Monday night I went to dinner in Evanston and quickly found out it is illegal to make anyone wait for a seat. Or at least it was at the place we were at.
As you may remember, it was hot as shit on Monday. Later in the day it became less, but still pretty damn, hot. So we decided to sit on the patio.
Walking up to the bartender and telling him we’d like a seat on the patio sent him into an immediate panic.
“Oh, um, there’s one couple in front of you but you guys will be next. I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry? Being used to the Chicago restaurant scene where a patio seat requires a reservation weeks in advance and nobody apologizes ever, I didn’t see any inconvenience in this wait.
We sit at the bar and the same bartender comes over to take our drink order. He brings them to us an begins to say something but then stops and goes, “You know what? Drinks are on me.”
Alex and I are Evanston royalty and we didn’t even know it!
Five minutes, maybe less, go by and our table is ready. At this point I am expecting a red carpet to be rolled in front of us as we walk to our seat, but no such luck.
Right as our butts hit the seat someone comes over to 1) take our order and 2) thank us for being patient.
I tell them the wait was no big deal, and then order a bacon cheeseburger. Because I’m a lady.
We are then left alone for a brief period of time, so I launch into one of my random stories and I’m mid-sentence when I look up to see the bartender glare at our waiter, do the double finger eye point, and then motion to our table.
He does it in such a way that it either means to murder us after our meal, or it means he wants to make sure we are being treated as the Evanston royalty that we are.
It’s the latter because he immediately rushes over to see how everything is.
We’re good. Trust me, we’re good.
We finish our food and drink and wait for the check. And wait. Our waiter has decided to play hard to get now that we are actually in need of something.
If that’s not a metaphor for dating, I don’t know what is.
We make no move to get the waiters attention, other than staring at him, in the fear that if the bartender sees us unattended the waiter will be beheaded.
Did I mention all the other tables have been stripped of their umbrellas, except ours?
I gotta come up north more often!
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My family all being in one room together, as they were this past Sunday for Mother’s Day, usually stirs up some scenario that is blog worthy. Or, at least it’ll be worth a mass text to my friends.
This past Sunday was no different. But, the bizarre event that I’ve chosen to write about today had pretty much nothing to do with my family being in close quarters.
As I was getting ready to leave to go back to my apartment (by this I mean, forcing my dad out of bed to help me find the car keys), there was a knock at my parents door. I responded to it by running in the opposite direction and yelling in a frightened voice to my mother that someone was at the door.
I am an adult!
She goes to answer the door and immediately I hear, “Oh my god, Susan! It is you!”
Though perplexed, I continue on my search for the keys.
Then my mom rushes up to me and says, “Nora, Alia is at the door. You have to come see her!”
To which I’m like, who the fuck is Alia? I resist my mothers ask, to which she responds, “It would be a tragedy if you didn’t come out and see her.”
Despite this being unbelievably dramatic, I give in and go out to see Alia. And every member of her immediate family. One of whom is recording this, and all of whom are trying to hug me as soon as I make it out the door.
I still have no idea who any of them are, but they obviously know who I am. Everyone is talking at once, hugging, kissing, etc etc.. I am solely on the receiving end of all of this, and if you know me I’m sure you have a clear vision of my facial expressions in this moment.
Then I hear someone say to me, “Yeah, I always remember that your birthday is July 30 because it’s two days before my brother’s.”
Say what? Y’all know when my birthday is? I have best friends who don’t even know when my birthday is!
Cough cough, Hannah and Rachel, cough cough.
This birthday date drop immediately loosens me up. Before I know it, they’ve got their iPhone’s out and we are all friending each other on facebook.
One big happy family!
As they all start to leave, they, of course, all hug and kiss me and my parents one last time. Alia is the last to hug me, and she includes a very genuine “I love you” to which I reply with a quick, “I love you, too!”
For Mother’s Day, I gained a mother!
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I think it’s safe to say that most people who know Chicago, even vaguely, know at least one of the sports teams.
Bulls, White Sox, Cubs, Blackhawks, etc…
I was born and raised in Chicago, in the same house, for twenty-two years. You’d think since my parents decided to raise me here, they’d raise me with a love for maybe one Chicago team.
No, not my dad. He instead cheers on teams nowhere near Chicago.
Cheer on might be an understatement. He is a die-hard New York Yankees and Boston Celtics fan.
He’s from New Jersey.
No, it doesn’t really make sense.
I’m going to try to root for the Bears….
Sure, he took me to a few Sox games when I was younger, but only when they were playing the Yankees.
I don’t even know if I can express my anxiety when the Bulls played the Celtics in that great seven-game playoff series.
All of my friends, including my three roommates, had parents with normal sports tendencies, so they had no qualms about whole-heartedly cheering on the Bulls.
Not poor old me, though.
Because my dad puts the fan in fanatic he instilled some of his twisted Celtics pride in me.
But even if he hadn’t, he still called after every game to guilt trip me into being invested in his dear old Celtics. Much to my roommates dismay.
Sorry, dad, but I’m a Bulls fan!
This could be why I stray away from keeping track of anything sports related. I’m just so torn about whom to choose!
Or maybe I just don’t care that much.
My dad gets credit for his chosen rivalry though, because at least it’s genuine.
My mom, on the other hand, is from Michigan, so when my dad got invited to the Bears owners box for their game against the Detroit Lions, she thought it’d be a good time to break out her Detroit pride. Something neither my dad nor I knew she had.
Did I mention she was in the Bears owner’s box? With the owner’s daughter? Who is a client of my dad’s?
The same woman who asked how my “softball, er, football, er, SOCCER!” games were, for the entirety of my youth is also a die-hard Lions fan.
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In my experience, Nora has been a name that no one hears correctly.
Early in life, this misunderstanding could’ve been blamed on my failure to enunciate properly. As time went on, though, I practiced and practiced to be sure I was saying a very clear NO-RA.
Just imagine, little pre-teen me saying Nora over and over again into a full-length mirror, making sure my pronunciation was of utter perfection so that no stranger would be able to be confused on just what my name was.
Ok, so all that practicing didn’t actually happen. It would’ve been a waste of damn time anyway. People still can’t get my damn name right.
Well, that’s not entirely true. If I meet someone in a quieter environment, there’s a 50/50 chance they’ll get it right. But those same people who can hear correctly are probably the same people who’d spell my name with an “h” on the end.
I ain’t Norah Jones, bitch.
Now, if the place of meeting is loud like, say, a bar, I pretty much throw all chances of my name being heard correctly out the window.
I do my best to be heard, leaning in far too close into a persons ear and put extreme emphasis on the N, but nothing seems to work.
The next phase of this battle comes with the decision on how many corrections I’m going to make before just literally spelling it out for them or just dropping it altogether and letting them call me whatever they want for the duration of the night, and then pray I never see them again.
“Hi, I’m Nora.”
“Dora, as in the explorer?”
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My whole diet and exercise thing is going alright. I’m not completely out of the game, but have definitely been slacking.I put most of the blame for this on my working at a daycare center.
What does watching over a bunch of toddlers have to do with my healthy living plan?
Well, everything, actually.
The clientele at the daycare are what I’d label “relatively bougie”. And relatively bougie people pack their kids lunches that I, as an adult, would also enjoy.
And often do.
Some of these parents understand that toddlers cannot eat as much as a full grown adult. Others, thankfully, do not so they pack their little ones enough to eat, and then some. “And then some” being me.
If you didn’t already guess, these parents are not keeping their children on a low sugar/gluten free diet, so many of the left over snacks that I enjoy do not fall into any sort of category of food I should be eating.
Lotsa sandwiches, lotsa noodles, lotsa goldfish crackers.
Things like cereal bars and sandwiches on whole wheat bread I justify by telling myself, “They’re good for you, go ahead and eat it.”
Things like cookies, goldfish crackers, and large amounts of cheese I justify by telling myself, “You’re hungry so fucking eat, don’t look back!!”
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As the weather gets warmer more people start venturing out of their winter hibernation, myself included.
Though this Monday started off gray and rainy, making my 7am commute that more depressing, it finally turned around and the sun came up in the afternoon.
Way to go, Monday!
I got off work at 1:30 and thought it would be nice if I took Kona to the dog park.
I walked to my parents house from work, something I was very proud of myself for doing. Once I arrived, I threw myself on the couch and began weighing whether or not just letting Kona out in the backyard as I napped inside would be the equivalent of taking her to the dog park.
After some contemplating, and a few “don’t be lazy” texts from Anika, I got my ass up and took her.
We get to the park and it takes her a couple minutes to not be terrified of the rush of dogs that all want to sniff her butt at once. I’m assuming she feels similar to how my friends and I did when we went to Wrigleyville in college; overwhelmed and afraid.
Once she got settled she began frolicking and reciprocating butt sniffs. This is a massive improvement from her behavior as a younger dog where she’d spend her time running full force and body checking the largest dogs. It was a straight up power move.
This time around she decides to be more friendly and just bounce around with dogs her own size, while occasionally jumping up on the bench and sitting next to me. When this happens I’ll look at her and say something like, “Go ahead honey, go play.” or “Come on, aren’t you having fun?” to which she has no response. Because she’s a dog.
After I make remarks like this I look around to see who else, if anyone, is treating their dog like a human child. As predicted, a few people are. And these people are women.
I’ll file this behavior under “Reasons I’m Single”
More behavior also filed under thus category occurs when someone asks me a question about Kona and I respond using the word “we”. As in, “We got her from a shelter” or ” We’ve had her for three years”. Some might assume I’m referring to a significant other with this “we”. But I am in fact referring to my parents and me.
Someday my prince will come.
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I’ve been working with kids pretty much my entire life, and besides the gibberish they speak, theres one more thing I don’t understand…
Why the fuck don’t they like to take naps?
Let’s look at the facts here.
These are small people who are still growing, which I can only imagine is exhausting. On top of that most of them wake up at ungodly hours like 5am.
Just thinking about that makes me want to take a nap.
It’s also vital to think exactly what these little dudes do all day.
Wake up, remember, around 5am.
Eat breakfast of mush.
Focus on learning how to walk, practice makes perfect.
Drive to daycare.
Do a couple art projects.
Eat a morning snack.
Learn shapes or something else vital to communicating with the world around them.
Run in circles for an hour.
If I had a morning that productive, I’d reward myself with a nice long mid afternoon nap. Not to mention they’ve got a full stomach, hello snooze town.
So why do they look up at me from their cribs like I just told them they had to be on a gluten free diet from this point forward?
Why are they not thanking me?!
Why do I have to rub their head and pat their tummy simultaneously for them to look even mildly tired?
20 minutes into my rocking them I just look at them like, guys, come on. You’re gonna want this energy in 20 years. Take it from me, waking up at 5am aint gonna be fun for much longer.
College is gonna be a rude awakening for them all.
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