The problem with Valentine’s Day isn’t the hearts, nor is it the roses or candy or even the jewelry. It’s the fact that on this day, more than most, you clearly fall into one of two camps: those who have and those who do not.

Those who ‘have’, have plans. Have significant others. Have flowers taking up all available desk space, and – even if it really doesn’t mean anything – have evening plans with someone ten years their junior so, for the night at least, have a warm body.

Those who ‘have not’, don’t. And never is it more readily evident than this day, as their desks stay as messy as ever though remain unobstructed by pesky overflowing roses and tulips and daisys. Their evenings are free, their dinners may consist of a Lean Cuisine lovingly heated up by themselves as they crack open a bottle of cheap Merlot (egads! Merlot!) and watch Tivo’d reruns of “Dancing With the Stars.” Or – worse yet – their dinner may be a $5 snack box on a United flight that gets them in, exhausted, right at their bedtime and the airport bar is even too crowded to grab a pre-boarding drink.

You can probably guess which camp I fall into after I provide you with this following hint:

While walking down the terminal just now, I noticed an attractive man about my age. Wearing a dark suit, he sported well-coiffed hair and had the edge of masculinity that caused me to confidently assess that thankfully he wasn’t yet another metrosexual who would keep me wondering his true sexual preference. Apparently sensing my glance, he turned to look at me with startlingly blue eyes. Only then did I glance down and take note of his collar – with the tell-tale white breaking up the otherwise black starched collar, I was checking out a priest.

And I can’t even find a seat to have a beer to celebrate my decension to new lows on this Valentine’s Day.

Ok, ok…I can’t NOT let y’all know about how great these cards are. For the cynical and romanticized among you all, enjoy.


Happy Valentine’s Day, after all.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

Yes, I know that you know this – you can’t walk ten feet down the street without being visually accosted by cupids, arrows, and pink and red cheezy doo-dads – the reason, however, that I’m bringing it up is to address my relative silence on the matter thus far. (Relative since in all other years, by February 13th I’ve delighted you with some overly-romanticized or overly-cynical diatribe on the day.) But not this year – what’s my deal? Am I hostile about spening another Hallmark-promoted holiday as a single gal? Or could it be that I have a hot, smoldering new romance that I’m not only keeping under wraps but is also keeping me from spending time posting on the site, a welcomed distraction that’s keeping me busy in more meaningful ways?

Wouldn’t you love to know.

Regardless, lips are sealed and at least from the Internet’s vantage point, not much to say on the topic this year. However, if you’re in Chicago today or tomorrow and want to know the scoop (or want to grab a quick drink!) drop me a line. Otherwise, Happy February 13th.

When I was young, I used to lie in bed at night, thinking "I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive." I would repeat it, not to prove myself anything of the contrary; it was more of a behaviour better suited for grounding myself in the current time and place. This mantra of sorts, "I’m alive", meant nothing at first, but as I continued to repeat it, each internal utterance was a little earthquake, the shocks of which jolted me back into a reality. Most days – most moments – I found myself not necessarily living my life, but instead watching it unfold as a movie does, each scene with me as the main character yet well enough removed that I could go through this life, almost numb, portraying the understudy who watches instead of acts. This little routine – private, isolated, personal – reminded me to breathe, to live, to act, to make things happen instead of watching them happen. That this was reality – that this was MY life and MY reality – and unlike the very vivid dreams I was having, I couldn’t wake up and find myself anywhere but here. It was simply the subtle reminder to wake up when I wasn’t ever sleeping.

Every now and again I remember this, and repeat the habit. "I’m alive" when I’m staring at the computer. "I’m alive" when I sit at the bar, waiting a perpetually late friend. "I’m alive" as I start to fall asleep, "I’m alive" when I’m sitting in traffic, "I"m alive" in my delight and my regret, "I’m alive" when I wake up to you.

How easy it still is to go about my days in a sort of dreamworld, going through the motions, watching my life unfold with each little piece, each isolated scene all tied together with the mundane thread of ‘stuff’ that binds our meager existance. I’m moving on autopilot:
Wake up.
Brush teeth.
Shower.
Walk the dog.
Go to work.
Clean the house.
Eat dinner.
Read.
Write.
Watch.
Brush teeth.
Sleep.
Repeat.

There’s nothing wrong with habits, with routine – each culture, each person has their own. They’re the stuff that life is made of, only they’re the stuff that it it isn’t. They’re the things that get in the way, that prevent us from acting and doing and being.

So every now and again, amidst the shuffle of another day nearly done, at the beginning or the middle or the end of the routine I try to evoke a little earthquake to remind me of my participation in this daily cinema that I call my life, to usher me up from the stand-in role to the star, knowing my time and my place on the stage is determined solely by myself.

…there is a time and a place for everything. While I still haven’t
figured out who "they" are, I agree. And it breaks my heart a little
more each minute that I realize that neither the time nor the place are
right for us, and I’m not sure they ever will be.

You make my days longer, my mornings earlier, my evenings later.
You cost me a TON of money.
You frustrate me hourly, leave me a seemingly anal homeowner, cleaning obsessively.
My shoes? Gone. That cookbook? Didn’t need it. I almost drew the line at the destruction of the $150 Chi straightening iron yesterday, but thanks to Ed Sabala and his predilection for household tools (including wire strippers and electrical tape) we’re still on speaking terms.
You, my dear, are a huge pain in my ass.

And yet every day, I adore you a little more, am delighted by your personality that continues to humor and surprise me. True, my life would be a lot simpler without you here, and yet the thought of that is too much to bear. You, my darling puppy, have brought me more joy in this past year than I could ever have imagined, have taught me about unabashed affection and unconditional love. Thank you, Miss Lila Belle, and Happy First Birthday.

Don’t you ever just want to email your exes – or hell, those dates or hookups that never even made it far enough to hit “ex” status – and inquire what went wrong? Or, at the very least, what freaked them out? I think after I’m good and settled and married I may do just that, though by then, I bet they’ll have long forgotten why. So, if you feel like enlightening inquring minds, I’d love to know.

I spend a lot of time in airports. In fact, I’m in one now. With all of the planes departing and arriving, it’s only logical that the allure of spontaneous travel might be appealing at times. I’ve found myself wanting to hop on the next flight to somewhere, somewhere usually tropical or at the very least, warm, wanting to get to somewhere new, better, hotter. I often long to go to get TO it all, whatever it is there that awaits me. And today, for the first time in a long time, I find myself wanting to again hop on a plane, but this time, wanting to get away FROM it all. I don’t often find life overwhelming, but today, part of me just wanted to run away, go MIA, running from what I’ve got and towards something much, much simpler.

I know its not that simple, but oh, if only it were.

One of my favorite poems growing up was entitled “Comes the Dawn”. To paraphrase its meaning, it talks of the lessons you learn as you grow, and reads:

“…and you learn that kisses aren’t contracts
and presents aren’t promises…”

and later says:

“…and you learn, and you learn, and you learn.
With every goodbye you learn.”

In the throes of a typical tumultuous adolescence, I found this especially poignant, remembering these lines from the all-too-brilliant scribe Anonymous (one of his/her best works, surely) any time I had my heart broken. I found myself reciting this poem a lot.

I haven’t thought about that poem in years, and as I’m laying here in bed in my sweltering, can’t-control-the-thermostat apartment, I found myself pondering the truth in those simple words. No, kisses AREN’T contracts, and most times it’s a truth about which I am so glad. But every now and again, how I wish they were. Because once in a while, you’re lucky enough to get a kiss that conveys something deeper: it’s a promise of more to come, signifies a reunion, or maybe even a symbol of things we had forgotten. You can’t fake those kisses, and while they don’t often happen in the pouring rain or after running down an airplane terminal, they certainly don’t happen in a crowded bar. And as I ponder my last few years of kisses (those I can remember, of course) I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m spending FAR too much time in anonymous, smoky bars than I am in places that would facilitate the type of kisses that I only recently rediscovered that I want.

No, kisses aren’t contracts, but they certainly don’t need to be meaningless.

My friend Jessica and I were discussing music this past
weekend while enjoying our aperitif of champagne and waiting on our
table at dinner, and she asserted that people fall into one of two
camps: either you’re a music person or you’re not. Sure, most people
can appreciate music, and while the majority of folks may have a
favorite singer or group, that doesn’t inherently make them a music
person. No, a true music person is someone who would breathe in the
melody if they could, spends time analyzing the lyrics or trying to
recreate the riffs. Music people hit "shift-refresh" on Pollstar more
than they do on their Gmail, and find themselves planning
their vacations around tour dates. Music people, *I* would assert, find
that their entire existence, that most of their experiences or
memories, are woven around a certain song or band, and the very mention
or hearing of it brings them right back to the time and place where it
once meant everything. Scientists have proven that scents evoke
reminiscent memories; I’d assert that music attributions are even more
poignant and powerful.

To which I say, "Thank you, Mike Wiedwald." The object of my sophomore
year affection (even more so than Ryan Jones, the brown-haired one, not
the blonde), he was a tall, skinny senior who had recently broken up
with his girlfriend and served as our gym aide, a popular option for
those shortly heading off to college and bored with yet another study
hall. Instead of spending fourth period awaiting the emergence of the
cafeteria chocolate chip cookies, these guys chose to referee our
volleyball games while simultaneously checking out us girls in our
gym clothes. Amongst a few bruised knees and broken nails, I was
smitten. And as could be my mantra for the time, neither was I very
subtle about it. He, as well as all his friends, resolutely knew of my
infatuation, if not only for the rides home for which I pathetically
begged. Truly, I’m still a bit mortified twelve years later. But alas,
whether he thought I was good fun or just didn’t have the heart to stop
my naïve longings, he not as much promoted them as he did put up with
them. And for that, I was flying high as I got free rides home in his
blue Firebird and was introduced to my first brush with some classic
rock.<!–
D(["mb","
\n
\nMix CD\’s were all the rage in the early 90\’s – the gift of one far more significant than the content it contained, yet for a music lover like me, I found myself obsessing over the song choices and even the order of the songs. Did "Fool in the Rain" preceding Journey\’s "Lights" mean something? Did he mean it when he included Led Zeppelin\’s "All of my Love"? And after a few rides home in that blue Firebird, I decided it was due time to request a mix CD from my crush, if only so I could fall asleep to it every night on my Walkman, in my eyes a testament to his fledgling affection towards me. And, consistent with his tolerance towards my immature posturings, he acquiesced.
\n
\nThe yellow Maxell 60-minute tape with his masculine scribble detailing his song choices was pure perfection. I played it constantly, obsessed with the music, the order, but most importantly the effort it took for him to create this masterpiece – ALL FOR ME. I wanted to live the songs here, make them my own, have them serve as the soundtrack of my very being. They were *that important.*
\n
\nIt was probably a year later, after he went to college and I had transferred my affections to yet another unattainable lad (this time, a FOOTBALL PLAYER!!) that I realized the true extent of my foolishness. I was riding in the car with a friend, and I found myself marveling at the familiar tunes – and identical order – coming out of her tape player. I was listening to the soundtrack of my sophomore affection, coming out of HER CAR. Incredulous, I asked her where she got her tape, and I sat shellshocked as she explained that her friend – and Mike\’s ex – had made her a copy of a tape her then-boyfriend had made for her some years back. I was crushed – though I was long over my infatuation, the very ignominy I felt by being given a duplicate mix tape was worse than even the amorous rejection. The much-adored soundtrack of my adoration was nothing of the sort – moreover, it was merely a copy of his feelings for SOMEONE ELSE. I was a fool.”,1]
);
//–>

Mix tapes were all the rage in the early 90’s – the gift of one far more
significant than the content it contained, yet for a music lover like
me, I found myself obsessing over the song choices and even the order
of the songs. Did "Fool in the Rain" preceding Journey’s "Lights" mean
something? Did he mean it when he included Led Zeppelin’s "All of my
Love"? And after a few rides home in that blue Firebird, I decided it
was due time to request a mix tape from my crush, if only so I could fall
asleep to it every night on my Walkman, in my eyes a testament to his
fledgling affection towards me. And, consistent with his tolerance
towards my immature posturings, he acquiesced.

The yellow Maxell 60-minute tape with his masculine scribble detailing
his song choices was pure perfection. I played it constantly, obsessed
with the music, the order, but most importantly the effort it took for
him to create this masterpiece – ALL FOR ME. I wanted to live the songs
here, make them my own, have them serve as the soundtrack of my very
being. They were that important.

It was probably a year later, after he went to college and I had
transferred my affections to yet another unattainable lad (this time, a
FOOTBALL PLAYER!!) that I realized the true extent of my foolishness. I
was riding in the car with a friend, and I found myself marveling at
the familiar tunes – and identical order – coming out of her tape
player. I was listening to the soundtrack of my sophomore affection,
coming out of HER CAR. Incredulous, I asked her where she got her tape,
and I sat shell shocked as she explained that her friend – and Mike’s ex
– had made her a copy of a tape her then-boyfriend had made for her
some years back. I was crushed – though I was long over my infatuation,
the very ignominy I felt by being given a duplicate mix tape was worse
than even the amorous rejection. The much-adored soundtrack of my
adoration was nothing of the sort – moreover, it was merely a copy of
his feelings for SOMEONE ELSE. I was a fool.<!–
D(["mb","
\n
\nIt\’s been nearly thirteen years, and I have no idea what happened to Mike. I think I heard some years back he hd gotten married, and am guessing if he follows the trend of most others in that year, he\’s probably raising and loving his family without fail. I doubt he remembers me – and that\’s fine, he was the first glimpse I had of my foolish naivete in love, and for that it\’s enough. But depite the outcome, despite the unauthentic mix tape and its unintended recipient, at least in terms of the effort or feelings behind it, I still want to breathe in every chord of "All of my Love" whenever I hear it, not so much as a memory of my youthful affections as it is a testament to how far I\’ve come, how much has changed since the time when all it took to make me fly was a ride in a blue Firebird.
\n
\n\n

\n\n\n”,0]
);
D([“ce”]);
//–>

It’s been nearly thirteen years, and I have no idea what happened to
Mike. I think I heard some years back he he’d gotten married, and am
guessing if he follows the trend of most others in that year, he’s
probably raising and loving his family without fail. I doubt he
remembers me – and that’s fine, he was the first glimpse I had of my
foolish naivete in love, and for that it’s enough. But despite the
outcome, despite the unauthentic mix tape and its unintended recipient,
at least in terms of the effort or feelings behind it, I still want to
breathe in every chord of "All of my Love" whenever I hear it, not so
much as a memory of my youthful affections as it is a testament to how
far I’ve come, how much has changed since the time when all it took to
make me fly was a ride in a blue Firebird.