new house with no effort from me.
Those of you who live in reality know that this will not happen, and so I’ve been trying to get my brain to organize itself like a normal person. This Chicago Sprinter isn’t helping my cause any, either. What am I supposed to do, pack up all my sweaters cause today it’s 75? Can’t do that cause god damnit it’s gonna snow two days later.
Still, I have a lot of empty boxes piled in my room.
Now, to say that I’ve done nothing to help move the move wouldn’t be right. Hannah was in town a week ago moving her stuff out, and I kinda sorta helped her pack up and move her stuff. I also kinda sorta laid in her bed the majority of the time.
Hannah’s moving her stuff out left me both motivated and depressed. When she left she essentially took all of the art work, which motivated me to well, invest in some art for gods sake, as well as pack up all my own shit as a reminder that I’ll be leaving this white walled cave soon.
Her moving out depressed me for pretty much the same reasons, and, my best friend living on the other side of the country sucks pretty bad, too.
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I’ve worked with kids for, like, a bajillion years.
As a camp counselor sure, I dealt with a bloody nose or a banged up knee. Then working with toddlers I had plenty of poop all up in my grill, and lots and lots of boogers. But none of that could have fully prepared me for working with babies. And my babies, I mean their barf.
I initially worked with the eensy weensy babes in college at a daycare center. It was me and one or two co-workers, and once a day one of us would get puked on. Whoever didn’t get covered would laugh nicely at the person who did, or say something like “Uh oh!” in order to acknowledge that you felt their pain.
Now that it’s just me, there is no one else to take the brunt of the barf. When the babies spit up, it’s my shirt/pants/face it’s going on. When they poop all over themselves, it’s me who gets to peel their clothes off.
To most, this probably sounds like a good reason to run screaming in the opposite direction of any scenario involving infants. But, as most of you know, I am going to grad school for Early Childhood, so I am essentially running full force into the tornado of body fluids that is working with young children.
I don’t mean to make this post an ode to the horrors of infancy, but rather it should be looked at as my pledge to the greatness of babies. Even though the little one(s) I work with on a daily basis occasionally cover me in their excrement, I love them dearly.
It is the only occasion when someone can puke on me and I reply lovingly, “Oh my goodness! That was gross! I love you!”
Moments after wiping them clean of their own feces, I want to snuggle with them. I have never before accepted puke on my lap with a smile on my face.
This daily dosage makes me wonder if I smell terribly in public if I have to make a pit stop on my way home. This “wonder” does not stop me from going for long trips to the grocery store or to meet someone for dinner, it simply begs the question:
“Why am I single?”
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I’m sick and running on zero brain power.
Here’s a post from early last year to tide you over until next weeks rant:
I’m sick for the second time in 2013. That makes me 2 for 2, month-wise.
So, what do I do besides wallow in my own pity home alone with the dog I’m dog sitting? Reflect on sick days of the past, and their evolution.
Sick days as a baby that I’ll never remember, but I’m sure there was more crying involved then necessary.
My toddler sick days where I chewed up the toast my parents made me for breakfast so it looked like puke and then spit it in the toilet with much passion. I hope you didn’t actually believe me mom and dad, but thanks for letting me, occasionally, stay home after these incidents.
This manipulation of bread is not to be confused with my balling up grilled cheese in my fists and trying to sell to my babysitter that I ate all of it! and it was so good! Only to then be found out and forced to eat the ball o’ bread and cheese.
I was probably never sick in high school but on the days where I was being a particularly huge bitch, my parents would let me stay home.
Sick days in college were mostly just intense hangovers except that one time I got swine flu AND pneumonia and then had to drive from Iowa City home to Chicago with incredibly bad body aches.
That might’ve been worse than getting sick twice in 2013 already.
My adult sick days, which like most things about becoming an adult, are the worst. Now getting sick means missing work or a weekend, or both! And this means both less money and less fun. It also makes me feel like a total wimp to call up, or picture text, my mom/roommates something really sad like “I’m sicky” so that they’ll wallow with me.
But hey, a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do.
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Though I have some habits that are a staple for me like being hungry all the time, most of my other habits I would consider sporadic.
One of these such sporadic habits is reading. I will get into phases with a good book where I plow through it in a week or two, depending on length. In the aftermath of said good book I’ll read more articles, seek out more information, etc.. Then I’ll find a new good book, get two chapters in and have a headache that can only be cured with photo lists of cute animals and binge watching Netflix.
I can only have the smarts for so long, ya know.
Like most of my sporadic habits, I would like to start reading more regularly. But, how!? It’s not like I don’t like reading, I love it. Getting into a good book is like…the friggin best. So why do I get distracted so easily?
Is it A.D.D.?
The reason this all is at the forefront of my mind is because when I start grad school in September this habit of reading when I feel like it isn’t going to fly, at least in terms of my assignments.
“Sorry professor, I didn’t do the reading cause I had just done that other reading and my brain didn’t feel like it.”
“Oh, whoops, I tried doing the homework before bed and fell asleep and then forgot about it in the morning. Can I turn it in next week? Or maybe in a month? I’ll definitely have it done in a month.”
“I just couldn’t get into the reading so I stopped.”
“They don’t have that textbook in the kindle store so I’m sorry but I won’t be using it.”
“Yes, ma’am, you are right. I do need a reality check.”
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Obviously the first step in moving is finding a new place to move to. This comes with a lot of question. You have to decided where you want to live, how much you want to pay, and who do you want to live with.
Now that leaving our beloved blvd apartment has been made an official decision, Anika and I had to ask ourselves these very questions. The answers we decided upon were: 1) Close to a blue line 2) As little as possible and 3) Ourselves, Ryan and Katie.
Once we had that sorted out, we went forward with the dreaded search. Because we won’t be moving until May, I was told multiple times that to search for places already was pointless because pretty much nobody would be interested in renting their place more than a month previous to move in.
And to all of them I say BOO YAH…we are signing a lease on a the coolest 4 bedroom townhouse tomorrow night and we still have a month and a half until we move in. This is in it’s own way torture because now all I have left to do is think about the act of moving my collective crap to a new location, and it turns out the day we move is a weekday so life in late April is gonna be fun.
Before we stumbled upon the beauty that we are soon going to be calling home, we did come across quite a few duds.
The first one we looked at was in a good location, and from the outside the building looked great. Once inside, everything was going well until he showed us the first, extremely small, bedroom. Initially I was like mmm ok this might be doable. Then he told us that all of the bedrooms were about the same size, and as the tour continued we realized that he was not kidding. We went ahead and applied for the place but after mulling it over we decided we didn’t want to spend the next year sleeping in a closet.
A week or two went by before we stumbled upon another place worth checking out. This one we got excited about, according the map it was in Palmers Square, the rent was cheap, and the apartment looked beautiful. I set up an appointment for later that week. I found another place that was “under construction” but with the promise that it would be ready by May 1, and it was close to a blue line so I went ahead and made an appointment to check that place out, too.
The day rolled around and Katie and I went to go check out this “under construction” place. Not only was the leasing agent an adult who still wore clothes two sizes too big for him, but it turns out the entire building was being rehabbed so we would be the first people to move into a strange apartment. Since it wasn’t anywhere near done the agent talked us through where everything would be. Turns out walking in your front door would take you immediately into the kitchen, and the living space was in the middle of the apartment but cause of it’s location, the angles didn’t really allow you to put a couch or a TV anywhere that would be mutually beneficial. Finally, even though we were so close to the blue line that we could hear it, I couldn’t find one route to it that didn’t have a higher likelihood of my getting mugged than my arriving at the blue line station. At the end of the tour we were all like “don’t call us, we’ll call you”.
Thankfully our beautiful Palmer Square was our next tour and we were sure this was going to be a place we couldn’t pass up. Upon arriving at the building, which was ginormous and could have easily been a detention center in years prior, we realized just how wrong we were. Though the inside of the apartment was as beautiful as in the pictures, the location was nowhere near Palmer Square, or a blue line, or a street lamp for that matter. The street it was on was extremely dark which only added to the “Where the fuck are we” factor.
By the grace of the housing gods, the next day we found our dream home. HALLELUJAH! Now it’s onto figuring out whether not moving in with three other women was a move towards or away from a normal adulthood, and packing up the last few years of my stuff. I pray this moves finally leads me to throwing 3/4 of all the junk/clothes I’ve stored for too long.
Here goes nothin’!
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I went on two dates this week and those led me to the conclusion that I am done with it.
The first was this past Sunday. We met up at a bar and it started off okay, usual first date conversation type stuff. As time passed though, he seemed to be getting inherently more drunk than I was and we had the same amount of drinks. Conversation started to get sporadic and pretty boring. He’d also decided to bring up his ex-girlfriend multiple times which is always fun.
Then he goes to the bathroom and comes back acting even more inebriated.
Can I all of a sudden hold my liquor?
We start talking about how I want to be a teacher* and then he tells me about some of his friends who are teachers, etc.. etc.. then he goes to the bathroom again.
During this bathroom break a very drunk girl decides to strike up conversation with me. First she brings up my watch to get things started, and then asks if I’m on a date which of course was her way of beginning a open ended rant about how many dates she has been on and how much dating sucks. And I’m all like sister you can preach, but please keep your voice down people are staring.
I am somewhat rescued when my date returns but the conversation with him isn’t nearly as exciting as ranting about the woes of dating so I’m unsure at this point which person I would rather be conversing with.
He drops yet another story about his ex-girlfriend and then asks me what my parents do. I tell him, and he acts interested but this question was obviously a doorway for him to talk about his parents. His mother is a nurse with a doctorate degree who teaches at NYU and his dad is a neurosurgeon. A neurosurgeon with a Ted Talk.
My parents are the best but they ain’t got a Ted Talk.
Then he goes to the bathroom one last time, and when he comes back an even bigger weirdo than before, I am convinced he is doing coke in the bathroom. He returns and asks if I want another drink and I’m all like “uhhhh I should go home”.
It ends with him walking me to my door and saying he would love to do this again.
The second date was last night.
It started off better than the first one, turns out he is a realtor and I am looking for a new place to live.
Killin’ two birds with one stone.
We have some good back and forth, but then half way through the meal it turns into a lecture about his life. His past jobs, his family, everything you would ever want to know about his past. To be fair he occasionally asks me about myself, but then would turn my answers into a way for him to bring up another aspect of his life before really hearing an full response from me.
Luckily we got pizza on this date and there were leftovers that I can eat for lunch today, so it wasn’t a total loss.
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