I'm in a vacation state of mind.

I am about to depart for Midway for a much-needed weekend of sun, fun and girl-time. After five and a half hours in the car this morning (we really can be road warriors in this job), I had the afternoon to myself to ease into my vacation mindset.

My vacation mindset generally entails a few drinks, any sort of diet precautions to the wind, and dancing on any sort of elevated surface. Well, that's what it has been in the past. Today, I had the revelation that my table-dancing days may have come to an end. And my pre-vacation lunch? Carb free. Egg whites and spinach with a little feta. (GROSS!) However, I will have you know that I did have a nice hearty pour of a chilled pinot grigio with my egg whites. Hey, the white wine is the perfect accent to a gorgeous spring day.

So, I might be a bit off on my usual vacation attitude given my post-driving run and my nearly carb-free lunch, but I am ready for Florida shenanigans. Pissy Lissy, look out! I'm on my way.

As heard in my office

The other day, I am sitting in my office working away. All of a sudden, I hear my coworker's voice start to raise. You remember her, Ms. Sass. Well, she gets a call from a random person (as happens on occasion) that is really upset about something. Again, this is a fairly regular occurrence. So this is what I hear:

Ms. Sass: "I'm sorry, I can't take a message. Sir. Sir. SIR."

:::Pause:::

Ms. Sass: "OK, ma'am. MA'AM."

Yep. She called a chick a dude. Proof that I am not the only one to have awkward moments.

(I later found out that this individual said she was going to bring a "world of pain." I think I love the crazies with which we deal on a regular basis just too much.)

Coach A...

When I was younger, my mom always encouraged me to do volunteer work. At first, it was necessary for the college applications. I didn't want to go to the library and help out in the children's section. But I did it because my mom promised it would be good for college. I then spent a semester in college volunteering at a nursing home in the Alzheimer unit. Again, this was brought on by my college program and a required activity. Clearly, I thought I was too busy or too important to willingly sign up to do something for free.

Over the years, I have grown, and realized the importance in not only being selfless, but also in giving back to the community. When I was in law school, I decided that one day I would want to be a Big Sister. I thought it would be a fun way to give back, and frankly I thought it would be something at which I excelled. Come on, I was set to be an amazing Big Sister. Right? After law school, when I finally got my first job, I signed up for the program. I had a job, my life had some stability, and I was ready for the commitment. Around that same time, I became friends with another girl who had also signed up for the program. A long nine months or so later, we both were finally matched with our Little Sister (or "littles," as the program calls them). Because our littles were the same age and lived in the same housing complex, we ended up doing a lot of tandem activities. We went to Cubs games, rollerskating, to the beach, and all sorts of other activities. Nearly three years later, I still have my little sister. She's almost twelve now, but still as sassy as ever. As challenging as the mentorship relationship has turned out to be, it is definitely one of the more selfless things I have done over the years. Despite miscommunication with my little's mom and my busy schedule, I still try to come up with creative ways to spend our time. I am going to try to maintain this relationship for as long as I am able. We all want to make a difference, I figure this is my part. In a small way, I'm making a difference.

Speaking of making a difference, the same "Big Sister" friend is one of those amazing people that always has some sort of good doing up her sleeve. She maintains that level of coolness where she just does these activities without any sort of show. It just is a part of her life. I am so grateful that she has helped me to become in other community outreach programs. Her latest endeavor? Coaching a little league softball team. And guess who gets to be Assistant Coach. Never mind the fact that I have not played softball since I was about ten years old. Oh, and a mitt? Don't have one of those either. Yet I signed on to help out. Why not? It's like hanging with TEN little sisters with a corresponding volume level. (Seriously, I think we chased off many patrons in Bacci last night for our post-practice pizza party.) They are sweet, funny, silly and loud.

My newest adventure is coaching softball. Whodathunk THAT? Oh, and they call me Coach A. Standby for updates. There are sure to be lots of funny moments documented up in here.

A semi-shopahaulic

I love to shop. I am a typical girl in that respect. I love to try on clothes, to feel pretty, and to leave a store with bags, preferably the fancy bags with the stiff outer paper and tissue on the inside. However, I have come to learn that I cannot afford to shop in the fashion I so desire, all puns intended. Despite loving fancy clothes and makeup, my budget does not allow for regular shopping sprees. Even when I made more money, I still had a hard time paying full-price for items. To me, shopping is a sort of a sport. I have learned to see how much I can get for my dollar. The more I get, the more victorious I feel.

Yesterday I made the decision that while trying on dresses and pants is still a rather awful experience (winter weight, I hate you!), shoes would be a safe bet. I wanted some lovely summery sandals that would erase the memories of the snow and bitter cold of just a month or so ago. Besides, I am headed to Florida next weekend and needed something aside from my trusty Haviana flip flips to wear. So to Marshall's I went, in search of some deals. And deals I found. Two pairs of summery sandals that make me feel girly and happy for less than $80. Score! Quite a victorious day, I'd say.

After my shoe-shopping extravaganza, I attended a fundraiser event last night that took place at Bloomingdale's (or Bloomie's, for the women that shop there regularly. I don't, so Bloomingdale's it is.) It was a lovely event with cocktails, tiny bites of food (mini-cupcakes, I love you!) and beauty services at the various make-up counters in the store. And ten percent of all purchases at the store went to the organization (http://www.imdguesthouse.org/). Hooray! I volunteered at this event by helping out with check-in, ushering in all the participants and encouraging them to enjoy themselves and to spend lots of money. After an hour and a half of checking in, there was a lull, and my friend and I decide to go browse and check out the event.

We both get pulled into a "touch-up" by the Dior beauty ladies, ahem, "Beauty Advisors." Fun, right? So after my skin has been airbrushed into perfection, my eyes whipped into a permanent smoldering stare and my lips painted into a luscious pout tasting of mangoes, I knew I just had to have something. Granted, a sweep of the hand and telling the lady, "I'll take it all!" would not be prudent. This I knew. But a little something might be okay. So I decided to buy the lipstick and lip gloss that made my lips look so kissable.

Apparently yesterday turned out to be a shopping-centric day. Two pairs of summer sandals and $60 for lip product at the Dior Beauty counter. But hey, I got the tissue paper and the fancy bag. And a free gift. I am always the victor when it comes to shopping.

Living single...

There comes a point in most of our lives where we make a very important decision. I cannot have another roommate. Seriously, if I have to look at HER shoes near the door, I may just put a pillow over her...oh, hehe. Just kidding. I made this decision roughly seven years ago. Living on my own.

Unfortunately, I had a few gentlemen who decided that me living alone meant they were going to move THEIR stuff into my place and that would be okay. Word to the wise, that is not the same as living alone. These boys left their shoes in places I didn't like either. So finally, I live alone. While I am not single and have a boyfriend that I adore tremendously, he knows not to leave more than a t-shirt and a toothbrush at my house. (I am dead serious. I would do the whole "heyyyy, you left TWO t-shirts at my house, I brought them back for you" deal if he tried to leave anything more at my house.) I have lived on my own now for seven years. My own lease, my own bed, my own everything. I have come to love it.

Here are some of the reasons why I love living alone:

(1) You never, ever have to shut the bathroom door. Ever. This may be my absolute favorite reason. Bathrooms in Chicago are small so the fact that I can leave the door open eliminates all claustrophobia. It is truly marvelous.

(2) Those dishes in the sink are MINE. If I am lazy and don't feel like doing the dishes, it's my own fault. No stress about another person's mess.

(3) Underwear and a t-shirt are perfectly acceptable after work clothes. Pants optional. Who doesn't love THAT?

(4) No one else eats my ice cream or my chips when I break down and buy them. I am a territorial chick and will seriously freak out if someone eats my chosen junk food. And by freak out, I mean I will leave a very strongly worded post it that I am sure you won't get until I'm long gone. (Did I mention that I'm passive aggressive?)

(5) Television. Yes, I still have the same 19-inch Westinghouse TV that was a Christmas gift over ten years ago. I also have a cable box that I bought with a government coupon. I do like to watch the CW and WGN in the morning. No judgment. It's delightful.

There are so many more reasons why living alone is just wonderful. I realize that I will not live alone forever. I also realize in writing this particular blog, I may scare off said lovely boyfriend from ever wanting to move in together. However, I know that he has his own love of being on his own as well. I respect that. I know that I am allowed to keep slippers, face wash and a toothbrush at his house. Nothing more.

So for now, I will continue my pants-less, tiny bad TV watching on my own. And I will enjoy every moment of it.

Hold me closer, young tiny dancer...wait, what?

I am notorious for singing the wrong lyrics to a song. Whether it's rocking out to the Cold War Kids singing, "Now look me in the eeeeyyyyyes," (Correct lyrics = "Now hang me up to dryyyyy") or reminiscing about a little Soul For Real in which I genuinely believed they were singing "Candy golden raaaaaiiiin drops" when really they were saying "candy-coated," I am liable to sing the wrong words.

I have realized that I am not the only one to do this.

So for those of you who have judged me for mistaking the lyrics to a song, you can suck it. That is all.

Angie and the pig-shrieker

I realized the other day that I have lived in my current apartment for nearly ten months. My, how time as flown.  This particular apartment (and neighborhood, chosen almost solely because of the existence of a marvelous Cuban restaurant that really isn't THAT close) is close to my heart because it is the first place I have ever chosen entirely on my own. I called the listing from Craigslist, the one sans pictures. Anyone who has ever searched for apartments via CL knows how risky it can be, especially when the advertisement contains no pictures. But hey, it was a Sunday afternoon, I wasn't busy, and I had possession of the company car to jet about forty blocks south to check out both apartments. Why not, right? There were two listings, both in my price range, both in my desired neighborhood (and within respectable distance to aforementioned Cuban food.)

The first apartment was small, dark and not what I wanted. The second apartment the manager showed me was it. I loved it immediately and it's decent shape, big kitchen and two tiny bedrooms. However, I have been prone to jump on the first acceptable apartment I see which can lead to cockroach-filled experiences like my past apartment. So I asked P.I.C. to come back later that week to inspect it. If he told me that I wasn't crazy for loving it, I would rent it. Sure enough, I wrote my security deposit check out to him that very day. And I love my apartment. Despite the fact that my tub doesn't drain properly, the hot water in the shower doesn't last as long as I'd like, and there are ants in the summer, I love this apartment with a fiery passion.

The neighborhood, while I do love it and the darling hipsters and their pit bulls that share it with me, has its faults. Gentrification and the downturn of the economy has lead to an interesting mixture of residents. There are the elderly eastern european people who have lived in the tiny cape cod houses for forty years who sit on their porches in lawn chairs on pleasant days, smoking cigarettes and speaking to all of their friends as they walk by. Other long-time residents include hispanic families with children that play soccer in the street and their parents that watch from their porches. For the newcomers to the 'hood, there is the smattering of lovely new condominiums and townhomes purchased right before the economy hit the tank that house young professional families, their adorable children and the matching SUV-sized strollers. Of course, there are the aforementioned hipsters living in more transient buildings.  (I am not entirely sure where I fit into the mix, but I am comfortable here.)

So while I live in a small building with only five other units, and I only moderately know my neighbors, I have become rather intimately aware of the people that reside near our building. There is the man that lives on the street onto which my bedroom faces. He sounds like a hoarse female who has two loud, barking dogs. The little one is a yipper, a little chihuahua,  and with yip at any dog or any person who passes by his home. This one's name is Paco. There is a bigger dog, as well, named Angie. Angie. Who names a dog Angie? The reason I know their names without ever having met the hoarse-female talking man, is because these damn dogs sit outside and yip all night long. (All night.) And after they bark for a good ten minutes, this man will say, "Aaaaaan-geee.," in a very exasperated tone. He doesn't bring Angie inside. Nor does the barking stop. Five minutes of incessant barking and you will hear him say "Aaaaaan-geeee" yet again. I hate him. So. Much.

And last night, I was reminded of my distaste for the youthful punks living across the street. They are probably in their young twenties, from Michigan (my clever deductions from their license plates) and obnoxious. They are loud very late at night. Again, I have never met these people, just know them from my judgment of their behavior from across the street. There is one young whippersnapper that enjoys to make the noise of a pig shriek when he comes home from the bars (or wherever he's been) at whatever hour that may be. You may believe I am joking, dear reader, but trust me. My brother has witnessed this firsthand and can account for this horrific noise this dude is capable of producing. It ain't pretty. So, of course, for this lovely weather we have been having in Chicago, there have been people taking advantage of backyards and patios. These kids have a backyard. Last night, they were out in that backyard until 4:00 a.m. I woke up at 2:40 a.m. to them laughing, carrying on, and playing music. But I was comfortable, Oxford was snuggled up next to me, and I didn't feel like getting up and I dozed back off. Some sort of loud noise from over there woke me up about twenty minutes later. I was slightly more annoyed this time, wishing my phone was within arm's reach so I could call 311. (Don't mess with my beauty sleep, I will. Rat. You. Out.) I awoke again at 3:30 a.m. to them arguing with another annoyed neighbor. Still too lazy to get up and call 311, I just laid there, angry and not sleeping.

So there is quite the mix of individuals living in my block. As annoyed as they make me, I wouldn't trade them for the cockroaches and screaming children at the playground across the street from my old building.  It's been a fantastic nine months. I only wish I had found this apartment years sooner to enjoy it's perfect "one-person" size. (Two closets and two bedrooms just for me? Don't mind if I do!)

What's ironic about last night?* A few minutes after the last time they woke me up, I got up and went to check the windows to make sure I know which house and occupants to throw my dirty looks as  passed by from now on. Did I mention I was slightly passive-aggressive?

*J, does this count as ironic?

Halloween Candy

Easter has come and gone, but not without my beloved bestowing upon me an Easter basket. Yes, he most certainly did. A pink one with pink grass.  He had a theme going on, clearly.  He gave this to me on the eve of Easter after a rather prolific evening of champagning. Of course, in my slightly tipsy state, I teared up, always the sensitive one, feeling moved by his sweet gesture. No one other than my mom had ever given me an Easter basket. Further evidence that this young man is wonderful. Not that I need evidence, he reminds me daily.

Oh, Easter. The Easter basket got me reminiscing about all of my gifts of candy when I was younger.  My mom was always diligent with our baskets, always using the ones she had carefully handmade for us years before.  One was yellow, I recall, the other color slips my mind.  I do remember believing that no matter which one had been carefully placed in front of my seat at the kitchen table was really my brother's basket, but I don't think I ever told my mom. (Now she knows!  Hi, Mom!!) Of course, we always got delightful sugary treats that were only really around my house during the holiday seasons.  (Can I get an "Amen" for the stale Peeps?  Of course, I wouldn't eat those 'til around the 4th of July, so that was an exercise in patience.)

The other time of year when sugar was in abundance was Halloween, naturally, every kid's dream of a candy-filled world. My parents would dutifully buy candy every year, but after a couple of years, I began to notice a pattern.  My mom and dad would buy things like Smarties, Sweetarts and Tootsie Roll Pops to hand out to all of the tricker-treaters.  But they would also buy the fun-sized Snickers.  And fun-sized Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.  These treats never got handed out, however.  They would be tucked away in my dad's dresser, hidden from the grubby hands of the green-faced witches and mini-devils coming to the door.  Everyone knows that the fun-sized candy bars were the jackpot of the trick-or-treating game.  (Never mind the occasional mega-jackpot of the full-sized candy bar!!!)  So I asked my mom and dad: "Why do you buy the good stuff, but only give out the kinda crappy candy?"  Their response?  They were saving it in case they ran out of the other candy.

It was a farce, I tell you! My parents were not celebration Halloween traditions, they were using the holiday as an excuse to HOARD. CANDY. The kind of candy that we rarely would get aside from holiday time.

Perhaps you think this to be a hasty conclusion. "Your parents aren't evil geniuses, cleverly hoarding candy, Amanda," you might be saying aloud from your computer screen right now. Well. I have further evidence.

One year I went trick-or-treating to another neighborhood. Every kid knows that this is a risky gamble, leaving one's own 'hood for greener pastures. At least in your own neighborhood, you know which houses give out the good candy and which houses turn their lights off and pretend not to be home. (And in my neighborhood, which older neighborhood kids like to play still on the porch until and unsuspecting child walks up at which point you yell "BOO" and make them cry.) My friend's neighborhood was bigger, so I rationalized, more houses, more candy.

This trick-or-treating was a wild success, finding more than one house with the mega-jackpot full-sized Snickers bar (left unattended on a porch? Even better!). After we returned home to my friends house to a slumber party, naturally, we emptied our pillow cases in examination of our loot. I decided to trade all of my Butterfingers. I mean, Butterfinger is a chocolate, yes, but when you have someone giving up her Milky Ways or Three Musketeers for a 'finger, get out. I'm trading it. So I traded every last one of those inferior chocolates.

When I arrived home the next day, my parents hovered. They wanted to see my loot too. I showed them and put it in the gallon-sized Ziploc bag required in my household (to monitor the "three pieces per day" rule). I made a flippant comment about trading all of my Butterfingers to my friend. My parents began to act weird. I asked them, "Mom and Dad, why are you being weird?" And one of them, I can't recall which one, sputtered out, "Well, perhaps we like the Butterfingers."

So you see, Halloween in my household was really a conspiracy. A conspiracy to bring chocolate into the household so that my parents could indulge in their sweet tooths much like the kids. Well, I never. Granted, I imagine around the time I have kids, I will have been without fun-sized bars every October for a good decade. Perhaps rather than judge, I should keep my yapper shut and learn.

Nah, I'd rather out them as the candy-hoarders I now know them to be.

(DISCLAIMER: To Mom and Dad, my very loyal followers, this entire passage was written in jest. Don't be offended. I remembered this story the other day and it had me laughing so hard I HAD to write about it. Love you!)

My ill-equipped, still barely post-college kitchen

I love to eat.  That much is clear by my involvement with yelp and my incessant dining out experiences.  As of late (http://likeabirdie.blogspot.com/2010/01/new-cooker-in-hooooouseee.html) I have learned to love to cook, finding it to be a soothing exercise in my rather stressful life.  In fact, I have found some like-minded individuals at my new job, and we have formed a cooking club.  Twice now, we have gotten together to have "cooking nights."  We call it "Cooking with Lisa."  If you don't get that reference, I won't explain it to you.  We likely find it funnier than you do, even if you do get it.  Deal with it.

The first night, we went off recipes from some shared cookbooks, and  I hosted at my humble abode.  Perhaps I didn't realize how ill-equipped my kitchen was before I offered to host this event.  My pans are worn, leftover from one of my previous relationships.  My knives are the same, dulled and worn.  I have minimal platters for presenting carefully crafted meals.  I don't even have a proper kitchen table to serve my guests.

My mother gave me a really nice large sauté pan for Christmas, and that is one of my most exciting new possessions.  I treat it very carefully, and make sure that I do not stack it with my gross kitchen ware.

Other than my lovely new pan, I do have a lovely coffeemaker, thank you, Cuisinart.  When I got my first real job, it was my present to myself.  I carefully researched all sorts of coffee-making appliances and decided that the Cuisinart Grind and Brew would be my dream machine.  It had a grinder IN the coffeemaker.  Brilliant.  Upon bringing this, my very first "big-girl" appliance to the checkout at Bed Bath and Beyond, the cashier cheerfully asked me, "Is this for a wedding registry?"

Ouch.

Yeah, not married.  And I told that nosy, busybody cashier, "I'm sorry, no.  I can't wait 'til I get married to enjoy nice appliances."  Of course, that was the last big girl appliance I purchased.  Ah, life got in the way and I had other things with which to worry myself aside from stocking my kitchen.  (Realizing that my first job didn't really give me benefits, enable me to pay my student loans, nor support the leech I had unfortunately attracted were the very tips of those issues.)

My kitchen has retained its "I'm still young and can get away with this" status being as I have yet to marry and experience the joys of a gift registry.  After one episode of Cooking with Lisa at my house and onto another episode of our cooking night at another coworker's home, I realized how sad the state of my kitchen truly is.  Aside from the sad knives, which may be a blessing in disguise at the rate I have chopped down on my fingers lately, I have broken ramekins, minimal serving platters and only five glasses.

I do have matching plates, so there is that.  So what if they have some chips.  My boyfriend also convinced to me to buy those glasses (there were six at one point), telling me that it wasn't right that I drank out of mismatched plastic glasses and leftover plastic beer steins from several years of Germanfest.  Ugh.  As much as I profess to enjoy cooking and the art of making a lovely kitchen, I just really have failed at acquiring the proper tools.

I don't let it stop me.  I might not be married and my knives might make a real chef cry, but I still go to down in my kitchen on a regular basis, whether it be following a recipe from epicurious.com or adapting one from my well-worn Betty Crocker cookbook, I will not let my lack of equipment hold me back.

Granted, let me know if you want to donate toward my goal of having a grown-up kitchen.  I'm not too proud to accept donations.  Especially if they include a Cuisinart food processor.

Random awkward thoughts

Do you ever have the urge to do something completely inappropriate?

 

I feel like at least once a day, I have the desire to just act like a crazy person.  There was the day in Indianapolis, when walking by a hotel, I had the strongest desire to take one of the luggage carts and ride it skateboard-style.  In my vision, the valet guys would be chasing after me and hollering for me to bring their cart back.  I would toss my head back and laugh, skating away into the sunset.  Of course, after this vision comes to me, I realize that something will go awry and I will end up breaking an arm or getting arrested.  Nothing as cool as I had envisioned in my head.

Just the other day, I saw a guy on the bus with a very worn front right pocket of his jeans.  I had the urge to touch his pants and ask him, in a Tommy-Boy fashion (you know the scene, where he's talking to the roll in the restaurant), "Is your pocket worn out cuz you have so much money in there?"  Again, I decided that this would be a creepy thing to do.

 

And today?  I was in the very crowded elevator going to court and noticed that I was the tallest person in the elevator.  I had the urge to shout out, "I'm the tallest person in here!"  Then I noticed that there was one man taller than me.  So I wanted to amend my shouting to "I'm the tallest person in here, except for you sir, but you're barely taller than me."  Once again, I refrained.

 

I am awkward, aren't I?  At the very least, I am an odd bird.  I like it.

Living life frantically today.

It is that time of year when everyone in Chicago gets a bit giddy.  The temperatures have hit 80 degrees for the first time since 2009.  Ladies are donning their latest spring dresses.  (Oh yes, I'm in that group.)  People are wearing flip flops, and others are complaining about the fact that people are wearing flip flops.  (Not me there, I am wearing cute peep-toed flats, but I won't judge a flopper...they're comfy!)  And the restaurants and beer gardens are packed. 

Of course, anyone who has survived a year in Chicago knows why there is this frantic appreciation of the weather.  We all watch Tom Skilling and know that just around the corner is a 20 degree drop and rain.  Furthermore, it's not completely unlikely that we could see snow again.  Come on, it's early April.  We have seen snow in April before.  We have come to expect it.  But when we get that rare, gorgeous day early in the season, we are all sure to develop a punchy attitude.  We will spend as much time outside as humanly possible.  Long lunches to soak up the sun are overlooked generally by the bosses.  And attempting to snag the outside seats at our favorite bars and restaurants becomes a sport.

 

Hopefully this summer will be more typical than the last.  Sunshine.  Heat.  Humidity.  All are welcome in my book.  Summer 2009 in Chicago was just rather lackluster.  There were not too many days of heat and humidity.  In fact, my one trip to the beach on one of the few dreadfully hot days almost culminated in hypothermia.  Well, not really, but dipping oneself into the water in Lake Michigan was akin to taking a bath with ice cubes for added chilliness.  It was downright freezing.  While it is always cold, this was ridiculous.

 

In light of last summer's depressive state, the exuberance from the patios is completely understandable.  So if you're looking for this chica tonight, you're likely to find me frantically enjoying the near-80s temperatures, cold beer in hand and a big smile on my face.

 

Smile, Chicago.  This is why we live here.  It's summer.  For today.

Trying to earn my hipster cred

Last night was my first attempt at one of the irreverent hipster social scene known as the "undiscovered music world."  Yes, folks, I donned my skinny jeans, my cowboy boots, a t-shirt and some 'tude and prepared to go listen to a Canadian band at the Empty Bottle, THE venue to see a band about which no one else has heard.  What a poser, right?

My entire life, I have tended to listen to what was on the radio, the top 40s and the like.  I'm no music snob, and I have never professed to be one.  But I do enjoy music.  I love to sing (badly), I love to dance even more (that's one of my stronger suits), and so I do enjoy a wide variety of tunes.  But seek out new and unheard of bands.  As if.  I didn't want to put in the effort.

Until about a year and a half ago, I started dating someone who loves music.  He does seek out new bands and new music.  And you know what?  He listens to a ton of stuff that (a) I would never hear otherwise and (b) I really, really like.  Thus over the past year and a half, I have taken to going to shows with him and other friends.  Some of it is more mainstream and played on the radio, some of it is older, local music, and most-recently (as of last night), it is "not-big-yet" music.  P.I.C. tells me about this band that is playing, plays me a song, and I am hooked on its 80s, poppy nature.  I can envision a grand dance party.  We bought tickets, brought some other fun friends, and decided to rock it out.  Of course, the non-hipster lady in me thinks 9:30 pm on a school night?  That's ridiculous.  But we did it anyhow.

We got there early to cozy up to the bar and take in the scene.  Background music is playing and I recognize it.  I instantly felt cooler.  I recognized this song.  In fact, the song playing was one I'd heard live many times before.  An ex-boyfriend had been roommates with a guy in this band.  So I get all excited and tell my friends, "Oh my God, I know this song, and I feel pretty awesome cuz this is a local band and no one else probably knows it."  The bartender looks at me with humor in his eyes and says, "Um, this is the Misfits."

Silence.

Ooooh, because that band had started as a Misfits cover band and they used to play this song.  Then the dude two bar stools over proceeded to laugh.  At me.  (My face is reddening as I write this again.)  I attempted to explain, but the words were out of my mouth and I'd been had.  The mistake had been made.

And the worst part?  He looked like a nerdy accountant.  Or perhaps an actuary.  Think Ben Stiller in "Along Came Polly."  He clearly did not get the memo that this was to be a grand dance party.  I couldn't imagine him out in front of the band popping along, dancing flamboyantly and exuberantly, which clearly were my goals for the night.  But he'd laughed at me.  He did apologize, but no matter, I'd been humiliated.  Guess I learned my lesson.

From now on, I shall stick to my strong points, meaning just dancing.  If I THINK I recognize a band, I will whisper it in my P.I.C's ear before I attempt to get seem cool and knowledgeable about music by blabbing it across a bar.  I'm back to square one.  I guess you'll have to look for me, the loud-mouthed, non-music knowing dance queen.  I'll be there.  Likely in cowboy boots.  Still trying to earn my hipster cred.

(Be it known that this entire post is made to be very tongue-in-cheek.  I know that I am not a "hipster", nor will I ever be one.  I just fine