Have I become the Mean Lady on the block?

Probably. Why? Largely because I don’t participate in trick-or-treating.

I’m a bit of a hypocrite because I loved trick-or-treating as a child. It used to be such an innocent experience, and we traipsed up and down our blocks, getting candy from everyone (except the frumpy piano teacher across the street who would give us pencils - WTF?), and then meeting up later to compare loot. The only thing we had to do was make sure that everything we received was individually wrapped and not a piece of fruit with a razor blade in it. I was happy to forego the fruit, as long as my Reese’s Peanut Butter cups were still legal.

Of course that was back when my parents knew all of the neighbors, and even had the 411 on what kind of candy they would be giving out. There were a certain few houses that I was told to avoid — people that my mother didn’t know or trust — but other than that, it was all good! I often groused about having to wear my coat over my spooky costume, depending on the weather, but once I got over that, I was all about the treats.

Ahhh the memories. Well, not anymore. Another of life’s purities that has been ruined by the nefarious and the ghetto.

Granted I’m rarely home on Halloween night. I’m usually out somewhere in a skanky costume, doing some trick-or-treating on my own. Last year I was away with my then boyfriend having a fun NY excursion. Sigh! But I digress.

Even if I’m home, I don’t plan for T or T. I refuse to buy candy, because you know where most of that ends up, don’t you? That’s right! Plastered on my ass! (It’s my own fault — “One for you, two for me, two for me, one for you”) I don’t think so.

I take it a step further. I turn off all my lights and lock my gate. It isn’t that I’m trying to be a curmudgeon, it’s just that the kids in my neighborhood can be a bit scary.

Not the little ones who trick or treat when there’s still some daylight, and whose parents have planned their costumes (and probably plan to eat most of the candy themselves). I usually miss their visits because I never get home from work before dark. Most normal parents don’t let their kids roam from door to door at night.

I’m talking about the older ones – the ones who have limited parental supervision and are taller and significantly heavier than me who knock on the door with authority and yell “trick or treat” with much bass in their voices as though they’re going to scare me into giving them larger portions of chocolate. And do I want to contribute to the increased widening of those overgrown walking hormones? I REALLY don’t think so.

Nor do I care to submit a handful of expensive Snicker’s mini bars, or my coveted Reese’s cups, to people whom I suspect are closer to 20 than 10, show up between 9:00 and 11:00, and who haven’t bothered to even THINK about a costume. They MIGHT wear black ski-masks, which I can’t help but suspect are parts of their normal lives as criminals. The majority are just walking around in their undecorated jeans and jackets, banging on doors, expecting a handout. So, do I give candy, or even open the door for grown men with full beards attempting to fill their bags? Again, I SERIOUSLY don’t think so.

What’s happened to the purity of our society! I can only hope my house doesn’t get egged. But then I guess kids these days don’t do anything benign like house egging. I’ll get a drive-by shooting instead, and as the bullets enter my window, I’ll hear pre-pubescent voices screaming: “Gimme my candy, bitch!”

All in a day’s ride

Even though my car is fixed, I still take the bus to and from work. It’s a short commute, but long enough to get a few good chapters in of whatever I’m reading. And in this case, I’m on a speed-reading mission to finish the book club selections. I’m in two book clubs and both meetings have fallen on the same weekend – one of which I’m hosting – and ask me if I’m finished with either book. Nope. But I’m getting there.

I’ve been so into one of the books that I’m reading that I haven’t been paying attention to my surroundings.

Yesterday, I ended up with an elbow full of gum. Probably some nasty individual or unsupervised child stuck their disgusting bright blue minty wad of germy gum on the window sill. A wad that promptly adhered to the sleeve of my beautiful black leather trench coat. WTF, people? Who just sticks a hunk of gum on the window of a bus??

I still haven’t managed to get it all off, because every time I start scraping, I think of how the substance that I’m pulling at was once in some random person’s mouth. And then I start thinking of all of the diseases they could have (including mental illness for thinking that it was a good idea to use a bus windowsill as their own private gum receptacle), and I break out the Lysol to sterilize my hands.

Then, this morning, I was at the bus stop making good use of my longer-than-acceptable waiting time by reading my book, and a car pulled up to me really slowly. I looked up and stepped back from the curb (thinking that an abduction would be a terrible way to start the day), and as the car approached, the window went down and the woman in the passenger’s seat stretched her hand out to give me a piece of biblical literature, which I refused to take.

As they pulled off, I thought – “Oh my God! I’ve just had a Jehovah’s Witness drive-by!”

Isn’t it bad enough that they ring my bell whenever I forget to lock my gate? Or try to hand us literature as we’re walking down the street? NOW we have them approaching us in cars, scaring the shit out of us first thing in the morning? Is there no justice? No decency?

And, seriously? If your mission is to be a street-team proselytizer, isn’t it a tad lazy to do it from the car? Not that I’m trying to give them any ideas (because from my perspective, it’s actually much easier to step back while giving them the Heisman than to give an in-your-face verbal refusal), but I think I would have been a more captive audience had they approached me on foot. I wouldn’t have listened, and I would have still refused their pamphlets, but I would have at least been stuck in one place and less likely to call 911 from my cell phone.

From a productivity standpoint, I can’t imagine that there’s a high conversion rate using the drive-by method. (Then again, I can’t imagine that there’s a high conversion rate regardless of the methodology, but I digress . . .) Anyone who’s ever watched the news knows that it’s a very bad idea to approach a strange car, and I would imagine that a legal professional would say that approaching a strange car full of zealots ups the ante of danger.

All of this excitement before 7:30 am.

Car-less? NOT

Well . . . that whole car-less thing that I was ranting about in my previous post is completely out the window. I was driving my father insane, so he demanded that I bring my car – alias the Death Trap – over to his house so that he could facilitate getting it fixed. Within 24 hours, the car was up and running – and for $400 less than the originally quoted price.

Good thing, too. I wasn’t taking to the CTA so well outside of rush hour. I was meeting a friend for a pedi last Sunday. We’d planned it for a few weeks, and I was looking forward to it. She volunteered to pick me up, which would have been ridiculous, since we live nowhere near each other, and she lives near the salon, which is up in Lakeview. I flat-out refuse to make people drive out of their way to accommodate my circumstances.

To make a long, irritating story much shorter, due to my lack of interest in football, I had no idea that the Bears were playing at home. I also failed to realize that the Red Line had been re-routed.

All this to say that I missed my appointment, although I did have a fabulous dinner with her afterward.

Granted, my car is a piece of shit . . . but I really did miss it.

Major rage today

This day marks the end of my road rage . . . because I’m retiring my car.

So . . . for the last several months, I’ve had horrible noises emanating from my car when I make sharp turns — or just turns in general. Lately, I’ve come to the realization that this noise could no longer be ignored, lest I end up stranded in some seedy neighborhood — or any neighborhood for that matter. I thought about taking the car to the dealer like I normally do, but that was a majorly unappealing proposition, given that my dealer is in Alsip, IL — AKA bumblefuck. Nope. My father wanted to send me to his mechanic, only to find out that his mechanic is no longer employed at that particular shop. Kyra suggested Midas, so I hightailed my ass down to Midas on Grand and LaSalle this morning at 8:00, when they opened.

I originally thought that I had power steering issues because, well, what the hell do I know? As it turns out, the noise that I was hearing had to do with the tie rods and the ball joints. Something about the potential to break. Whatever. They gave me an estimate of $650, which I wasn’t in love with, but would have paid to make driving less of a deadly experience.

I knew I was in trouble when I received a call at 10:40 am instead of at the promised time (closer to 2:00 or 3:00). The mechanic found additional problems when doing the brake check. Something about springs digging into my rear tire, grinding brakes and needing new struts.

The new estimate was $2,077. And as soon as I received that estimate, I told John-the-Midas-Man to take my car off the racks and return it to me in its original state. I carefully drove it home and parked it in the garage, where it will remain until I figure out what to do with it.

Let me be clear . . . I don’t even think that I could sell that car for $2,000. It’s a 2000 Ford Taurus that I never liked. My father talked me into buying it in 2000 when I was a freelance writer because Ford had a 0.0% financing deal. As soon as I drove it off the lot and realized how un-luxurious it was I knew I’d had a grave dad-induced error in judgment.

So, what am I gonna do? Most people assume that I’m buying a new car. WRONG!

I HATE spending money on cars. A car is not an asset. It’s the only thing that can move two feet and lose thousands in worth. I have absolutely no energy around incurring that kind of monthly debt — particularly when i was used to having a car that has been paid for for about 3-4 years.

So, again, what am I gonna do? I’m going to try life w/out a car. I’m going to take buses and cabs, and use Peapod, and spend less time going out. I’m going to rent cars when it’s not practical to take a cab. I’m not sure that this is the best decision, or the one that will ultimately make me happy (because I remain in a bad mood, and am still not playing well with others), but it’s the one that I’ve made because I absolutely refuse to write that kind of check for a seven year old car that I don’t like.

I started my carless life today. I took the bus downtown and went to River East 21 theatre to see a movie. I missed everything I really wanted to see, so I ended up seeing whatever was playing at 6:00. The Heartbreak Kid was the lucky pick. I thought it would at least make me laugh, but I couldn’t really concentrate. I couldn’t get my mind off of the car, or something that I screwed up at work on Friday.

And then, here’s the big rant (yes, there’s one bigger than what I’ve just complained about) — people who are late to movies. Does that drive anyone else insane? Seriously, you have about 10 minutes of previews after the listed start time of a film, so if you’re walking in during the actual start of the movie, that means that you’re really about 15 minutes late — too late to waltz into a movie without disturbing someone.

I walked in during the first preview and quickly found a seat on the aisle toward the front. The theatre was crowded and I hate crawling over people. Stinky Boy, who was sitting toward the middle of my row, needed to get out to get popcorn (leaving a trail of funk in his path). He returned to his seat, but not without stomping on my feet.

Two girls entered about 5 minutes after the start of the film. Instead of giving a play-by-annoying-play, let’s illustrate the rules of walking in late to a film:

1. Don’t do it.

2. If you must — if you’re that damned inconsiderate — at least try not to inconvenience the people who had the presence of mind and human decency to be on time. You can do this by:

a. Entering quietly. Nobody else thinks it’s cute that you’re late and giggling is highly inappropriate.

b. Not making special requests. It’s nobody else’s problem that you’re late to a crowded movie and can’t find two or more seats next to one another. Don’t ask people to move down to accommodate you and your late ass friends.

c. Remaining in your seat once you’re seated. You’ve already missed the early plotline . . . do you REALLY need to compound it by getting up to get popcorn, which you will only spill on your pissed off neighbors as you return to your seat.

d. NOT answering your cell phone if it rings! If you’re that important, you should have skipped the movie and thrilled the rest of the audience.

e. Not smuggling smelly food. It’s bad enough that you’re late and disruptive, but you’re really pushing limits when you pull a pungent onion-laden italian sub sandwich out of your oversized purse and begin chomping. Gross.

f. Keeping your damned feet off the back of my chair — unless you want to pull back a nub. If I want to rock, I’m perfectly capable of rocking myself.

It’s so much easier to be on time, don’tcha think?

New column et al

First of all, I had a BLAST last night at Chi Omega alumni event. They were nice enough to ask me to emcee their bachelor auction at Debonair Social Club, and it was SO much fun. (I even managed to control myself during open bar hour. One more cocktail, and the auction would have been infinitely more interesting.) The best part is that the proceeds went to the Make a Wish foundation.

The new column dropped today. It’s about good girlfriends, and how to avoid bad girlfriend types. Check it out.

Tonight

If anyone’s interested in a charity event, I’m MC’ing a bachelor auction tonight (Thursday) at the Debonair Social Club in Wicker Park on Milwaukee for the Chi Omega’s Chicago Alumni Association. It’s for the Make a Wish Foundation, and should be a lot of fun. Not to mention a good laugh at my expense. Click here for details.

New column

Did I fail to mention that a new column was released on Friday? I’m a bad girl. Click here to check out the contents of my interview with the lovely and talented Leslie Talbot, author of

Singular Existence: Because It’s Better to Be Alone than to Wish You Were

.

It’s a phenomenal book, and I encourage all singles to check it out. You’ll get a good message . . . you’ll get a great laugh!

Weekend re-cap

Had a generally shitty weekend.

It started off okay with a pretty good play on Friday night, and digressed from there.

I was really looking forward to getting an estimate on some work that I planned to get done on my house. The bastard, who was a referral from a person who always gives him work, apparently decided not to show up or call. I called him about 3 times, sent him a text message, and by the time I realized that he had ruined my day, I left him a terse voice message indicating my displeasure at his rudeness, and ended with the supposition that he didn’t want the job. The nerve.

I also had a very difficult exchange with a person that I care deeply for on Saturday/Sunday. It embodied what I despise about being adult – having to make hard decisions and having to have difficult conversations. Not a great time, but I’ll get through it . . . I guess . . . or not.

Then , let’s discuss the goddamned Marathon, shall we? It seemed to be complete and utter mayhem from a weather/logisitics perspective, and unfortunately proved to be a fatal event for at least one person.

The rule of thumb, race planners, is that regardless of the temperature, people who are physically exerting themselves to the extreme ALWAYS need mass quantities of water.

I have another gripe (as usual) . . . would it be too much to ask for the planners to produce this annual event without totally debilitating the city and its traffic passageways????

Anyone who knows me, knows that I have road rage issues. I’m screaming, honking, flashing my brights, liberally showing my middle finger to anyone who does anything to get in my way. Compound those issues with thousands of people trying to navigate their way around the marathon, a course that isn’t in a straight line, and makes absolutely no sense from a zig-zag perspective, out-of-towners who don’t know where they’re going to begin with, at least 10 ambulances with no way to plow through the congested streets, and me, a person who’s already unstable from the disasters that were described earlier – it’s not a good recipe.

It’s a recipe for a bad disposition and raging headache, which I spent the rest of Sunday nursing. It’s also a recipe for a large glass of wine, which did nothing for the headache. No happiness to be had.

Maybe next weekend will be better.

Danny Bonaduce is my hero!

Has anyone read the article or seen the clip of Danny Bonaduce dropping that irritating Johnny Fairplay of dubious Survivor fame on his face? I love it!! That little man disturbs me.

This is proof that there is karmic retribution. Anyone who would lie about the death of their own grandmother to win a challenge needs his teeth knocked out.

Brothers and Sisters and The Problem Woman

Does anyone watch Brothers and Sisters? I love the show, even though it completely pisses me off.

For those of you who don’t watch, it’s a show about a family — Sally Field plays the mother, and her kids consist of Calista Flockheart, Rachel Griffiths, and a few guys whose names escape me. The very first episode, the patriarch, Sally Field’s husband, dropped dead. After his death, it was revealed that he had a mistress for 20+ years (played by Patricia Wettig), and eventually we found out that he had a daughter by her - this daughter is probably about 20 or so.

As if this entire situation weren’t bad enough, the mistress insisted on taking a place in the family business — she found some legal loophole that forced the family to accept her. The episode that I just watched on TiVo from the other night involved a birthday party for Calista Flockheart’s character where the mistress and her child were present along with the rest of the family.

I find it interesting that this mistress has such an extreme sense of entitlement — as though she deserves to be in the family business, and to be included in family function. And if I were Sally Field’s character, I simply don’t think I could be that mature. I don’t think I could have that woman in my home, feeding her, being nice to her. Nor could I house the child that’s the product of my late husband’s extramarital affair.

Perhaps this is a character flaw on my part, but I really can’t see myself befriending the woman who maintained a relationship with my husband, knowing that he was married.

But, there are a lot of women like that . . . problem women, I call them. The problem woman is the woman who knows that a man is married or otherwise involved, and she simply doesn’t give a shit. She feels that if the man in question was so happy in his relationship, he wouldn’t be messing around with her. This woman doesn’t really understand that she’s part of the problem, nor does she care about her karma or relationship with the Universe. She doesn’t quite get that she’s a large part of the problem on a grand scale — if it weren’t for women like her, men wouldn’t have anyone to cheat with, which would solve a lot of our biggest relationship issues.

Most, if not all of my exes have found weird ways to cheat. Granted, I’m pretty sure that most of the women they’re cheating with haven’t known that I existed — because some of my exes have been skilled liars. But I believe that a good percentage of them have been fully aware that they were messing around with men who were someone ‘taken.’ A lot of them don’t ask the right questions.

It’s simple, people. If you meet someone that you’re interested in, before you take it to the next level (or any level, if you choose), ask two primary questions:
1. Do you have a girl/boyfriend?
2. Is there anyone who THINKS they’re your girl/boyfriend?

Those are two VERY different questions. And ones that need to be asked. I have a few friends who refuse to ask those questions, because they assume that if their new interests were attached, they wouldn’t be flirting with other people. That is the very wrong assumption. And, more importantly, that attitude indicates the embryonic stages of becoming a Problem Woman.

And people wonder why I’m single . . .