I’m really happy that my next door neighbors moved…

I’m really happy that my next door neighbors moved. I damn near did a backflip when I saw that Budget Rent a Truck sitting in front of my house and all of them loading furniture. It was fabulous.

This puts an end to, not only being irritated by the screaming of THEIR children (and, to this day, I STILL haven’t figured out how many kids lived there), but I will probably no longer have to deal with the children from down the block, the playmates of my former neighbors, who are apparently being raised by wolves and have no home training.

My mother, ever the pessimist, pointed out that the people who move in might be worse. But I’m hoping for a nice quiet old person who doesn’t have frequently visiting grandchildren. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Happy Monday! The weekend was fun, and kind of mel…

Happy Monday! The weekend was fun, and kind of mellow at the same time.

Funny, though . . . at the same soiree that I blogged about on the 28th, I ran into a woman that I hadn’t seen in a while. She’s one of those people that I don’t know extremely well or actively hang out with, but we’re always happy to see each other, enjoy catching up, and threaten to go out for dinner/drinks in the future.

She told me that we had a guy in common. This always scares me, usually because I wouldn’t wish most of my exes on anyone. She said the name of S., a man who I only went out with once, and would never have considered myself dating. (FYI — There are people who think that if you go on one date with a person, you and that person were “dating.” I don’t consider myself to have truly “dated” someone unless there was something going on for at least a month and there was some degree of messing around. This person, S., and anyone else with whom I’ve had brief dalliances or “situations” don’t qualify).

As I recall, it was kind of a weird scenario. He and I went on one date. I actually can’t really call it a date because I went to his house to watch TV. I don’t recall there being much chemistry on either of our parts. There was no kiss goodbye to my recollection. I think we were supposed to go out to dinner or lunch in that following week, but we never talked again. I don’t really remember, so I guess I wasn’t broken up about it.

Fast forward to this past Friday. When his ex/my friend, told me that she knew we’d hung out once, I wondered why it would be a topic of conversation. I could barely remember it, so I was surprised that he would. Then she told me that he said that I’d written a column about him. I was even more perplexed. She jarred my memory by saying that I’d written one about a disappearing man and that it was based on him.

I had to think about it, and then it clicked — VAPORMAN! Shortly after the ‘aha!’ moment, I had a ‘what the fuck?’ moment. Vaporman was written so long ago that it’s a book excerpt, and is about a person who disappears after you’ve embarked on a serious relationship. Not someone that you’ve only had one date with — and an un-date, to boot! What was THAT about?

I guess it was just the weekend for people thinking they’ve been written about. Interesting. When I have more time, I have to write about the karaoke birthday celebration for my friend J.

So, last night I was at a soiree with a few friend…

So, last night I was at a soiree with a few friends that I haven’t seen in a while. It was nice, for the most part.

I’ll share with you that one of the most irritating aspects of being a relationship columnist is coming in contact with people who think you’re always going to write about them. They preface their story with something like: “I shouldn’t tell you this. I’ll end up in your column.” Of if you ask a friend general care and concern questions, they’re suddenly secretive, for fear that they’ll get a mention in the G-Spot. These people need to get over themselves.

The funny thing is that the people with the really interesting stories call me, and ASK to be in the column. The ones who really believe that I’m inquisitive because I’m sniffing out a story, or are afraid to share the mediocre details of their lives . . . well those are the ones who have the least interesting stories. Either that or they’re so ridiculous that, if I were to write about them, it would certainly result in a serious decline in readership. Not only that, but it kind of pisses me off that these people are so egomaniacal that they think that I’m always on the hunt for a new story, and theirs is going to be a late breaking smash. I’ve been writing the column for 3 1/2 years — has nobody figured out that I’m a personal magnet for crazy shit? But I digress . . .

When people have an attitude like that, you know what it makes me want to do? It makes me want to write about them without the usual maskings and changes in identifying circumstances, just to be spiteful. Therefore, since I couldn’t commit an actual column to this topic (not dynamic enough), I can definitely blog about it. So, this is for you, my vain “Carly Simon,” since you’re so sure this blog is about you . . . (and I’m sorry for those who won’t find this story particularly enthralling . . . I certainly didn’t).

So, I., who I haven’t seen in a long time, says that he’s been off the radar screen. Reason being was that he broke with his girlfriend, who was a few years his senior. Long story short, it’s your garden variety tale of a younger man kicking an older woman to the curb after she supported and cared for him until he got on his feet.

See . . . I told you . . . it was actually rather trite. I’m sure that if I., or ‘Carly Simon,’ as I prefer to call him, were to read this, he would say that I left out a lot of details. And I’m sure I did. But do you really need to hear more?

I’m being slightly spiteful, or more expressive, because it’s the day of my birth, and with every year that I get older, I feel more and more comfortable with myself and my opinions. It’s a beautiful thing.

And speaking of beautiful things, I want to send a personal congratulatory message to Phil and Nazareth, who are getting married today. It’s raining in Chicago, but I’m hoping the weather is sunny and bright for you in Texas. You guys deserve it! Love you!!!!

Oh, and here’s something new. Do you see, below this post (and below EVERY post) on the right side, how there’s a little picture of an envelope with an arrow on it? Well . . . if you like a certain post, and want to e-mail it to a friend, you may do so with the click of that button, and share the rant. Enjoy!! I love technology!!!

Lots of blogging going on over here at Planet G. …

Lots of blogging going on over here at Planet G.

So . . . I’ve received a lot of phone calls over the last few days from friends who are having relationship issues, or issues because they’re not in relationships. Not that I mind . . . my friends know that they can call me whenever they want, and I never mind talking to them (before they start thinking I’m complaining).

And it’s funny; I get these calls because I’m the “relationship expert,” which is absolutely hilarious. Let me be clear . . . I’m NOT a relationship expert, and I never purport to be be one. I’m quick to correct people — especially if a description appears in the press somewhere. I write the column simply because I’m observant, analytical and verbose. (I also write the column because my dating life is crazy, and somebody should capitalize on the humor of it, even though it’s not very funny at times.) What I’m an expert at, truthfully, is being single.

That said, given what I’ve been listening to over the last few days, I’m SO happy to be single — or rather I’m lucky that I can enjoy being single (either unmarried or unattached), and I’m overjoyed that my life is simple and carefree because that’s the choice I’m making. Most of my single friends seem to be pining over someone, wishing for something, wanting for this time of their lives to be over so that they can get on with the rest of their lives . . . whatever the hell that means. A lot of people think that life begins when you’re half of a pair. The grass isn’t greener over there. It’s brown everywhere.

Few people are enjoying the moment, or understanding that freedom is a priceless luxury, options are everything, or that being in a relationship is a serious decision. Think about it . . . to commit to including another person in your daily routine, your thought process, to have another person to consider when you make decisions, and not to mention the whole monogamy thing (which a lot of us don’t do very well). It’s a huge decision.

Granted, I’m an only child, and we tend to be a little narcissistic. [By the way -- there are two types of only children -- the kind that must be around people constantly to make up for the fact that they grew up alone -- or the type that can be alone for hours and days on end and be content.] I’m not selfish with posessions (unless they’re expensive. hahahaha!), but I’m very selfish with my time and I’m notorious for wanting to keep options open. I like to do what I like to do, when I like to do it. So, you see, you’re talking to someone (or reading about someone) who has an opinion skewed in the opposite direction.

I realize that I have a unique viewpoint, but hey . . . it works for me. So I guess this rant is a special message to my friends who are in a state of emotional distress . . . ENJOY YOURSELF. Please? Pretty please? You have the wherewithal to do so, and, although it’s hard to imagine, I guarantee that one day, you will want this moment back.

Carpe diem. This weekend, please do whatever makes you happy. Go out with friends. Have a drink or 6. Have a fling. Go shopping. Get a massage. Play with animals. See a movie. Sneak into another one. Eat chocolate. Exercise. Take a long walk. Go to the beach. Get a pedicure. Order pizza and rent three obscure films. Call a friend that you haven’t talked to in a year. Turn all of your phones off. Buy a new electronic gadget (take that any way you want). Watch everything in your TiVo cache. If you don’t have TiVo, buy one. Sit in a coffee shop and write in your journal. Make out with someone (I don’t care who it is, as long as they’re attractive and good kissers). Take a bubble bath. Did I mention chocolate? Look at old pictures. Go to the steam room. Plan a foreign vacation. Be good to yourself even if you’re by yourself. Have a beautiful weekend!

Has anyone else noticed that, without fail, the sl…

Has anyone else noticed that, without fail, the slowest cashiers work the express lines in the grocery store? Is this a cruel joke?

Today, I was buying ONE item, and since I was in a grocery store without one of those handy self-checkout lines, I was subjected to the express line.

[Aside: FYI, I am an inefficient shopper. I rarely have a list, and I don't plan meals. On a whim, I will decide to make something and then I will survey my kitchen for ingredients, only to find that I'm missing a few things. The very same thing could happen the following night, and a few more times in the same week. Because of my inefficiencies and erratic cravings, I'm a large proponent of the express line. Back to our regularly scheduled rant . . .]

First of all, there’s always the person with 14 items who sneaks in the 10 or less line. I let that slide, because I’m not the express line police. There are some people — they were probably crossing guards when they were children — who will blow the whistle on the woman whose extra bottle of Cranapple Juice Concentrate or box of Super-Duper-Extra-Wide-Kotex-With-Wings-and-a-Bucket take them over the item limit. I’m not that snitch. Although I’m tempted to be that snitch when the cashier moves at the pace of a dead fly.

Anyhoo . . . today, I was buying my one item (and no . . . wings weren’t involved), and I was cursed to be in line behind the “sweet old man.” [He's the guy who's so old that you wonder why he's shopping alone, although you commend him for being able to get around, and then you wonder whether or not he can actually see all of the items that he put in his basket. He's really slow, but very smiley and sweet. He reminds you of your grandfather, so you put aside your thoughts of jumping in front of him, and graciously allow him to rightfully take precedence in the line.]

Sweet Old Man had the right amount of groceries, but wouldn’t you know that three, count ‘em, items in his basket required a price check? I’ll be damned if Sweet Old Man didn’t know the exact prices of all of those items, their sale prices, and the dates that the sale expires. [My 'what the fuck' moment of the day]

Gretchen the cashier, also known as the slowest, most unmotivated teenager in America, took her sweet time picking up the mic, and you would have thought she was uttering her final words as she mustered: “Price . . . . . . check . . . . . on . . . . . [yawn] . . . . . aisle . . . . um . . . . . [glances at sign above her head] three? Yeah, three.”

Somebody called from the back, and she slowly read the items to him/her. She inspected her nails as she waited for the response. When the price verdicts were revealed, Gretchen had to stop and think for a minute, as though she couldn’t remember what she had been doing. She finally rang up the remainder of Sweet Old Man’s items. (And by the way, he was dead on with his sale prices)

You can probably imagine that I’m really frustrated at this point. Even more so when I saw the woman in the next aisle who had 30 items get out of there faster. It was everything I could do to keep from kicking the shit out of Gretchen . . . repeatedly . . . and tell her that I would like to get out of the store sometime before the ball dropped in Times Square.

Instead, I did what I always do when I’m frustrated and can’t express myself — I started laughing. This makes people think that I’m a crazy person, because nobody can ever figure out what I’m laughing at. Sweet Old Man was a kindred spirit. As he was taking his bags off of the belt, he saw me laughing and made a gesture with his cane, like he was hitting Gretchen in the head with it. This made me laugh even more.

The person who wasn’t laughing was dear, slow, Gretchen, who somehow sensed that she was the cause of my masked frustration. She grimaced at me and developed a huge attitude as she whipped my item into the flimsy plastic bag, and became upset that I didn’t have seven cents (which I did, but I wanted to get quarters back as change for the meter). I didn’t care if she was mad. If I’d known it was going to light a fire under her ass, I would have pissed her off 15 minutes prior.

That’ll teach me not to make a grocery list!

Has it occurred to anyone that William Kennedy Smi…

Has it occurred to anyone that William Kennedy Smith might need to be put in jail? Just a thought.

After hours of tossing and turning, I decided to g…

After hours of tossing and turning, I decided to get out of bed and work, which I’ve now been doing for the last time. Since editing 1,300 word articles down to 250 meaningful words is a grueling task, blogging seemed to be a good idea.

I went to House Music in the Park last night — and for non-Chicagoans, Grant Park is our significantly smaller rendition of Central Park in New York — even though 1/2 of it is now called Millenium Park and I can’t really tell where one begins and the other ends. I guess Millenium Park begins where you start to see a lot of really expensive fountains and a big metal stage . . . but I digress. Anyhoo . . . House Music in the Park featured Frankie Knuckles, who is a world renowned DJ, and even though it rained for the majority of the evening, the park was PACKED. I couldn’t even get to the dance floor (not that dancing with an umbrella is my fave thing to do). I also managed to see a lot of people that I hadn’t seen in years, which is always nice. I had to leave when the rain got worse and I started to melt. And I was glad to leave because I thought I was going to die of smoke inhalation.

When I go to events and clubs, the thing that always perplexes me is the amount of people who still smoke! Let me give a disclaimer. I’m not your average nonsmoker. I’m the worst kind — the self-righteous ex-smoker, who had an 8-year nasty pack-a-day addiction to all things nicotine. Toward the end of my stint, I was getting sick of smelling like cigarettes, and having to go outside for smoke breaks. I was tired of being chided by my family and the occasional stranger who thought his/her opinion should be valid in my life. They told me things that I already knew . . . I was doomed to have cancer. I would contract emphysema.

It wasn’t until I experienced a shortness of breath during a quasi-strenuous dance class. I enjoy dancing and being athletic, and I refused to wheeze at such a young age. So, after that class, I went to get my nails done at the 400 E. Randolph building, smoked my last cigarette sitting on a balcony overlooking the beautiful Lake Michigan, and left the pack there. It sounds like a dramatic beautiful scene, but it wasn’t pretty. In fact it rather sucked. I had to be babysat for two weeks afterward to keep myself from believing that it was okay to buy a pack, take one, and throw the rest away (thanks, Lauren!). It was hard. Arguably harder than graduating college. But, it got easier with every passing day and now I can’t believe I ever smoked.

It’s been several years, and the very smoke that I once basked in makes my throat close and inspires nausea. I prefer no-smoking establishments, and I won’t date men who smoke. I can’t even understand who thinks it’s a good idea. Especially young people. When I was a teenager (about the time that my delinquent ass picked up a cigarette), there were hints that “Smoking could cause cancer.” But we still saw cute little ads with the rugged Marlboro Man, the humorous Camel, or the models smoking their Capris or Virginia Slims. But now, it’s unmistakable. There are PSAs that simply state “You smoke, you die.” There’s no ambiguity there. There are no attractive role models to lure you to the other side. Just the threat of death with a huge price tag attached to it.

Which brings me to my next pontification . . . when I smoked, cigarettes were already creeping up in price. They were about $2.90/pack, and I was complaining then, and buying cartons in Indiana to escape Illinois tobacco taxes. I recently had a “what the fuck” moment when I saw that cigarettes are over $5.00 a pack?! Even more if you have to buy them at a bar or club. How do smokers pay their rent? If someone smokes a pack a day, they’re spending $35/week, and a minimum of $140/month! It’s a good thing that smoking curbs your appetite, because some people probably can’t afford to eat after buying the cigs.

It might be unfair, but I give more leeway to older smokers who’ve nursed their habits for decades. I know how hard it is to quit, and if you’re not in the right place, mentally, it’s not going to happen. I think they know, theoretically, that smoking is terrible, but they haven’t mustered the strength to quit. Having said that, I’m also caused to wonder why teenagers START smoking. ANOTHER “what the fuck” moment! It’s expensive, it’s irritating, it’s not supported in society. I understand that teenagers can be rebellious, but aren’t there lots of other ways to do it? Pierce something, tattoo something, hell . . . cut class and smoke the occasional joint. But stay away from the Newports. And by the way . . . American Spirit brand cigarettes aren’t any better for you, so that justification doesn’t hold water.

And another thing (I promise, I’m almost done), I’m perplexed when I see young singers start smoking. Because, let’s be real, Britney Spears already sucks and has managed to torture us with her electronically enhanced Mickey Mouse voice for about 8 years too long. Does she REALLY need to smoke to exacerbate that problem? Every time you see her in a picture with her classy fiance, she’s sucking on a cig. This might mean that I need to stop reading tabloids in grocery stores. But then, I can already envision the Britney of the future . . . fat, shopping in the Walmart of Armpit, LA, with her two whiny kids, her two biracial stepchildren, buying every size of diaper and $2 cases of beer for her ex-dancer husband (who beats her), all while trying to remind the cashier that she once danced half-naked on stage singing Slave. Anyone else feel me on this?

Whew! That was a long venomous one. Back to editing for me. Thanks for reading!! Smooches!

Yesterday, I learned that I might be slightly clau…

Yesterday, I learned that I might be slightly claustrophobic. I’ve always known that I value my physical space and that I hate when people stand too close in places where space is abundant. I didn’t know, however, that elevators can also be a problem.

I was in the parking garage elevator at my gym, rushing to squeeze in a good muscle torture. Granted, the elevator has always been problematic, which is normal for those that service a small number of floors. I felt the usual bumps and delays between floors, and then the doors opened to reveal concrete. So I did what any calm elevator rider would do. I started frantically pushing the Close Door button (which never seems to work) and freaking out. I refused to start screaming, because . . . well . . . I’m not a screamer, BUT I came as close as I possibly could without an utterance, if that makes any sense. My saving grace was that I was alone.

Eventually, literally about 3 minutes later, we reached my destination and the doors opened properly. I guess I wasn’t too traumatized because I got back on that same elevator to return to my car.

Went to a hee-larious comedy show last night. My friend Tracy Tedesco, who is a comic and fellow columnist, invited me out to see “Funny Femmes” (femmes means woman in French, for those who didn’t know), which is an all female comedy show that runs weekly at Joe’s on Weed St. Usually at local comedy shows, I can’t muster more than a chuckle. Last night, I was laughing to the point of tears. I knew she was funny, but not THAT funny. There were three comics on the bill, and a hilarious male MC, who is the only exception to the rule of women.

She’s giving me 3 minutes (I have a 3 minute theme today. Good thing I don’t have a boyfriend. hahahaha!) to promote the column and book. By my estimation, 3 minutes is about 2 minutes and 45 seconds longer than I need to be on any stage, but it should be interesting. I might post the exact date and invite people to come, depending on how nervous I get. We’ll see.

After having a fun day with my friend K., I ended …

After having a fun day with my friend K., I ended up doing my requisite stroll around the Viagra Triangle (alias the Rush Street area) before going to dance class. Everyone was out, trying to get a final glimpse of good weather, and al fresco dining was all the rage. There wasn’t an outdoor table to be had at any of the popular spots.

But despite the good crowds, there’s at least one server at Tavern on Rush that will feel as though he/she got stiffed. As I approached Tavern — the cornerstone of the Viagra triangle — I saw a crowd of large men taking up significant space at one of the outdoor tables. One was Juwan Howard, there were two I didn’t recognize, and one was the illustrious Scottie Pippen, or, as he’s known in the bar/restaurant industry, “No tippin’ Pippen.” From what I understand, someone’s told Scottie that 10% is a fine amount for a tip. Probably the same person who neglected to have the conversation about the importance of elocution.

Weekend excitement . . . Scene One At a bar …

Weekend excitement . . .

Scene One

At a bar in Lincoln Park on Friday night, going to a friend’s birthday celebration. Upon entering the club, no less than 15 blonde LP trixies are dancing with each other, singing along to “Like a Prayer,” which the DJ somehow found it appropriate to play.

They were singing loudly, unapologetically, and with their eyes closed. If you’ve seen “About a Boy,” you will know that when people sing with their eyes closed, they REALLY mean it.

Scene Two

Overheard at Air & Water show on Saturday:

Mother (60ish): What kind of plane is that? Is that a B-12?

Son (40ish): No, Mom. That’s a B-52 bomber.

Mother: Well, where’s the B-12?

Son: B-12 is a vitamin, Mom.

Mother: No! It’s a plane.

Son: Yes! B-12 is a vitamin.

Mother: Oh. So when someone gets a shot of B-12, they’re not really getting shot?

Son: You’re kidding, right?

It was at this moment that the eavesdropper (alias me) had to excuse herself for fear of laughing aloud.

Scene Three

At a bar with friend L. on Saturday night. Sitting at table for two, enjoying glasses of wine. Enter balding, mid-40ish unattractive white man (race becomes important later). He converges on our table.

Man: So where is he?

G & L: Who?

Man: The husbands and boyfriends. Two attractive ladies like yourselves have to be married.

L.: I’m married

(Gina is noticeably silent, not giving up her marital status)

Yada, yada, yada . . . fast forward to 5 minutes later.

L.: I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.

(Man leans in closer to me. Puts hand on my leg. I shove it away.)

Man: So, do you have a boyfriend?

G.: Yes (if you consider TiVo, I’m VERY spoken for)

Man: So, do you mind if I ask what nationality your boyfriend is?

G.: Why do you want to know?

Man: I’m curious

G.: (Stumped. Digital video recorders don’t have nationalities. Go the safe route). He’s bi-racial.

Man: So you don’t mind a little cream in your coffee.

G.: I’m an equal opportunity dater. Obviously you don’t mind coffee with your cream.

Man: I LOVE coffee. I’m not a WASPy guy. I’m Serbian, and we like it a little spicy. Ya knowwhutImean?

G.: Good for you.

Man: You remind me of my ex, actually. She worked for WVON.

G.: Bully for her. I’m assuming she’s black?

Man: Yeah. She was hot. So how serious is this relationship?

G.: Mine? Very (I take my television very seriously). We’ve been together about a year and a half. (And it’s been television bliss ever since)

Man: (Looks down at my purse) I’m sure you have a card in there somewhere.

G.: My own? Sorry. Switched purses and I forgot to transfer the card case. (I’m winning the Big Fat Liar award for the evening. And I’m also mentally cursing L. for leaving me alone with this weasel for so long)

Man: (Starts grabbing my hand, and rubbing my palm with his forefinger. A great big YUCK!) What are the chances of you calling me if I give you my number?

G.: I’d say pretty low, but I’m sure you’re a nice guy.

Man: Take my number anyway. You never know. (Believe me . . . I know!)

He made me program his number into my phone. I haven’t deleted it yet, but it’s imminent. By the way . . . a large percentage of our conversation has been omitted to save you from boredom(I had to live through it, so I can at least spare you my torture), but I’m sure L. will weigh in with a comment on something hilarious that I might have left out.

More to come . . .