Ramble On

***Authoress’ note: this barely makes sense three days after writing it.  It’s rambling & ridiculous and frankly I’m too worn out to edit it***


I look like shit.  I got a little bit irrational & upset Friday night and I’m supposed to go to the gym now and I can’t think of anything else but wrapping up in my down comforter like a burrito.

Date #3 with Cookie.  It didn’t quite turn out like it was supposed to.  Or like I wanted it to.  He’d accidentally double-booked so our sushi dinner.  So that got turned into poster/typography art show and dive bar with coworkers/friends.  The dive bar was a hipster dive bar, and I was worried about a pearl earring/cashmere sweater induced ostracization, but it had surprisingly good food and great drinks.  I tend to get along with pretty much anyone and luckily his friends were hilarious.

We took pictures in an old photo booth.  The first ones were a little ridiculous so he wanted a second set for “nostalgia”.  Sounds great right?  Sounds like a fun date to me.  Granted, he got a little tipsy, but nothing that wasn’t just cute & funny.

So we all left the bar and got to the show.  And then he vanished.  For the rest of the time there I sort of wandered around this hipster art show by myself.  I stuck out like a sore thumb and there was only so many things I could say about some posters.

From there we walked to some other bar.  Which was really NOT CLOSE to the other bars and I was already cranky over nearly walking by myself while he joked & walked with his friends.  He asked what I wanted to drink and then disappeared outside.  I think he was just waiting for some other friends he’d invited but by then the camel’s back was broken.  I got fed up and left.  I told him I was heading home and he seemed confused by this but he hailed me a cab and kissed me on the cheek.

What in the hell fucking happened here??

***part two***

It’s not really a second part of the date, but it’s a part of things that fits in nicely with the above.  Fair warning, I’m about to get really bitchy, whiny and all sorts of other things in here.  Please know, I am not talking about YOUR relationship (you know who you are).

You want to know what I’m sick of?  I’m sick of reading blog posts with happy endings.  Fuck you and your goddamn happy endings.  Fuck you and you’re “reunited and it feels so good” or your “I’ve found my soul mate and LOOK NOW I’VE STARTING SHITTING SPARKLES.”

Show me in this fabric of life thing where it says I don’t get to be happy.  SHOW ME.  I want to read the part where it says, “Whoops, sorry…you survived a brain tumor.  That’s all you get Sweetcheeks.  You wanted more?  Bwhahaaa.”

Why shouldn’t I want, shouldn’t deserve more?  I work my fucking ass off in therapy trying to be a better me.  Trying to be the me that feels best to me AND makes men want to be with me (yes, men…not people. I love my friends and you all know that).

Why does it feel like the Universe is just warming me up for some lackluster version of what everyone else seems to just luck into?

Why them?  Why these other people?

I was always taught that if you wanted something, you do all you can to make those things happen.  Thankfully, I’ve learned (again, through absurd amounts of self realization & therapy) that not all things in life happen just because you work to have them happen.  But shouldn’t I at least get a little help??  A little extra credit as it were?

I was 30 by the time a man had told me he loved me.  THIRTY.  I don’t even want to explore what in the hell that means about the choices I’ve made.

At any rate…I’m glad that people are happy.  I’m glad people have found love.  Now, if they’d kindly shut the fuck up about it, I’d be much less pissy.

Life in the bay.

Families are a strange thing.

Every morning I woke up on the bay there would be squawking little groups and in the evening, I’d be greeted by the same. I imagined it was a bit like them saying goodbye for the day and then coming home to spend the evenings together.

It’s an interesting thing to think about. It seems small

I don’t know if the birds in the bay are what humans consider families, but I like them all the same.

There are birds that speak to each other in the morning when I wake up and in the afternoon just as the sun is setting. I imagine it’s a bit like families leaving for the day and then coming home to spend the evenings together.

Weather is a strange thing here. In Chicago, fog is an ominous, cold thing. Here, I welcome it.


A piece was published yesterday about a chef. In Chicago, it’s a fairly common occurrence and with the rise of the “rock star” chef, I’m guessing it’s as equally commonplace in other large cities.

I love food. I love the act of dining, both in places of elegance and spilled beer. I’ve gotten to know a few chefs in my time and some are total fucking idiots, with grandiose opinions of themselves and others are heads down, introspective powerhouses. They’re all a little bit insane; perks of the job I guess.

Lately I’ve found myself discussing with friends how I wish that 2013 would mark the banishment of the chef as a “personality”.

What I realized is that I think I’d also like to see the banishment of this in other areas.

I want to meet more people who are likeable for who they are. Not how loudly they say things. Not for who they think they know or how many things they’ve accomplished.

The more I meditate on this theory, the more I see it in my daily life.

The quiet, strong workhorse of a defenseman on a hockey team. The classmate who just wants something different in their life and puts everything they’ve got into learning new skills. The colleague who is constantly contributing, even though it’s “not their job” and the people who would never dream of thinking, “well, I’m a [certain thing] so, I obviously deserve this.”

You don’t deserve shit.

At the end of the day, who you know might get in you in doors, but what you do is what keeps you there. How you do it is what gets you to the top.

Stop telling me how good you are and show it. Prove it. Put your money where your mouth is. Strive to be better, not just sound better.

Shut the fuck up and cook.

The Sum of My Parts © 2013. All Rights Reserved.