Shoulda Woulda Coulda

Pey Travels the Globe

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 02:49:00 +0000

Well, howdy, everyone! I am here to plug my young friend Peyton's blog. She was nominated by People to People to be a student ambassador for their Tale of Two Cities program this summer.

It is a huge honor and an amazing opportunity for a twelve year old girl to not only travel abroad and visit various places in England and in France, but to be able to bring just the kind of impression of a young American that we want the world to see. She's not just a good kid and one of my oldest friend's daughters; she's a great student, she volunteers with her church group and has a wicked sense of humor. I'm really proud of her and want to see her dreams come true.

She's been working her little tuchas off with fundraising projects, hustling around her neighborhood trying to earn money doing odd jobs and is applying for a scholarship to help offset the costs. Like any parents who want their kids to participate in such an amazing opportunity, her mom and dads have been doing everything they can to save up. But as we all know, times are tough.

Go on and visit her blog, A Tale of Two Cities and if you can afford to donate a few bucks to the ever-so-convenient PayPal donation link on the sidebar, every little bit will help. It's not going to be cheap, but I really believe that if you can spare even the equivalent of a tasty sammich or a frosty brew, she might be able to partake in this priceless opportunity.

Oh, and the blog is monetized with ads, so click like crazy on every link you see. It costs us nothing and earns the blog money for their troubles. Win win!

Let's help Peyton become a student ambassador, everyone. I have "great expectations" that our girl will be a student ambassador for the Tale of Two Cities program!

Siwash the Duck

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 14:22:00 +0000

Today is Veterans' Day. Today we remember and express gratitude to the brave men and women who serve and who have served our country, who protect our freedom and fight for the freedoms of others.

But let us not forget the brave waterfowl who also fought courageously, side-by-side with our soldiers.

Siwash the Duck should have, would have, could have been dinner had my grandfather, Francis "Bap" Fagan not won her at a church in New Zealand as a Marine preparing to fight in the Pacific.

What was a Southside Irish Chicago athlete, more famous for his skill on the diamond or in the ring than for his warlike inclinations, to do with a stupid, skinny duck that would probably taste as good as the sole of his boots?

Why, teach that duck to drink beer, fight Japanese roosters and boost the morale on the homefront and abroad, of course.

Unlike his granddaughter, Bap was not the kind of guy who liked to draw attention to himself. But Siwash, that batallion's mascot and Bap's faithful friend, drew the attention of the press. Siwash became a celebrity and my grandfather humbly let that duck, reputed by my mother, Jude, to be meaner than a junkyard dog, take the spotlight.

That's right. Jude met Siwash. That means that Siwash not only survived the raffle which was meant to signal her debut on a platter, but also survived bloody battles on Tarawa, Saipan and Tinian, the treacherous trip home to Chicago and all of the paparazzi attention she garnered along the way.

See the handsome soldier featured standing in the shot? Yup. That's my grandpa, known to my cousins and me as Big Papa. And those are his beautiful sisters, Eileen and Patsy, and his mother, my namesake, the amazing Nora Fagan.

Never was there a less bellicose man. And yet he faced down dangers we can't imagine to protect his children, their children and millions of people he'd never meet. He fought to protect us ... and that silly duck. If that doesn't demonstrate a soft heart and an iron will, I don't know what does.

Thank you, Veterans. Thank you, Big Papa. I love you, miss you, I'm proud to be your granddaughter, and I will forever be your "hainchel." May you rest in peace. And may Siwash, the brave and lucky duck, also rest in peace, stuffed as she is in the Marine Corps Museum.

Time for Change

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 21:05:00 +0000

Hello. Hello? Is anyone there? I guess that's what happens when you treat your blog like a spider plant. If you stick it in the corner, don't water it and neglect to breathe dragon breath on it while talking to it in funny voices, it kind of withers up and dies on you. At least, that's been my experience with spider plants.

Sigh.

Sorry, SWC.

I think it's time for a career change. When we started this blog, I was starving for a writing outlet. I had some fiction projects that I kept close to the vest, worked on a friend's online journal, submitted a few pieces of fiction to various journals, some of which were accepted and most of which were rejected. That left me with plenty of time and energy to spout off here on the blog. I waxed poetic about food porn, other people's jobs and just about any kind of nonsense that struck me as amusing or infuriating at the time.

Then Slippy came calling with her siren song of copy writing and magazine work. It was splendid! It was marvelous. I got paid to write and all my dreams were coming true. I learned so much about so many things, and had so much fun. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. That includes freelance writer/editor budgets at small private schools in economic crisis. When there are salaried staff members who are supposed to be able to do what I was doing, paying me doesn't seem to make a great deal of sense economically. I'm still dabbling at Slippy U, but when there's just not a lot of work, what's a girl to do?

I'm still slaving away with the nuns. The novelty has worn off, but dammit if I don't have a wellspring of affection for those gym teachers for Jesus. So, out of a sense of obligation, affection and "what the hell else do I have going on," I'm still working with them.

The library thing, you ask. Heh. Well, that. Have you ever told someone to "Take this job and shove it--I ain't working here no more?" Let me just tell you that although it may reveal a real asshole side to you, it feels great. In fact, I would have struck that off my "Things To Do Before I Die" list if I hadn't pretended to blow my nose and wipe my ass with a paycheck once. That was actually way cooler, especially considering I was a temp and it took them five whole business days to fire me. I am sure there isn't a HR department in the world that wouldn't say, "Send that little bitch packing pronto." I imagine miming using your paycheck as a personal paper product precludes an employment violation lawsuit.

Anyway, it seems my freelance writing career has gone by way of my teaching career (never really started that one in an official capacity), my bartending career (didn't feel like doing that one pregnant) and my internet start-up career (quit it as soon as I had enough saved up to backpack for six months). That is to say, a long-term career path and I seem to get along as well as a chauvinist and a feminist.

That is to say, not well at all.

So, now that I haven't been doing much writing-for-hire, I've regenerated some of my creative yen to blather on about whatever crosses my mind. This whole experience has made me realize something, though: I never wanted to be a chef or a hooker, because I knew that as soon as I started to get paid for doing something I love, I would start to hate it.

Not so with writing.

I haven't stopped hoping that I can get paid to write, and now that I don't have obligations, I can work on some of my own projects that sat fallow while I was workin' it. I'm just sort of hibernating now. So come, join me in my cave. You bring whatever you've foraged and I'll tell some nice stories ...

Inside the World of Library Science and Cultivating A New Passion

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 20:47:00 +0000

Well, I have just been achieving landmark personal growth. My writing career is REALLY taking off. I get to write a newsletter for a suburban library. Look out, Pulitzer Prize--I'm closing in on you! After writing glowing prose about the library renovation project and the exciting new landscape designs, I am now settling in to write a hard-hitting interview with the director of the library. I think I might have to ask her the classic Baba Wawa question:

If you were a tree ... which tree would you be?

If she laughs, she wins. If she ignores it, she loses. If she answers it with no humor, she breaks even.

In other news, I have recently decided I must golf. And golfing I am. I'm actually pretty good. I've only been out four times, but I am totally hooked. My mom gave me her old clubs, a glove and shoes, I picked up a used driver and I even went out today on my own. It's a lot of fun and I think it's something I'll stick with forever and ever. My parents are both coaching me, although they don't want me to "pick up bad habits" from them. I'm reluctant to point out that I already drink, smoke and swear, so what's wrong with a few technical idiosyncrasies on the links?

Slippy goes back to work Monday. Yay, Slippy! Hopefully she can put me to work, too, but who knows what kinds of crazy changes are going on at the University? Maybe they'll have work for me, maybe they won't. I figure if they don't, it just leaves me with more time to work on my short game.

More Medical Misadventures and Technologically Capable Gypsies

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 17:43:00 +0000

Slippy and I cruised back to Loyola for more medical misadventures yesterday. After lunching at Windy City Subs and sitting in gridlock traffic for a while, we still had plenty of time to kill before her appointment. As we drove north on Harlem, we pondered what we could do to waste a little time. We soon found our answer ...

The sign read ASTROLOGICAL READINGS, CHARTS and COMPUTER REPAIR. $10 SPECIALS.

How ever could we deny ourselves the pleasure of having someone with cosmic and technological knowledge give us insights into our lives and futures? We couldn't. Despite the fact that the sign said "By Appointment Only!" we decided to take our chances with a walk in. I rapped on the paint-peeled grayish white door of the two-story house and we were invited in by ... well, a gypsy.

Anna looked to be about our age. Her living room was modest, yet nicely furnished. She asked us to wait for a moment, and I checked out her business license framed on the wall. She's licensed as an astrological bookseller. I wondered, was she bonded, too?

Anna returned with a pencil and a pad of paper and began to describe her services. The $10 special includes a handwriting analysis. Great. My chicken scratch was sure to reveal me clearly to this mystic. I analyzed my own handwriting once in a book. It said I was a psychopath.

"I want the $10 special; two of them, please."

Of course, she tried to upsell us immediately, hoping we would let her fleece us for $30 each for the great honor of having her do our astrological charts (which I have done myself for free, thanks to the fucking LIBRARY and the INTERNET!).

"I want the $10 special; two of them, please."

"Okay, but just so you know, the handwriting analysis really only gives you a character outline," she warned. "I can't really answer questions about your future."

It's a good thing Slippy and I are completely unaware of ourselves and our own characters. Upon walking up to the house, we both agreed that we were about to get ripped off, but we didn't care. We had time to kill, and as everyone knows, time is money. So, my twisted logic led us to believe that killing time = killing money. Besides, does entertainment usually come this cheap? Mais non, mes amis!

"Who wants to go first?" Anna asked.

"I do! I do!" I bounced in my seat. I couldn't wait to get to know myself better.

"Write your first name, your birthday and the first thing you think of," she instructed.

"Nora, May 4. My aura is pink and yellow."

She stared at the yellow slip of paper. "Ok, what does this say?" She pointed at my name. This wasn't going well already.

"Nora."

"Ah, I see. Ok..." She launched into her spiel. "You're going to have a long life, good health."

I began to believe in her powers ... I waited for more wisdom and insight into my life.

"I see ... three children around you. Twins. Do twins run in your family?"

That bitch. My hand itched; I wanted to slap her. "No. Not really," I answered.

She went on and on, using the typical mystical sounding bullshit that is based on her observations of my very transparent and obvious personality traits, but general enough that it can apply to almost anyone.

Then it was Slippy's turn.

She commented on her tendencies toward privacy and reservation; she did touch upon some interesting things with her that I thought were accurate, but again, probably based more on her observations than anything. She promised true love and two kids, which, let's face it: telling a woman with no wedding ring that true love and kids is in her future is probably Fortune Telling 101. If she had said, "I get the feeling you enjoy the stress-free nature of the single life and you'd prefer to be around the children of your friends and relatives, so you could leave after a nice visit, while maintaining a relaxing lifestyle of your choosing," I would have been way more impressed with her insight.

The point is, though, is that we wanted entertainment, and that's what we got. We killed about fifteen, twenty minutes and told Anna we'd TOTALLY come back for our chart readings. She gave us fliers that detailed her services, and we chuckled again at the "computer repairs" amongst all the mystical mumbo jumbo. Ah, contemporary gypsies are diversifying!

We didn't manage to kill as much time as we'd hoped, though, so I took Slippy on a search for Dairy Queen. I wanted a Heath Bar Blizzard, and nothing else would do. We passed no less than ten Baskin Robbins, but I was having none of that. Finally, after touring the western suburbs for a good hour with no luck, we were ready to head back for her appointment.

Hopefully, we are coming to the end of medical misadventures. The doctor said she's looking good, stabbed her with a swab filled with silver nitrate and told her to make an appointment for two weeks later. If it looks all healed up, he said she could just blow it off. Fingers crossed, everybody! This has been a shitty summer for our Slippy, indeed. Fortunately, she has me to drag her into time- and money-wasting misadventures to entertain her until she's all healed up and ready to get back to work.

She's Alive!

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 19:20:00 +0000

They say no news is good news. That's why I haven't updated on Slippy's Medical Misadventures. She came through the surgery like a champ, no cancer, and all but one ornery ovary intact. It is cause for celebration. I'm super proud of her for being so strong during a terrifying time. We couldn't have asked for a better turnout.

The mass of goo that was determined to ruin her fun was a pesky 10 x 6 x 4 inches and weighed in at almost six pounds. Sometimes, apparently, especially if the ovary becomes cystic, a Fallopian tube decides to twist. When that happens, it can collect blood, tissue and fluids, which is what happened to Slippy.

"It's like I had a small personal pizza in me," she said.

Her surgery was quick, and as soon as she asked for her mom, dad and "sister Nora," we ran in to see her. Of course, that's when a month and a half worth of crying commenced. As soon as I knew she was fine, I fell apart. But only momentarily. Soon she was installed in a room with a nifty morphine drip, cable TV and a stack of magazines bigger than my ass. Between visitors and sweet hospital-grade dope, she was on her way to recovery. In fact, she recovered so quickly from the anesthesia and was moving around so well that the hospital was willing to discharge her the next day. She wisely decided to let the hospital hold on to her for another night, but regretted that when the power went out and her room became a steam bath. But that was only a temporary hitch.

The next day, she said goodbye to Loyola and said hello to a journey of terror at the hands of her dad, Wrangler. Apparently, he managed to hit every pot hole in the long way home. Not fun. But she survived that,too. Yesterday, two days short of her two week anniversary, we got into the Bronculance and went back so she could get the staples out. As Dr. P casually snipped them out, he commented on how one patient requested to keep the staples. Everyone say it with me: Why!? I can understand wanting to see whatever they pull from your body (I was hoping to see the goo, but was sadly denied), but keep the staples? I don't get it. Talk about compulsive scrap booking...

She's still sore, but she got the go ahead to drive, swim and take regular baths. She also has clearance to stay home from work for another month. Sweet! So, it all worked out. Slippy ain't making a comeback; she's been here for years.

Medical Misadventures

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 14:37:00 +0000

It's been almost a month. I am, hands down, the shittiest blogger in the blogosphere, but I can live with that. Let me break down the last few months for you and then get into the meaning behind the title.

First of all: the magazine is done. I can't say I'm totally thrilled with my work, but I hear that's a common problem with writers. And dude, mediocre actors often say they can't stand to see their own movies, so I guess I kind of know what they're going through now. Here's a link if you'd like to see it. Juderonomy, I have a hard copy for you. It makes for awesome bathroom reading.

So, with all the stress of the magazine out of the way, I was able to fully enjoy a week of shameless, pasty Midwestern boozing on the beach with my Grecian homegirls in Puerto Rico for Nobility's bachelorette party. I may or may not be posting pictures, we shall see. But I will say that we averaged two hours of sleep a night, still got some color, despite the fact that it was PR's rainy season and had the best time EVER. Oh, and I gave up my seat on my flight home and earned myself a sweet free round trip voucher anywhere in the continental US. Where to go, where to go? So exciting.

All that is just lovely. But do you know what sucks? My bestie, my boss, my heterosexual life partner, Slippy, has recently received some disturbing news. She has a watermelon sized ovarian mass that must be removed. She has given me permission to chronicle her experiences and I have appointed myself her chauffeur, secretary and clown. I am one Burberry knicker/vest set and umbrella away from calling myself Farnsworth Bentley.

Since everyone knows going to the doctor is boring at best and nerve-wracking at worst, I have insisted on accompanying her to her every appointment, and she, in her infinite wisdom, decided not to fight me on it.

Of course, the one appointment I did not drive her to, the one appointment where she sat alone, is the one where her doctor referred her to an oncologist. I still want to kick my own ass for not being there with her and have vowed to never let her go to another appointment alone. Ever. So, she had to face the scariest POSSIBLE news alone (cancer has NEVER been confirmed, just treated as a possibility that must be taken seriously), but we learned our lesson from that. I'm her self-appointed sidekick. Why does the fearless and independent Slippy need someone to accompany her to even the most routine visits?

It's no fun to drive through flooded parking lots unless your driver says, "Wow, sure did rain a lot," and then blasts through a small lake with her window open, soaking said driver thoroughly. It's no fun sitting in waiting rooms without someone to gripe, "I've already SEEN this episode of Ellen!"

It's no fun to go to pre-admission appointments without someone who looks and smells like she may have escaped from in-patient rehab and tells the doctors and nurses she's your attorney. It's especially no fun to drive to appointments by yourself when your intrepid "legal counsel" can take you there in the '96 Bronco, AKA, the Bronculance.

We have toured medical facilities from Kankakee to Joliet to Maywood. We have enjoyed food porn after receiving good news and bad. We have witnessed dogs shitting, interns stuttering and twenty-foot injuns wearing spectacles.

My sweet and brave Slippy.

All jokes aside, Slippy has been such a trouper. From the first ultrasound, when she realized that this wasn't just some silly little fibroid, to the most recent pre-admission appointments for her surgery at Loyola, which is to be performed by the the best surgeon the hospital has to offer, she's been responsible about informing herself, getting the best care possible, strategically planning her time off from work and keeping her sense of humor.

It is scary. There is no way around that. But I sat with her when she met with her doctors, who happens to be the director of female reproductive oncology. He's such a bad ass that she's been asked: How did you get HIM? His attitude toward the results of her enormous battery of tests and scans was positive. He has no reason to believe that the mass is malignant, sees no sign of spread if it is, and has every reason to believe that she's going to come out of her surgery better than ever.

Which is, of course, exactly what is going to happen.

In the meantime, Slippy still has to hold her boss' hand while he acts like a babyhead, wrangle her wayward staff and devise a plan for her recovery that will allow her some rest and relaxation rather than more hand-holding and staff-wrangling. Me? I'm just looking for opportunities to help her out, make her laugh and do whatever I can to make a stressful and scary time as easy for her as possible.

So, basically, blogging takes a major league backseat, kids. I'm sure you understand. But stay tuned for more Medical Misadventures. Slippy and I know how to take a bullshit deal and turn it into a journey of discovery and comedy. We hope you will join us.

I love you, Slippy!

I Suck

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Wed, 13 May 2009 17:18:00 +0000

Seriously, I am so burnt. I don't know why, but I just feel like I have NOTHING to say.

I'm sure that's just a temporary condition. It's very unlike me!

Three Tugs, Taco Mex and a Toddler

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 03:13:00 +0000

I had one of the most spectacular weekends in my own personal history. Friday night was PHS Palooza, an informal gathering of pretty much everyone who went to Peotone High School and has a Facebook account. I know a lot of people like to bag on Facebook, but if it weren't for Facebook, I would not have found and re-friended a lot of awesome people.

Anyway, an old high school friend's band played there on Friday. Black Cadillac was awesome and Trevor, the bass player, should be credited for getting Throwbacks jam-packed full of crazy people who had a blast listening to great music and just generally cutting loose.

Amongst those people were my old school bestie and her husband. I will call them Pink and Stink Lumpkin. They're the coolest. They both know how much I love Take Nora to Work Day and they both also understand my almost unhealthy obsession with the Cal-Sag and any and all to do with its industrial and recreational purposes. Well, Stink works on the tugs and he offered to give me a personal tour.

What kind of crazy girl would say no to an offer like that?

Not this one.

So, despite our night of tall revelry, Pink came to collect myself and Baby Cakes at Juderonomy's house in the late morning hours. We followed her to the tugs, which, by the way, are located very close to Calumet Fisheries, AKA, the site of Smell My Fingers! The Smelliest Food Porn Ever!

I have loads of pictures and I even have some food porn to write about. I cannot, however, give the story of Three Tugs, Taco Mex and a Toddler the proper attention, as I am just taking a quick break from writing my last feature for my wonderful bosslady, Slippy.

The magazine is going really well. I'm almost all done with my assignments. I have only had to minorly ride my freelance friend who is writing features with me. The work has been fun, interesting, a learning experience in general. When it's published, I shall post a link.

Oh, and the nun's booklet is finally done. It looks beautiful and all of the nuns are very happy with the final product. We won't be working on the second issue for another month or so, so, that's all the news on that front.

Anyway, stay tuned. The tug boat adventure with the Lumpkins was so incredibly fun, informative, adventurous and full of laughs (not to mention topped off with some of the best damn Mexican food I have ever had the pleasure of gorging upon) that I need to devote hours getting the pictures from my BlackBerry to my laptop and confirming the details of the machinery with Stink.

So, please bear with me. I'm working on being a fun blogger again and thanks to the Lumpkins, I am off to a great start!

Lamest Blogger Ever

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 19:22:00 +0000

That's me. What's up? What can I say? I'm all over the place. Anyway, before Baby Cakes wakes up from his nap, I thought I'd do a little recrappin' here.

Juderonomy and Poohpah are back from their month-long trek to the Deep South. I was starting to think they would never return, but they did and I was sure happy to see them. Funny story. They came over last Monday when I was still hungover from the Ball and my brutal fight with White Castles. What did they bring? White Castles. So, I pulled a Rhianna and got back together with the Sack of Ten. I'm so weak.

In other news, I went to see Mary Poppins the musical with my sister in law, Diva. I just went along because she asked me and I figured why not? I had no interest in seeing it, didn't really care for the movie when I was a kid. But what the hell? I love musical theater, so I went.

It was ludicrous. In a good way. It was tripped out and hilarious. There was a part in the park where some of the statuary comes to life and the costumes left little to the imagination. You could distinguish religions and shit. Diva and I clutched each other in laughter and kept squeaking out the words, "Camel toe! Camel toe!"

Aside from jiggling junk all over the stage, the set design was incredible, the song and dance numbers were hilarious and served as a time machine to our childhoods. I found myself filing away Maryisms for future use. For instance, the next time my boss asks me to explain myself, I will respond with a tinkle of laughter and say, "Why, Mr. Banks, when have I ever explained myself?"

Verdict: Great show. Lots of fun, good for the kids, but there was plenty of male and female genitalia on display for the grown-ups, too.

This weekend brought my favorite city girl, Season, over for a visit. We ate our body weight in Italian deli meats, had cocktail hour and played with Baby Cakes. On Saturday, we returned to the mothership, Ann Sather in Andersonville. I love to binge on the crab cake benedict and the sticky buns. So freaking delish. For the first time in a long time, I stayed home and did homework on a weekend evening. It was nice to wake up Sunday all refreshed. With a throbbing toothache. Son of a bitch.

Yesterday I took two eighth grade girls to the mall to shop for their graduation dance outfits. I must say, the three of us ladies did very well together. Team work and shit. They are both outfitted very nicely. I was able to deflect each and every attempt to hooch it up with an, "I don't think so." Actually, neither of them are inclined to be very hoochie-like, but still. Then I got to have dinner with Mister, B.C. and my cousin's family. It is so funny to watch B.C. play with girls. He's such a little bull in a china shop.

And finally, the last hours of my weekend were devoted to cocktail hour in Mister's man cave out back. Heidi and I had to cut loose and blow off some steam, which we did. It only required one bottle of wine, too, so I feel good today. Aside from this toothache. Son of a bitch!

Anyway, it was a nice weekend of visiting with my loved ones and dodging hangovers. I got a lot of work done and got lots of rest. On a scale of 1 - 10, I give this weekend an 8.5.

I'm going to try to make a comeback. I can't promise anything as wonderful as blogging about cheddar or asteroids, but I will give it a shot. Feel free to assign me with topics. Sometimes assignments are just what I need to get it going, you know? So shit, yeah. That's it. Assign me topics and I will write them. Nothing is off limits. Throw it at me. I challenge you.

You Can Dress Me Up, But ...

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Sun, 22 Mar 2009 17:52:00 +0000

It's not just a cliche in my case, it's hard fact. You can dress me up, and you can take me out; but sometimes you may want to reconsider.

Slippy, Ratherto and I went to The School's Scholarship Ball last night. It was a big, fancy do with all kinds of muckety mucks, including Cardinal George. You would think that his superhero looking cape (good call, Rath) and that goofy hat would be made out of something that looks a little less like cheap rayon. But whatever. I was afraid I might run into him at the bar or something, so I googled it, and if you ever come face to face with a cardinal, call him Your Eminence.

The ballroom was beautiful, it was fun to dress up and hob nob, make soul-crushing small talk with strangers, eat a fancy dinner with Ratherto and watch Slippy win a week vacation in the raffle.

The highlight was letting an old coot take me for a spin on the dance floor and the lowlight was tripping on my dress and falling down. On the other hand, I only fell down in front of Slippy and Roy and I didn't even spill my wine. I think by the time I started getting a little loose lipped, most of the other party goers had reached a certain level of ... uh, revelry and the impact of my usual off-color ways may have been blunted. A bit. Let's hope.

Anyway, I may come back to this topic later, but for now, I am suffering the pain that only too much white wine and 2 a.m. White Castles can generate. I'm paying the piper, kids, and it ain't pretty.

Whatchoo Talkin' About, Willis?

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 02:52:00 +0000

Can you believe the Sears Tower is going to be renamed the Willis Tower? First Kuala Lumpur comes around with their taller-than-yours towers and now some British outfit is going to buy out the name of the city's most famous building. All we need to do now is make Soldier Field look like a huge space toilet and ... Uh oh. We already did that.

Whatever. I'm not that worried about it. A skyscraper by any other name ... And as long as the health department doesn't shut down the Wiener's Circle, Chicago remains, to me, the world's finest city.

When Life Gives You Lemonz

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Fri, 06 Mar 2009 20:45:00 +0000

I decided to change the name of the bar from its real name to a code name. I chose the name Lemonz. There's a story behind that name change. I totally chuckled to myself when the name came upon me.

It all started about midpoint in my Lemonz career. It was just another weekday shift, somewhere after lunch and before Jeopardy at 3:30 p.m. The usual suspects were there, but we were still waiting on some principles, such as Fess and the hairy, crude, cement-dusty, mostly-related-to-each-other-somehow, loveable-lump construction crew he rolled with. Fess fucked with me relentlessly, and it was usually great, because I threw it right back. It was comedy. Sometimes he went too far and had to wait a hot minute for a cold beer, but we usually got along famously.

My cousin-in-law, Heidi, whom I recruited to work with me, and I were doing our thing--opening Miller Lite after Bud Light after "Whatever's on special today." We were shucking and jiving with our regulars, we were having fun at work. Fess always compared himself to Butters from South Park, referring to the episode where Butters becomes infatuated with a cocktail waitress at a Hooters-type establishment that I do believe was called Lemons. We all cracked up because the flat-chested cocktail waitresses were all sweetness and light on their shifts, but as soon as their time was up, they were like, "Later, loser." It was especially funny, of course, because Heidi is stacked-the joke was on me (and if you can't take a joke about having small tits at a sausage party, then bartending is not the job for you).

So, Fess became Butters.

There we are, mid-shift and in rolls Butters and the boys. Heidi cracks open and places beers before them as I cut the fruit at the back of the island. I delivered my line to Butters. "Hi, honey!" I squeaked, voice dripping with false enthusiasm, like the cocktail waitress in the episode. When I saw them coming through the doors, I had placed two lemon halves in my tee shirt. I strutted up to him with my weird lemon boobs pointing straight at him. "Welcome to Lemons!"

It was hysterical. Sure, you probably had to be there, but it's a memory that still makes me laugh out loud to this day. That was my kind of job. Sigh. So, anyway, now that I've opened the vault on that memory bank, I figured I'd change the name of the joint to protect the innocent and guilty alike. Not that anyone from Tinley other than River reads this, but whatever. Lemonz. Heh heh. Good times.

The Best Burger in Town

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 20:09:00 +0000

Yesterday was a good day--Ratherto just got a new job, so Slippy, Swiper, Baby Cakes and I took him to lunch to celebrate. We all agreed that the only food item that would satisfy our urge to celebrate was a kick ass burger.

Where does one go in this area for a great burger? My old stompin' grounds and former place of employment, Lemonz, that's where. Why, you might ask, would someone who cares about spelling and grammar ever work at a place called Lemonz? Well, like so many of the jobs I have had in the past, this job came to me by way of a friend of a friend.

"Hey, Nora, I know you're not working, and our neighbors up at the lake were talking, they just bought a bar said they needed bartenders. I said you'd be perfect!"

"Dude. I've never bartended before."

"Just go in. Tell Dick Donna sent you."

Well, I did just that and got hired on the spot. It's a dark little tavern and I loved it from the start. It's not fancy. It's not classy. The food is great and it's populated with blue collar men. In short, it was perfect for me. So perfect that a few months into my two-year tenure behind the bar at Lemonz, I met my own blue collar man who would become my husband.

After two years of adventures and misadventures alike, I was practically part of the owners' family. I worked every one of their family events. I was their go-to girl. I brought in my sister and my cousin in law as bartenders, too, and chased off more than one crazy coke whore.

But at a certain point, I had to leave. I personally didn't feel I would be able to continue to work at the bar while pregnant. This was before Illinois became a non-smoking state, and I couldn't stand it. Plus, I was finishing grad school ... it was just time to split.

Of the owners (a man, Dick, his wife, Blondie and Dick's cousin, Fatty), I had frequently butted heads with the master of hot and cold, Dick. Dick's real name isn't dick. He's just such a dick that Dick is the only suitable name for that dick. Dick.

Anyway, once I made the decision to leave, Dick became a huge dick of the "If you're not with us, you're against us" order. Despite throwing parties for every reason, from a regular farting to the cook getting a wart removed from his heel, his parting words to me on my last day were, "Have fun working at White Hen."

This for the girl who busted her ass, helped turn the bar from a skeevy joint into a place where her day-time regulars proudly brought their wives for the delicious food and tavern-y atmosphere, to meet the girl that fed them during their lunch hours, the girl who hustled every shift as though it were her last, the girl who worked their every family party.

What did I do? I cried. Well, I was pregnant. What I should have done was kick him in the balls and tell him to suck it.

Instead, I left in tears and vowed never to return. Despite the fact that I had to to on a cruise with all of them in mere weeks. A cruise upon which I brought my mother and proceeded to have a miscarriage. Blondie was the picture of concern for me as I sat at the baggage carousel in a wheelchair (which Juderonomy MADE me sit in) but Dick? He strutted by me and smirked in my face.

From then on, Dick became not just some asshole I worked for but my sworn enemy. His establishment would never see a dime from me again. Even though I missed Lemonz burgers like the desert misses the rain ...

Anyway, flash forward four years. It's Valentine's day and my cousin in law who used to work with me behind the bar organized a roller skating party at the rink right next door to Lemonz. I reluctantly agreed to go. I didn't want to see Dick, because I doubted I could be civil. As I mentioned, he is my sworn enemy.

Instead, Blondie was behind the bar. She is undergoing an operation that will remove a 275 pound tumor from her ass. That is to say, she's divorcing Dick. Lemonz is now hers. She greeted me with rib-crushing hugs and as I looked around, I realized the sleazy stink that followed Dick everywhere he slimed was no more.

I could return to Lemonz as a patron and not be sick in my own mouth. It was like coming home to a clean house. She made me promise to come in for lunch sometime to see her, and promise her I did. Almost a month later, I stroll into the bar packed with my old day crowd with a day crowd of my own, including my son. Yeah, I know. Babies and bars ... where do I think I am, Wisconsin? But there's no more smoking in the bar, so it's ok. Really.

Greeted again by Blondie, we sat and enjoyed the most delicious burgers in all of the South Side. Blondie took charge of Baby Cakes and let him play with the soda gun behind the bar, put him on top of the Golden Tee machine, let him play some poker--in short, acted like the mom-figure she always was to me.

Lemonz. The place has a dark side, no doubt about it. A late-night, dirty bar whose dark side is actually the color white, but it has a great side, too. It is a home to many people. The place is literally day and night. The day crowd paid my bills, made me laugh, played Jeopardy with me, threw quarters in the back of my pants when I had to crouch into the cave to replace inventory and hugged me congratulations when I got engaged.

The place is filled with people who came to my wedding, who came to my house to eat and drink, who annoyed my husband with knowledge about his life that he never told them. The place is filled with a sense of belonging that I lost when I let Dick make me cry. But that's all over now.

I meant to go off on a food porn rant about how good the food is there. But what I realized is I have so many Lemonz stories I haven't thought about in so long because I closed that part of my mind and heart off, for good I thought. I felt so betrayed by Dick, because I really thought we were more like family than just employer/employee, and when he gave me that smirk while I was at my lowest point ever, he broke my heart. But fuck Dick. He's gone now, hopefully far away. As for me, I'll be strolling in to have another Lemonz burger soon enough.

Davka Says

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 06:00:00 +0000

I hadn't checked in with The Deer Girl in a while and tuned in this evening for the first time in a few weeks. This post reminded me why I love to read her. Enjoy.

Shocking News

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 03:52:00 +0000

The media is ablaze with the news that Rhianna and Chris Brown got back together after their public fight/beat-down. Is this shocking news?

Know anything about relationships, media? Abusive relationships?

It's not surprising that they got back together; I think it's fairly common for people to stay together after a violent episode. There's the feeling that love will overcome. There's the belief that the worst is behind them, and they can move on together. Sometimes I'm sure it does work out.

Hopefully they'll get some counseling. Hopefully she'll never piss him off again, either, because that was a bad beating and physical violence usually doesn't get better once it crosses a line in a relationship.

Good luck, kids.

Wukkin Hahd

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 20:32:00 +0000

Slippy and I are having a business lunch here at the compound. She brought over some mini burgers and some homework for me to do. So, we ate, discussed business and are now trying to set up the School's Twitter page, but Twitter is overworked and underpaid right now and won't let us on it, so we're singing songs with El Bebe and farting around with puzzles.

I can't believe I get paid for this.

In other news, I'm impatiently waiting to hear from the new designer/printer on the nun's booklet project that should have been done a month ago. I never realized hassling people to get results could take so much time and energy.

Sigh.

Anyway, off for another round of The Wheels on the Bus ...

Breakfast in Jail

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 15:53:00 +0000

Mister wasn't just talking shit. He almost never does. So, we're on our way to the ski hill, and he starts talking.

"One time, when I was in jail, they brought us breakfast. On a tray, you know. And I see this dude, he's putting all the shit together, you know, mixing it all up on his tray. I'm like, what's he doing? Then he's like, BAM!" Mister mimes smashing the tray against the bars. "'FUCK you guys!' he yelled. It was the funniest shit I ever saw."

We laughed and laughed.

Mister has such colorful stories.

I forgot my ski pants at the hotel. We got all the way to the hill, and I realized I forgot them. Doh.

Talk to you later!

Mission Accomplished

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 14:07:00 +0000

I totally took a lesson yesterday and learned how to snowboard.

Am I good? Um, I need a lot of practice. Can I do it? Hell to the motherfuck yeah.

Later on, after I get some time I will describe the fun lesson that I took with Rib Mountain's famous No. It was supposed to be a group lesson, but the others bailed, leaving the instructor to deal with me solo. Poor guy. When I asked him if he had a code-name preference, he said, "Uhhhh. No." So, No it is.

Anyway, just got done with a lackluster breakfast at the hotel that caused Mister to observe, "I've seen better breakfast buffets in jail." So, now we're going to get our stuff together and go back to the ski hill. I will be working on my toe edge skills. I spent the majority of the day yesterday working on the snowboard equivalent to snow plowing. I need to diversify today.

Wish me luck!

P.S.: Photographs will be forthcoming.

Driving Into Winter

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 22:29:00 +0000

Mister and I are celebrating four years of marital law. We left the thunderstorms of Illinois and headed into the thick, fluffy snow of central Wisconsin. We're going skiing and I am so thrilled I could easily shit platinum pennies.

First order of business: get off these whited-out roads and get a beer into my husband's hands.

"This is going to be a long 77 miles," quoth he like two seconds ago.

Tomorrow, I shall finally stop being lazy and will learn a new skill. I am going to learn how to snowboard. All these years, I've talked smack about how I want to learn how to do it, but every time I see a ski hill, I want instant gratification. I want it now. So, I ski, instead of trying something new.

That being said, now that I've made a public declaration to all two of you (Juderonomy's in Florida--hasn't even called!), I will rent a snowboard, take some lessons and tell you all how great I was or how bad I sucked at it. I'll even see if I can get Mister to photograph my essay in snowboarding.

Wish me luck.

As for the rest, I'm just looking forward to enjoying the last and best of winter in Wisconsin with my husband. This trip is highly reflecti our honeymoon four years ago today. Kinda cool.

Wait. Juderonomy update. I just got the call from my parents. They're mellowing out on Marco Island with some friends. They sounded so relaxed and happy. Mazel tov to them.

Well, that wraps it up for the moment. But I am not working this weekend, so I'd like to pop in and write a little more if and when possible.

Peace out.

So Exciting

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 21:36:00 +0000

The honchos at The School I'm freelancing at love the ideas for the magazine Slippy and I cooked up over lunch at Windy City Subs a few weeks ago. They totally went with our proposal and the freelance writer I hired is going to do some amazing work, too. He has taken our idea for his feature and elevated it to a super kick ass level. Now I just have to write a few stories, edit a magazine and voila--I will have experienced the creation of a publication from concept to delivery. Awesome!

It's so Good to be Here

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 05:32:00 +0000

Know why blogs are better than dogs? If you ignore a blog for a few days, nobody gets hurt.

I have missed writing for myself, but I am having a shit ton of fun getting paid to write and edit for other people while learning a thing or two about creating a publication. My foray into the business end of Catholicism has yielded a comprehensive look at how to create a publication, from start to finish. I even got to hire some people. Me! Imagine that. I certainly have Slippy to thank for that. You're the coolest boss ever! Holla!

But wait, here's the best part. I was informed that it would be best if I worked from home while the office is restructuring. I took that to mean, "We love your work, but we can't stand the sight of ya." It's cool though. I mean, I totally miss seeing Slippy, Chesty, KY and company downstairs, but the chilly snoozefest upstairs where my desk was? Nah. I'm straight. I officially work from home. I can work in my shorts. Who's gonna stop me now?

So, work has been busy, it's true. But there has been a preponderance of food porn in my life all the same. It's not that I don't want to talk about it, it's just that there has been so much, I can't remember all the details. It's been a blur, but I will brag on Monday night at Tin Fish. Grilled salmon on a bed of mashed cauliflower--don't hate. Don't even try. What they did to it was awesome. Creamy-lish, all buttery and whipping creamy. I swear, it was great. The fish was cooked perfectly and the sauteed shitakes were soaked in wine. That place is consistently delicious. Praise Tin Fish.

Did I mention the bisque?

The bisque was good. It was sweet, toasty and lobstery. If that bisque were a man, he'd be sponge worthy.

Meanwhile, Juderonomy and Pooh-pah are taking off for a little roadtrip down south, and I am as thrilled for them as I am jealous, jealous, jealous. Green is not a good color on me. Have fun, mommy, and check in with us. Tell us how Key West is and don't let Dad wander off!

I know there are a million things to write about, but my friends, I am just tapped out. It's midnight. I have a big day of working in my shorts ahead of me, so I'm gonna hit the sack. Good night and thanks for reading!

I'm Not Such a Freak After All

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 02:16:00 +0000

Sometimes I wish I could just be a nice, normal girl.

Other times, I think I'm just that.

After reading this article from Jezebel, which links to several other related articles, I feel so super duper normal that I could just ... give myself a gold star.

Oh, What a Night

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Thu, 12 Feb 2009 14:51:00 +0000

Last night, I went and saw Jersey Boys for the second time. Mister, my sister in-law, Diva, her husband, Dino, Uncle John and Cousin Bird and I all went to Harry Caray's for "dinner," which ended up being drinks at the bar. I got so hungry I started to get angry and just ordered soup and a salad. Lesson one: never promise me food and then fail to deliver it. I get vicious.

The show was better than I remembered it. The story of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons was meant for Broadway: scrappy hoods cum musicians scoop up a young local talent, don't achieve success until they meet up with another young musical prodigy. Singer and prodigy create a lifelong bond and partnership sealed with a Jersey Handshake. The group manager gets in trouble with the seedy underbelly, the fourth guy seethes in resentment, the group is threatened and the Jersey Handshakes save the day. Featuring all of the songs that you always knew, but didn't necessarily knew who sang them. Falsettos and harmonies through the roof ... This shit is pure Broadway gold, I'm telling you.

One of my favorite things to do when seeing a show is to have champagne at intermission. Well, correction. One of my favorite things to do is have champagne. Which I did. Two wee glasses of Chandon, one before the show and one at intermission. Bubbly makes everything better, right?

Wrong.

When I went to bed last night, I felt fabulous-- minorly buzzed, the songs resounding in my happy mind, I drifted off all cuddled into the soft sheets at the hotel we stayed at last night. But when I woke up this morning and met up with Diva and Dino for breakfast, I realized I felt ... bad. Wrong. I felt that day-after-drinking shame I usually associate with dancing on tables, saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, drunk dialing my mother and losing my purse.

Diva was experiencing a similar phenomenon. Why did we both feel compelled to check our call logs to make sure we didn't drunk dial? Why did we ask our husbands if we happened to owe them apologies?

Why were we doing the walk of shame?

I can only assume one thing. Something terrible. Something I don't even want to think, let alone commit to writing.

I don't think champagne is my friend anymore.

I will leave you with lines from a Four Seasons song to illustrate my feelings on this revelation.

(Silly girl) Shame on you--your mama said
(Silly girl) Shame on you, you’re cryin' in bed!
(Silly girl) Shame on you, you told me lies!

Big girls do cry!

The Internet Age is Awesome!

noreply@blogger.com (Nora) — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 03:09:00 +0000

I would like to extend my most grateful thanks to BlackBerry (BB) for taking the pictures from the gay, uh, underwear show at Krave on Friday and posting them to Facebook. There is nothing my husband and sister in law love more than seeing me peering down into some dude's panties holding a bunch dollar bills. Thanks, BB. You're a pal!

Sigh.