corn-fed chics

a valentine's day tradition

(Clearly, I'm terribly inconsistent with keeping this thing updated, so as much as I'd like to say, "I'm here to stay"...only time will tell.)

For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved Valentine’s Day. As a schoolgirl, when the prospect of romance was more exciting than the reality, it was the anticipation of receiving a super-hero Valentine from a crush.

Would he include a candy heart with a “ur cute” message?

Would he sign “love” and if he did, what did it mean?

Would he, in an effusive, public show of emotion, send me a candy gram—those carnation-based money-makers the senior class sold?

Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t and sometimes he did but spelled my name “July,” which made me question the depth of feeling, no matter what the candy heart said.

As an adult, for a period of time, I loved Valentine’s Day because my boyfriend went all out—flowers, candy, romantic dinner, gushing rhetoric, the works. Of course, it took me about six months after the colossal demise of that relationship to realize that kind words and meaningful gifts didn’t need to be bottled up and saved for one day a year (as was the case). Ah, the clarity that comes with a broken heart.

But mainly, I’ve always loved Valentine’s Day because it’s a holiday my mom makes special—and as everyone in my family knows, I’m a stickler (some might say “brat”) for all things involving holidays and family traditions.

In fact, my Christmas stocking was canceled eight years ago and every December 25 I mourn its loss—and its sad, limp form hanging from the mantle.

One year, someone (mom says it was me; I’m still waiting for evidence) lost the recipe for her delicious pecan rolls, which we’ve had every Christmas morning since I started enjoying food. She suggested making something else, but someone (ok, me) insisted that the she attempt the rolls, and I’m pleased to say she recollected the recipe quite perfectly.

When I go home, I make a point of declaring I should be sleeping in MY bedroom, even if my sister and her husband stay there because it’s the only room with a big enough bed. (Note: My parents could let them sleep in their queen, but no, I am the one inconvenienced.)

And, I think my poor mother has wanted to change the candy-striped carpet in MY bedroom for years, but is letting me cling to this last piece of my childhood.

Anyway, I’m a little attached, let’s say. But back to Valentine’s Day. 

Every February 14 morning, we’d each come downstairs to a box of chocolates, a dazzling card (usually one with at least $6 worth of sparkling appliqué on the front, which would ruin $2 Hallmark cards for me forever) and a little gift—an adorable stuffed animal, a cute t-shirt and, sometimes, cash.

Mom kept this up even when we went off to college, sometimes switching out the chocolates with a box of cookies (a most suitable substitution).  Even just two days ago, I had a card and little gift waiting for me when I arrived home from work. (Apparently, I can accept scaled back tradition as long as some part of it is upheld.)

Of course, for years, I’ve happily received these gifts, never once thinking that my mom might appreciate something in return. (A delusional assumption I carried from childhood to adulthood: Parents always LOVE buying their children gifts, and I was bringing my mom joy by happily accepting her gifts, year after year after year.)

This all changed with a trip to Target one cold day in February last year. The aisles were stocked with Valentine’s candies and as I walked up and down, looking for a treat to take back to the office, I saw Valentine’s Day Dots.

My mom loves Dots. In fact, outside of certain chocolates, it’s one of her favorite candies, something I never understood because they consistently end up stuck to my teeth, which leads to me digging around trying to pick out little sticky red and green and yellow pieces.

I eat candy according to 1. my cravings and 2. the effort to enjoyment ratio. I never crave Dots, and if I did, they fall way too high on the effort side of the ratio to be satisfying.

My personal feelings aside, I knew mom would love the special edition pink, red and white Dots. And out of this, grew an idea: I would send HER a Valentine’s Day package, complete with favorite candy, chocolates, a cute notepad for her grocery lists (she loves these) and a dazzling card, comparable to all the cards I had received over the years. 

I wrote a thoughtful note, packaged everything up, ventured to the post office and waited in anticipation for her to receive the treats.

Just a couple of days later, I received two excited texts from her:

“THANK YOU!! I have eaten most all of the Dots… the chocolates look delicious… I will definitely use the notepad… and the card is beautiful.”

My heart was happy! Mom loved her gifts! I read on:

“It looks like someone started a new tradition…”

Ahhhh! The tables had turned! I was caught in my own game. Mom, after all the years of listening to my ridiculous demands, finally pulled the tradition card on me.

Of course, I laughed. And in keeping with tradition, visited Target last week, found another favorite candy (the chewy mint Christmas trees, now in Valentine’s Day form) and sent out her now annual package.

Secretly, I’m hoping that after a few more of these packages she’ll bring back my Christmas stocking... 

in memory...

Just a short note: Death is hard to write about. In fact, I much prefer fun, frivolous subjects that make me laugh, rather than writing about pain, constantly wondering if I'm being over-dramatic and long-winded. But for years I've tried to write about what my family experienced 18 years ago (and prior to that) and have never been able to. So this is my first attempt...if you're here, thanks for reading. (And please ignore and annoying font issues!)

Eighteen years ago, on September 25, 1991, my brother Philip was born and my brother Stephan died.

Four and a half years earlier, Stephan was born on a warm March morning, the first boy in our family of three girls. We were ecstatic, having all hoped for a baby brother, as things had started getting uncomfortably competitive with so many girls in the house. 

But from his first few hours, it was apparent that there were problems, both mentally and physically, that would more clearly manifest themselves over the next few weeks.

I think back to that time now; in third grade I couldn’t imagine the severity of the situation or the deep anguish my parents must have felt as they were told the news:

His brain is underdeveloped.

He will never walk.

He will never see.

He will never speak.

He will never hear, or if he does, we won’t ever be certain.

He will always eat out of tube, which will make keeping food down difficult.

He will have seizures that could be so debilitating they could kill him.

If he lives, and we can’t promise that he will, his quality of life will be poor.

It seemed natural that the advice would be to place him in a home, give him 24-hour care without putting a burden on our family. And had my parents chosen that option, I don’t think anyone would have blamed them.

But they chose to bring him home, to give him a life with our family and in doing so, taught us how to love unconditionally, to cherish a life that was so unlike ours.

For me, it was easy. Here was a little guy who let me hold him for hours, talk to him and tell him stories, play with his spiky blonde hair and stroke his face as he made soft cooing noises and snuggled into my arms.

For my parents, loving him was one thing, hating the disease and grieving the loss of a healthy child quite another. My mother, upon the births of all six of her children, had a Bible verse for each one of us. For Stephen, it was 2 Timothy 2:3: “Endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.”

And that is what she and my dad did: love him and endure. Endure as they taught him to eat from a bottle; endure as, over and over again, he threw up half of what they had struggled to get down; endure as seizures ravaged his body so badly he would stop breathing, turn blue and leave us wondering if this time around, we would lose him.

Still, I remember those moments as much as I do Mom rocking him lovingly, singing songs or reading to him; or Dad sleeping with Stephan on his stomach, making sure they were both facing the television to share in any number of sporting events.

In the midst of all of this, my parents never let us be defined by grief or driven by a daily awareness that something was wrong (though I imagine that awareness stuck to them). And, our family members and church friends loved Stephan in a way that bolstered my parents, providing meals, babysitting and encouragement when it was needed most.

And life rolled on.

Against the advice of well-meaning family, my parents decided to have more children. Dad’s “baby-doll,” Anna, was born in September 1987, and Philip (the golden child, as we girls like to tease him) came along four years later.

After something as surprising as Stephan’s birth, I had come to expect bad news with the other births; there was a collective holding of our breath until we knew the new baby was healthy.

So on that sunny September morning, when my dad came to pick us up from Grandma’s house, he delivered the news we so anxiously awaited.

A healthy baby brother. Sighs of relief and a giddy excitement (we really loved babies).

As I think about that day every year around this time, it’s hard for me to put the pieces together, difficult to recall anything but glimpses, impressions and moments.

I remember riding to the hospital, sun shining in Dad’s car, the trees exploding with autumn color, anticipation building as we drove to meet Philip.

Remember Dad looking at each of us, saying, “Girls, people will ask me if I’m happy to have a healthy son. And I am. But I want you to know that I wouldn’t trade any of you for a million healthy boys.”

And that’s all. It seems strange to me that I don’t even have an image of holding Philip for the first time or visiting my mom in the hospital. Immediately, my brain skips to that evening, where I’m at a retreat with my eighth-grade class.

Of course, how can I forget the excitement of being on a dark campground, the possibility of bumping into the boy I liked, holding hands walking around the lake…(Wasn’t it great when the possibility and excitement were as fulfilling as the actual outcome?)

There was the inevitable call for lights out, a scrambling to make sure the bunk beds were made, goodnights all around and...an interruption. People outside of the cabin looking for me, my name whispered, “Julie, Julie, where is she?”

I didn’t know at the moment I saw my pastor’s wife, Sue, their daughter, Leah, and another church friend. But then there was the heavy silence, all of us sitting on a couch, not saying anything as I searched their faces. I began to ask about baby Philip, when Sue interrupted me: “Julie, your mom and Philip are ok. But Stephan died tonight.”

Stephan. Died. Tonight.

Stilted blinking, slow comprehension, gentle tears, heaving sobs, hectic movement around me as my 12-year-old self tried to grasp the death of a brother.

The dark car, a long 15-minute ride to the hospital. Double doors swinging open and my dad’s comforting arms around me. My strong, selfless father, shaking with grief.

Another hospital room, this one cold and sterile, enveloping us in heartbreaking loss instead of welcoming new life.

My soft-spoken grandfather, painfully watching, battling guilt because he couldn’t revive Stephan when he stopped breathing at my grandparents’ house—one of his favorite places during his short life.

My spunky grandmother, bent over Stephan, insisting that she could still hear his breath, willing him to be alive.

My beautiful mother, after delivering a baby that morning, as gracious in his death as she was in his life.

My sisters, each trying to grapple with what had happened. Lydia, just 7, who had been with Stephan when he died, witnessed the panicked 911 calls and gently told Anna, who at 4, just knew that something was horribly wrong.

Gail, who I would find curled up crying in Stephan’s still, empty room later that night, wondering if he knew just how much she loved him.

And sweet Stephan. His little body, which was never longer than three feet, finally at rest. No more torment from seizures, no more pain and vomiting, no more fighting to stay alive. 

In the whirlwind days that followed, we laid Stephan to rest behind the left field fence where my father played baseball as a boy and brought Philip home to sleep in the room that had, for almost five years, belonged to Stephan.

In many ways, I remember it being a confusing time, one of deep grieving mixed with the excitement of having a new baby; a time when a community gathered around in support, just as they had done throughout Stephan’s short life.

But I also remember my parents, so strong in Stephan’s life, even stronger in his death, believing in a gracious God who gives enough strength to endure each day, a God who took away their sorrow and blessed our family with new life.  

To my brothers: I love you both with all of my heart.

And to Philip: I’m sorry your shot has never been as good as mine. (I couldn’t resist.)  

 

 

 

hidden flirting mysteries, um, revealed?

It's late Wednesday night. Scratch that. It's late Tuesday night, I'm supposed to wake up at 5:15 for a Bikram yoga class (more on that at another point) and while I willed myself to sleep, sleep, sleep, I simply can't. And so, I'm wide-eyed, ready to share all of the knowledge I learned today.

Right around lunchtime, I decided to go to a nail salon near the office for a quickie pedicure, for a couple of reasons: 1. I have a socialite wedding on the East Coast this weekend and need to be in top form for any old-money types I should run into and 2. My feet are disgusting. And have been for quite some time...a nail missing, callouses sprouting out everywhere, mud still embedded from a recent race I ran (look for that recap next week. It wasn't pretty.) I'm not exaggerating: The kind Asian woman was mortified digging out all the mud from the sides of my big toenails, giving me looks, holding up the mud, saying, "Eh? Eh?" I just shrugged. Hazards of the job, lady.

In any event, while she was prodding at my feet, I picked up the first fall issue of Allure looking for all sorts of autumn fashion finds, the latest in trendy nail colors and how to dress on a cool weekend (like I don't know). Oh, and how to flirt properly.

You see, these articles always amuse me. I pretend to snub my nose at them, but then secretly, hoping no one is looking, I read them thinking I'll find some key that will make dating in my 30's easier. Or more, shall we say, successful. Because there comes a point, if you're single after a certain age (we'll say 30ish), comments are made ever so often, questions asked, such as, "Hmm, are you sure you're making the right impression?" or "Are you flirting just enough, but not too much?"

I usually laugh these things off, but every so often, the little voice in my head (who I usually keep muffled), asks, "What if it is YOU? What if you aren't sending exactly the right signals?" And so, with that little voice whispering, I took a look, ready to read all the pointers Allure had for me.

(Forgive the paraphrase, but I couldn't steal the magazine after I had subjected the woman to working with my feet.)

How to Flirt #1: Wear red. In fact, the article claimed that a woman in red is 53% more likely to get asked out than a woman in blue. I can only assume this highly researched fact meant the EXACT same looking woman will get asked out if wearing red. I mean, I can't imagine Heidi Klum in blue would get overlooked for say, Roseanne Barr, in red.

But then again: Maybe this is why I'm still single.

To the closets! Huh. As it stands, I do have one red sweater and a lot of red running gear, but no red lipstick, which I have not been able to wear well since my freshman year in college, when I wore such a garish maroon color that I was known on campus as the "girl with the dark lipstick." That's not very prosaic, but I suppose it's better than being known for other things.

Plus, the Puritan part of my upbringing can't get over everything that red symbolizes: Hester did wear the scarlet letter "A" for a reason!

On to How to Flirt #2: Something about the wrists. I'm assuming it meant wear perfume on the wrists, but that wasn't so clear. The deeper influence of the wrists is this though: Apparently, they release a lot of pheromones compared to other parts of the body, and as we all learned in early childhood, men can't resist pheromones.

This is news to me. I've spent too much time making coy eye contact and witty conversation, when I should just be waving my wrists like a mad woman, hoping that the pheromones release, release, release, thus rendering my helpless listener senseless.

It just struck me that perhaps I'm supposed to actually make wrist-to-wrist contact, so instead of shaking hands, I should insist on rubbing wrists (and I only mean wrists) with the opposite sex.

While we consider that, let's discuss my personal favorite, How to Flirt #3: The suggestion: Sit in candlelight. The reasoning: Men, those complicated creatures who are so undone by pheromones shooting from the wrist, are more attracted to women when their eyes are dilated. (And look out if they're wearing red at the same time!)

Realizing that not all situations are conducive to candlelight and that I might actually run into men during the daytime hours, I figure it might be best to beg my eye doctor for his special dilation drops. That way, right before I make a move to rub a hot guy's wrists, I can squeeze in a few drops and boom: big pupils.

If good old Dr Weaver doesn't want to play along, my coworker Gretchen suggested I always carry a flashlight. That way, I can first blind myself, and once I refocus after all of the shiny little stars have floated away, my pupils will only get larger.

Either way, I run the risk of not seeing very well, but that's a small price to pay for proven flirtation success.

Finally, How to Flirt #4: Stand tall. Ok, duh. It seems that generally, people are more comfortable with an upright person than a hunchback (although I'm sure there is plenty of love for the hunchback in some circles as well).

Measuring at what I like to think is a tall 5'3", I've been trying to do this every day since I realized 80% of the adult world (my sisters excluded) is taller than I am. Four-inch stilettos help, but until my Achilles is fully healed, they have been painfully banned from my wardrobe. I could stand on chairs or bar stools, but that puts me at too great of an advantage; plus, the proportions would be all off if I wanted my flirtation target to see my dilated eyes.

The main takeaway here is that my body language says something, as does his. In fact, if his toes are pointed my way, he's thoroughly engaged and into me, regardless the color I'm wearing. I think, rather than pay attention to what the illusive "he" is saying next time, I'll stare intently at his toes to discover his feelings.

If he asks what I'm doing, I'll initiate the wrist-on-wrist rub with one arm, while blinding myself with the flashlight in the other...the pheromones and dilation will do their work...

And he won't even know what's hit him, but will be thinking, "Wow, the girl in the red Adidas shorts and knee-high Christmas socks is all mine."

Mission accomplished. 

thoughts on the airport, part 2...

Jumping right back in where we left off:

4:45: I think it’s time to visit the ladies’ room, which I try to avoid as much as possible at the airport for one reason: horrible fluorescent lighting and what it does to my face. EEEK!

There is a reason that I apply makeup every morning in the protection of my dimly lit bathroom. I have no desire to see the lines creeping in around my eyes, the pores on my nose and the strange, splotchy freckles I seem to sprout every summer.

And so, after using the facilities, I face the blinding glow of the telling bulbs. No! Another chin hair revealed! How will I ever see these--and remove them--when I am 85?

My freckle mustache on display! (Yes, once I hit 26, instead of tanning evenly all over my face, I developed weird constellation-like groupings of freckles, the main one growing right over my upper lip.)

Travel glow in full force! More than 45 minutes in the airport results in a gross, oily film on my skin that only increases with time spent on the plane. (Ok, pretend like you’re grossed out, but admit it, anyone who has traveled knows exactly what I’m talking about.)

Rather demoralized, I leave the bathroom grateful that I don’t live in a world illuminated by fluorescent lighting. I think we’re all better off—and entirely more attractive—without it.

5:00: A return to Potbelly’s results in my buying a sandwich for dinner, only notable because with that $5.00 purchase, I am creeping not-so-slowly to the $40-spent mark.

5:10: Time to head to the gate for what I think is a 5:40 departure. Not so fast. Upon arrival, I discover the plane is indefinitely delayed. There’s one thing I hate more than being in an airport for 5 hours and that’s being in an airport 5 hours sitting next to grumbling people in a crowded waiting area with smells of fast food colliding and wafting in all around me.

And so I have a decision to make: squat along a wall somewhere or grab a beer and stand at the “I’m-traveling-alone-but-have-a-PDA-with-me-so-look-busy” bar.

For now, I opt for sitting against the wall across from the bar.

5:30: After 20 minutes of watching people navigate the moving walkway, I come to the conclusion that there needs to be a lane widening to accommodate the people who don’t stand right, don’t walk left, but rather, move along as if they’re out for a Sunday stroll.

You know the type: They move with an exasperating lack of urgency, one foot slowly in front of the other, bags dominating the entire walkway so moving around them requires either pushing or standing so closely that they feel my breath and hear my heavily exaggerated sighs (a little creepy, but highly effective).

5:45: An announcement: the aircraft is finally on its way. Still with no idea of departure time, I finally cave and start in on my sandwich.

5:47: Three bites in and my teeth hurt, in fact, my entire mouth aches. In a moment of paranoia, I start pressing each one, testing for possible looseness, gum disease, random holes.

It’s been almost four years since I’ve been to the dentist—in fact, my last trip coincides with Deb and Jeff’s anniversary, a visit that involved the dentist burning off a gum growth that was impeding my speech, just a week before their wedding.

So, every October, when they celebrate another year of marital bliss, I mark another year avoiding the dentist and thus compound my fears of losing all of my teeth in the middle of the night. Or at the airport.

6:15: Sandwich long gone. Teeth still in place. No more friends to text. If I have to listen to, “Caution, the moving walkway is now ending,” for much longer I will be driven to either 1. Start traffic-directing the walkway so that all slow strollers stand far to the right or 2. Drink a beer at the single traveler bar.

6:45: At long last, movement in the gate area! I pack up my belongings, grab my boarding pass (which I’ve already misplaced at least 5 times) and get ready to board. I realize, happily, that even with the waiting, I’m still leaving earlier than my original 7:30 flight.

I patiently wait in line, slowly moving toward the front. I hand the boarding pass to the flight attendant; she looks, I look, and I realize…

This plane is going to Columbus.

I am going to Seattle.

Time for a beer.

6:52: One Blue Moon draft: $5.00 plus a $1.00 tip. (I’m on a spending roll, so why not be a little generous with the bartender?) For those of you keeping track at home, I’ve now spent $45.80 in nearly 4 hours, over $11 an hour. At the airport.

Deep breath.

It’s time to hit the single traveler bar. I grasp my iPhone, daring anyone to think I might stand at the bar, alone, with nothing to do but stare at the man in the plaid shorts across from me.

Men in plaid shorts: I’m torn. To me, they have the potential of signaling cool, quirky-artsy and fun. On the negative side, they’re country club stuffy, probably placed next to a pair of J. Crew alligator-applique pants at the end of the day.

And if I learned anything from my father, it's not to trust men with little animals embroidered onto their clothing. It’s not logical, but it feels right.

7:20: Beer is finished. Plaid pants is gone. And mercifully, my plane to Seattle has arrived—which is a good thing for any number of reasons, but mainly because the $50 pink “I heart Chicago” sweatshirt, mug and visor set are starting to look pretty attractive.

thoughts on the airport, part 1...

I have a friend who every week or so emails a message along the lines of: "Checked the blog today. NO NO NO it is not a good day for golf!" I explained that it's been an abnormally social summer, but with all of the material I've gathered, I think I shall be producing a mass of enjoyable blog entries for the two readers I still have (thanks Mom and Dad).

Since I've traveled every weekend since August, I've spent an unusual amount of time at the airport, most recently on my way out to the Pacific Northwest. Now, anyone who travels with me knows that I hate getting to the airport early. I'm not sure when this developed because for many years, I enjoyed just sitting around, eating McDonald's and watching all the characters stroll by.

But now, I cut the airport wait time as closely as possible, perhaps because I spent too much of my 20's trying to get to and from Chicago, delayed for any number of reasons (too snowy, too wet, too windy, too many birds in the engine, etc.) To me, perfect timing is sliding through security and walking onto the plane just as the door closes. I stumble down the aisle, my big back pack hitting passengers as I go, while they roll their eyes and think, "We had to wait for THAT girl?"

Predictably, my traveling patterns make friends nervous when we fly together. I can see it in their eyes, sense it in the tense clenching of their fists as I drive us recklessly to long-term parking, hear it in the high-pitched passive questions: "Do you really think 30 minutes is enough time to check our bags and get through security?"

For all the worrying and wondering about my preparedness, though, I'd like to point out that since my birth, I've only missed four flights--one because my mother and I were caught in the middle of Puerto Rican and Polish parades in Chicago (what a cultural explosion); one because I actually made up the wrong flight time (that was a fun one to explain to the Southwest agent); one because I was just late and the final one because when told she had 10 minutes in a Gap outlet, my best friend Deb lost track of time and spent 40 minutes there, thus resulting in the missed flight.

So while my tactics are questionable, I do believe my record backs my haphazard practices. That said, in spite of all my well-planned efforts, sometimes I end up spending an obnoxious amount of time waiting around for my flight.

Take the trip to Seattle, for instance. I originally booked the 7:30 p.m. flight, but thanks to Friday "summer hours" at the office, I arrived at the airport at 2:45 and immediately switched to the 4 p.m flight, which sadly did not leave Midway until 8. Oh the irony.

Five hours to blow: As you'll see, what proceeded was a mad airport spending spree, broken up by a lot of time spent either staring at people until they gave me dirty looks, fighting back weird bouts of paranoia about my teeth or working up airport improvement schemes that would lessen my annoyance with most travelers.

3:00: Getting on an earlier flight has never been this easy. Even though it showed a delay until 5:30, I was still ahead on the early leaving plan. And now, to spend some money. I realized while packing that I had no good books for a 10-day trip, so first stop: tiny bookstore, where Jody Picoult books are displayed everywhere.

I start to react, heart-rate rising: Why oh why do people buy her sappy 500-page books stuffed with every dramatic family cliche found in Intro to Psych? Also, I've never forgiven her for killing the wrong character in My Sister's Keeper and then getting a movie deal on top of it.

Literary injustices aside, I found what I considered my guilty pleasure read (any modern female British author seems good for that) and a slightly more stimulating book, which I have yet to finish.

I've been in the terminal approximately 17 minutes. $31.00 spent.

3:17: Time to head to Potbelly's, get some coffee and sit myself down to stare at people. Or maybe lovingly play with my iPhone, who (yes, I am attributing human attributes to it), in a lonely situation like this, tends to be a pretty good companion.

Medium hazelnut latte: $3.80.

3:45: Short of texting my grandmother, I have now sent a message to anyone I can think of. Time to start making phone calls, although all of my teacher friends who have been answering at all hours all summer are now back in school. Fortunately, Nicole picks up and I imagine I've filled at least 30 minutes of my wait time.

4:02: Still on the phone, I witness the first drug drop of the day. Just about six feet from me, a man strolls by and a baggie full of weed falls from his duffle. Well, weed or oregano--I suppose I can't say for sure which one.

As it just sits there, people start to slow down, stare, point, keep walking. And no one touches it. Two women spot it, one gestures, the other gasps and spits her bright red gum on it--not the reaction I'd expect if they had just discovered a pile of herbs. Shrieking, she picks up the gum and pops it back in her mouth.

Laughing uncontrollably, I put Nicole down for a second. Security gathers. More joking, gesturing, questioning of, "Who does this sort of thing?" And then, an airport cop swoops in on her space-age segway, scoops it up and takes off.

4:06: What next? I see a man I think I know (entirely unrelated to the pot). Yes, a friend's husband, someone I hadn't seen in almost two years. This sort of thing always presents a dilemma: Do I say hi? I tend to assume I have a better recollection of people than they do of me, so preempt any confusion with an uncomfortable verbal assault like:

"Hi-Ben-it's-Julie-Eva-and-Kristen's-friend;-I-don't-know-if-you-remember-me-but-we've-been-at-a-lot-of-Jen's-parties-together;-do-you-remember-the-one-where-we-played-catchphrase-and-Jen-did-the-weird-breast-stroke-clue?”

Absolute panicked nonsense. Never a good thing. I stay seated. I know. I’ll check email.

[What I don’t know at this point, is that my flight is indefinitely delayed. Note that in 1.5 hours I have spent nearly $35 and bypassed a drug grab that could have potentially landed me more money—or resulted in my second arrest. More to come…]

it's a beautiful day for golf...

Supposedly, it's only 82 degrees on this fine Father's Day Sunday, but up in my second floor apartment, where the heat is trapped and my fan is blowing it all around me, I'm convinced it's about 103. Obviously, movement is slow, so the natural thing for me to do is lay flat, no limbs touching, and watch the US Open. And of course, think of my dad.

If there's one sport that most reminds me of him, it's golf (even though the last 12 years of his family life have been devoted to coaching my brother's baseball team). Every year, with the first sign of spring--and in northeast Ohio that could be March or June--Dad would pull out the golf clubs, round us up and hit the links.

We loved it, loved being outside, chasing after his lost golf balls, working up the suds in the ball washer, eating honey-roasted peanuts from the clubhouse and driving the golf cart over rolling hills. And naturally, there were a lot of lessons to be learned on the course.

Lessons in persistence, for instance. At least once a week in the summer, Dad would come home, stand in the kitchen and line up for his mock tee-off. With a full back swing and follow-through, he declared, “Nance, girls! I’ve found the key!” We’d gather round, examine his new thumb-over-pinky grip and get excited. This was the summer—the summer Dad would dominate.

And whenever we went out with him, Gail and I watched, hoped, gave pointers and waited for him to shoot par. Usually there was more frustration than glory, more muffled exclamations of “doggonit” as the ball hooked than excited cries after it hit the fairway. Still, for years, Dad kept finding the key and we kept hoping for happiness on the course.

We learned that quitting is never an option; if we went out to play nine holes, we played, come wind, storms—or broken bones. The details are still debated around the Navatsyk-family dinner table, but on one lovely June evening, I rode in the middle and Gail on the end. Dad drove the golf cart like any of his other vehicles: fast and furiously, flying over hills.

As Gail and I nudged each other for “fun,” I landed a solid elbow just when Dad took a hill at record speed. (It was getting dark and we still had five holes to finish.) Timing was impeccable, really, and Gail went flying out of the cart, landing solidly on her right arm. There were tears from Gail, dogged denial of any wrongdoing from me and sympathy from Dad…for a minute or two. Then, he put Gail on his lap, insisted she was ok and we finished the front nine. There would be no quitting, and no crying, in golf!

The next day, we found out Gail had a broken arm and I felt just a bit guilty…until relatives started giving her money and candy and I just felt jealous.

We learned that, on the golf course, timing is everything. The right gust of wind could make the difference between a fairway drive and a bunker shot; small hesitation could lead to a putt made or a tee shot shanked into the woods. And waiting a little too long to find an outhouse could lead to a fit of laughter that could lead to tripping on the cart path that could lead to my then 18-year old sister, Anna, fully wetting her pants while at a prestigious country club.

I do sometimes wonder what my dad thought then, as Anna lay in her own mess: Would he have preferred a crying child with another broken bone or an adult daughter losing total control in quite an unusual public place? Either way, I think this was one of the last times Dad golfed or took his female entourage with him.

As we did get older and more embarrassing in public, we moved our golf bonding inside, where we all spread out on the leather sectional to watch major championships…and fall asleep to the gentle lull of the announcer’s voices only to be awakened by Dad’s earth-shaking snoring.

It was on the couch that I became obsessed with Greg Norman’s shark icon, developed a crush on Payne Stewart and his plaid pants (and here’s to Ricky Barnes bringing them back), cried as Tiger Woods hugged his caddy for at least a minute after winning the first major since his father’s death and cheered as Phil Mickelson almost shook the Tiger off his back in the 2002 Open.

Though some people find golf mind-numbingly boring, I find it wholly engrossing (except when I doze off, but even that makes it more perfect). Maybe it’s the fact that no other sport seems so thoroughly inconsistent, no matter how good the player; maybe it’s an appreciation for the precision and detail involved, for the difficulty of playing a well-groomed course well; or maybe it’s all of the memories of time spent with Dad, running around believing that we were just one round away from him mastering the game. Ahh, the pure, slightly naïve love of a daughter!

Whatever it is, in all the lessons learned on the course and all the time spent watching with him, Dad never taught me how to watch a live round at work…so I’ll be stuck refreshing the scoreboard all day Monday, wondering if Tiger will come back, if young Barnes will hold or if the obvious fan and announcer favorite Phil Mickelson will pull off the Open victory before leaving the tour to be with his wife.

Oh, to be in Ohio, on the couch, once again…

of horses and men...

Every year, as spring turns to summer, I get just a little panicked. Of course, I enjoy summer, but who doesn't? People are happy, weather is warm, summer dresses become the standard wear and the boss thinks no one should work a full day Friday. I can live with that. What I have a hard time living without is constant football or basketball on the weekends.

You see, while I make the most out of the summer months, I love the fall, maybe for the beautiful change of colors, maybe because I'm not constantly hot and sweaty--but mostly because beginning in late August I can, in theory, roll out of bed on Saturday morning and watch 12 straight hours of college football coverage and games. And then do the same thing on Sunday with the NFL.

As I move into late fall-early winter, NBA and college basketball overlap and any night of the week, I'm guaranteed a fast-paced, relatively entertaining show of competition in either of my two favorite sports.

So what's a girl to do with football wrapped up months ago, her Cleveland Cavaliers unexpectedly knocked out of the NBA playoffs and the heart of the summer stretching ahead with unenticing promises of televised national league baseball (thumbs down) or NASCAR (although the gentle humming of the cars makes for a good nap soundtrack)?

I turned to horse-racing and the coveted Triple Crown.

(Sidenote: The new Prius commercials with all the swaying human heads dressed in "nature" freak me out. In fact, if I were driving a Prius through those fields, with their bobbling selves singing their creepy song all around me, I'd probably try to plow over as many as I could before they overtook my car and smothered me.)

But back to horse-racing. I have to credit my friend Cathy, who is just as miserable as I am without football and basketball seven days a week, for alerting me to the drama surrounding the Kentucky Derby just over a month ago.

If there's one thing I like more than a day full of football, it's a solid sports narrative. You know the type: A child, raised in the slums/under a Communist regime/in an oppressive Third World country fights against all odds to rise the top of his or her sport.

Add in an amputation, a two-week survival walk through the desert or a mother who works eight jobs just so that her athlete child can have a fighting chance--and I'm a giant puddle of tears.

The Derby had two such stories, although not quite along those lines. Among the field, and an afterthought to most, ran Mine That Bird--a 50-1 mutt of a horse compared to the thoroughbreds sent from Dubai, or even compared to the ABC announcer's stately looking beast (on the right).

Riding him, Calvin Borel--the youngest of eight (a proclaimed "mistake") who dropped out of school to ride in rural Mississippi--wasn't given much of a chance. It's horse-racing history now, but the unlikely duo pulled it off, with an incredible come-from-behind victory. Watch it below if you'd like, and notice Mine That Bird is so far behind, the announcer doesn't even mention him until his mad dash to the finish right along the inside.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jsY2MlDA1c

Calvin was an incoherent mess of garbled Southern dialect during his victory speech, and I was hooked.

Soon after, in a rare move, Calvin decided to ride the philly Rachel Alexander for the Preakness, leaving another jockey to ride Mine That Bird. What I didn't know is that phillies rarely ride with the big boys and only four had won the Preakness in the past 100 years.

But Calvin believed in her. Did I need another reason to watch? (Did I mention I always love a good girl-beats-all-the boys narrative as well?) In a nail-biter, Rachel Alexander steamed ahead and barely held on for victory as none other than Mine That Bird nearly came from behind again.

I almost cried.

Cathy text: I have chills.

Calvin Borel was a household name. Or at least a household name in the homes where desperate sports fans cling to any competitive event with fevered excitement.

So it was with great anticipation that I sat down on Saturday to watch the pre-race coverage of the Belmont Stakes, where Calvin would go back to riding Mine That Bird and shoot for a rare jockey-only Triple Crown. In just a month, he'd become a minor celebrity, appearing on Letterman right alongside Paris Hilton (who looked like the Jolly Blonde Giant next to him).

During a tear-jerking bio, the ABC announcer described his early days training horses and his slow rise to riding fame, with his brother claiming that Calvin's success gives all the little children of rural Mississippi hope. With the "wholesome innocence" of Forrest Gump and the "cool confidence" of Muhammed Ali, Calvin is a thoroughly charming, down-to-earth sportsman, declared the network.

As an aside: Cathy and I questioned ABC's use of Forrest Gump as a complimentary description. Sure he was an innocent, hard-working, easy-to-love, chocolate-eating character but, let's be honest, he wasn't quite right in the head. And he's fictional. Could the writers not have come up with a better comparison?

Tension mounted. The horses were led to the starting gates. Mine That Bird was anxious, the announcers thought too anxious. The jockeys started parading out to the track. The interviews with various wealthy horse owners continued. I closed my eyes for just a second.

And I fell asleep, only to awake to see Calvin and Mine That Bird walking around, finished. There wasn't the media hoopla that I expected with a victory, and so I soon learned he had lost in the two minutes I'd decided to take a little snooze.

Strike one against horse-racing: All that anticipation, just to miss the competitive action. In my attempt to replace my favorite fall sports during the long summer months, I realized I needed games and matches that allow me to nap at least 30 minutes without missing crucial action.

Thank goodness three-hour Wimbledon matches are just around the corner. Extra bonus: hot tennis bodies moving athletically all over the court--just a bit more appealing than a horse's galloping form.

tales from a landlord continued...

Once, when my family was on one of our many vacations to Florida in the early years (before there were 5 offspring), I had a little breakdown at the amusement park. I don't remember if it was Disney World or Busch Gardens, but I do remember the cause: I was hungry. All-consumingly hungry.

Sensing we were all tired, hot and in need of food, my parents declared it was snack time. I knew exactly what I wanted: a chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich, complete with delicious chocolate chip morsels sprinkled around the ice cream's edge. And I wanted every bite of it.

Gail declined a snack (she never had the same uncontrollable food urges as I did). But inevitably, as I sat down, unwrapped the treat and began to nibble away at the outer cookie edge, she focused in, looking just a little longingly as realization sunk in.

She'd obviously made a mistake. And unfortunately, the ice cream stand was quite a hike from where we were. There was only one option, and I clutched my gooey fingers around the sandwich as I braced for her request.

"Can I have a bite?"

There it was. It only seemed fair that I say no. I, after all, had sought this out; she, after all, had refused the snack opportunity. Why should I suffer for her bad decision?

Of course, my parents, doing what most parents would probably do, suggested that I share. And by suggested, I mean they told me I had to.

I did the only thing that made sense at the time: burst into tears. Did I mention I was at least 10 years old? Crying because I had to share. Crying because I had to part with one small bite of my precious snack (and I made sure it was one-tiny-chocolate-chip-sized bite). Horribly overemotional because of my...disappointment? Sense of great injustice?

I really have no idea. But I learned then 1. to never get attached to my food and 2. that if I end up emotional and upset, even over the seemingly smallest things, I become a blubbering, irrational mess. I can't think straight, I can't speak coherently and I usually end up saying things that I regret. And generally, the emotional eruptions are over more serious issues than snack sharing.

Always aware of these tendencies, I braced myself last Wednesday as the Liar's Mother (LM) began to discuss the Liar's right to quiet enjoyment of my unit. As she began to explain the Liar's side of the story, I knew there was no chance I would remain calm...but would I cry? Would I become so distressed that I couldn't even defend myself?

From what I remember, and I did a lot of talking over the LM, the conversation went a little something like this:

LM: This is [the Liar's] Mother. I'm calling because she informed me you're kicking her out of her unit early.

Julie: Mmm-hmm. And what exactly did she tell you were the terms of the agreement?

LM: You BEGGED them to stay the month of May and agreed to knock $400 off her rent, allowing her to stay the entire month.

[Note: If there's any confusion, please see part one of this story to confirm dates, rental agreements and move-out. Also, I don't beg.]

Julie: Ok. [My short answers allow her to comfortably build up her argument before I pounce.]

LM: And THEN, you had the nerve to demand that she leave early just so that some of your friends can stay in your place. I'm concerned that you've wronged her and violated the terms of the lease.

Julie (not calmly at all, but maybe a little rationally): I'm sorry, but your daughter is an absolute liar. Did she happen to mention that it was her idea to stay through May, that she paid a lesser amount after trying to move out early, that she is staying here for free the last few days of this week?

At this point the LM began repeating the terms of the May lease, regardless of the information I gave her, claiming the Liar had never agreed to move early. When she claimed I was making life difficult for her Liar daughter, my indignant outrage exploded:

Julie: I've made her life difficult?

Did she mention she broke the lease four months ago after losing her job and I've tried to make rent affordable for them?

Did she mention the 15-20 complaints from my association?

Did she mention I was fined for their noise levels?

I suppose she didn't mention the drug use or the sex toys littering the neighbors' lawn?

How about hitting my neighbors' car and lying about it?

How about the $1000 worth of damage that's been done to the place at their hands?

Police report? Hear anything about the police report?

I don't know if the LM responded at any point during my rhetorical questioning because I was talking much too loudly. She did defend the police incident saying that the girls probably settled that on their own and it wasn't for me to worry about.

The other incidents didn't seem like such a surprise, but at least moved her away from the "my daughter's been wronged" camp. As realization slowly began to dawn on her, the LM said:

"I know [the Liar] can be difficult."

Huh. Still worked up, but definitely sensing my growing advantage, I agreed and took a more sympathetic approach before I hit again:

"Look. I realize the Liar is in a tough situation. It's hard to lose a job, especially right now, which is why I have bent over backwards to help her. I get it. Times are tough. I have two house payments. But we all have to take responsibility for our actions."

Can you sense me building to my crescendo?

"But honestly: I am 31, single, have owned two places, have had my own set of problems and yet would never dream of having my mother call to settle a mess I had made myself."
 
I am almost positive that sounded better in my head than when I delivered it, still slightly yelling, in my hallway.

The LM was huffy: "She did not ask me to call. I insisted when I heard her landlord was breaking the terms of the lease."

Now, my mother, sisters and close friends can probably attest to the fact that when I believe I'm right, I don't let it go--sometimes to the point where I can hear myself justifying over and over again and want to stop, but can't bring myself to.

Fortunately, as I started to get worked up again, I realized I had to meet my one-week renters, so with an exasperated, "I'll have to call you back," I hung up on her.

And what a difference an hour makes. When I called back, the LM opened with:

"Julie, I realize [the Liar] has been a thorn in your side."

At last, victory. And in victory, I decided to be just a little bit gracious:

"She hasn't been that bad [what was I saying? I've lost sleep over this!]. I simply want her to recognize that I have been overly accommodating and now, just need her out."

We agreed. The Liar would leave before June 1; her things would be out by Saturday.

How many of you still reading think her belongings were moved out by Saturday, even though my two sisters, two of my friends and I text her Saturday night to say:

"We're in the neighborhood. Ten hands. We'll move you out ourselves."?

If you bet there was a roomful of belongings when I walked in Sunday morning armed and ready to disinfect the place, you're a winner.

Extra points if you guessed that among those belongings sat Madonna's classic 1992 picture book, Sex, which I imagine paired well with the discarded bedroom toys. Just as the baseball bat in the closet matched up well with the hole in my wall.

There's something so satisfying about a mystery solved, isn't there?

'Til this point, no tears. And after a few angry texts fired off to the Liar (who never answers her phone, but always texts back right away), still no tears. Just a few deep breaths as I threw some of her things away (like the open crackers and cheese spread), broke some dishes and bagged the rest. Madonna I didn't really care to touch.

Six hours later, the place looked not nearly so heartbreaking, thanks to endless scrubbing, hair removal (piled in drawers, balled in corners, stuck to baseboards), the kitchen cleaning of one angelic friend and the help of one Mr. Clean magic eraser. In fact, it worked so well, I might just try him on the wrinkles this place has caused.

And Monday, in one final act of idiocy, the Liar removed her things, but not wanting to bother my one-week renters, left my spare keys and garage opener sitting in my garage space for the world to see. Or take.

But still no tears. Just a little hysterical laugh and maybe one big sigh of relief...for now...

tales from a landlord...

It seemed like such a perfect situation. After only two weeks of having my condo up for rent last July, I'd found two female roommates, a bit young, but enthusiastic, seemingly responsible and rather excited about setting up house in my place. They oozed kindness, with promises of keeping the place immaculate (ok, I didn't totally trust that, since even I'm not that clean, but still, better than two 20-something partying dudes. Or so I thought.)

How wrong I was.

I should have known there would be problems when the Liars (as I will refer to them from here on out), on move-in weekend, hit the Lexus SUV parked next to my space, admitted it, then denied it, then agreed to pay for it because they didn't want to report it to insurance.

Fall came and rent checks with it. I gave up my commute, lived in a cheaper place and had someone else paying my mortgage. Life was good.

And then, the Liars began using my balcony as a sort of dumpster--throwing urine over it into the neighbor's small front yard. Of course, what one person calls urine, another could call dirty water. Or beer. So I kept my cool.

And I stayed calm, when, right around the blessed Christmas season, my Lexus SUV neighbors called to say the Liars were at it again. But this time, when they hit the car, they were a little more creative: They took a Sharpie to the scratch to cover it up. And then: Denial. They weren't parked in the space all weekend. But then they were. But no way they hit the car, except that the red paint on the Lexus matched the red paint on the little Camaro.

I smoothed things over, agreeing to pay half the damage because there were no cameras to really prove anything.

And I stayed calm, when, a week later I received a $250 fine because of a domestic disturbance visit the police had to make to my place. When I asked the increasingly neurotic Liars about the police visit it went something like this:

Julie: Did the police come to the condo in November?

Liars: No, not at all.

Julie: So they didn't come even though Lisa, the neighbor, called?

Liars: Not that we remember.

Julie: Even though she has a police report? Care to revise your story?

Liars: Ohhhh...yes...I do remember ONCE a cop did come.

Apparently there was screaming, things crashing, someone pleading, "please, don't! STOP!"--but the urine-throwers, not surprisingly, said nothing was wrong.

And so, with the rent checks still coming in, I held my breath.

And I kept my cool when, in February, Liar 1 lost her job and both Liars decided they needed to move out ASAP. While this was a relief to all my complaining neighbors around me, I was a bit panicked because the renting market is horrible in the winter and, right now, totally oversaturated in the city.

So when I didn't find renters, I figured something was better than nothing and took the Liars up on their offer to pay what they could afford, and what I thought fair, month-to-month. In general, those were two very different numbers, but we settled on something that was beneficial to all three of us.

Except that April 30, a few hours before rent was due for May, the Liars text to say:

"We can't afford it. Moving out tomorrow."

And then, I started to crack. Growing up with an attorney father, Gail and I loved threatening legal action (whether or not he really was qualified to handle our particular cases). And so, it seemed natural at this point to respond with a text that went something like this:

"Tlk to ur parents. Scrape the money together. Do what you have to do to get the money or I will sue."

Bingo. Money was wired to me the next day. (Too bad I can't use that trick on more people.)

But right around the same time, I received the final email from my association, informing me that the Liars, after staying away from the balcony all the cold winter months, had resumed throwing all sorts of paraphanalia (how DO you spell that word?) to the yard below...fun things like bedroom toys and doggie chew toys (similar?), useful things like marijuana bowls and cigarette lighters, wine glasses and liquor bottles.

And still, I stayed collected, as we decided the Liars (of course, having no idea how anything ended up off the balcony) would move out May 26.

And I remained calm when I returned to examine my place just last week, seeing it a little worse for the wear: Custom shade down. Coffee stain on the wall. Furniture scuff marks everywhere. Cigarette smoke hovering. A hole, the size of my face, in one bedroom wall. The Liars attributed this to "normal wear and tear when moving" but it's really only believable if moving involved a battering ram.

Deep breaths. These things are fixable. And so, I waited until this past weekend, when the Liars were to have all of their stuff removed (minus items lost over the balcony) and I could clean and show the place. In one last cry for mercy, and in one last weak moment, I let Liar 1 stay until the end of this week (May 29 to be exact), on the guarantee that her things would be out and she would just be sleeping on the floor.

Imagine my surprise (well, kind of) when I stopped in Wednesday night, only to find all of her things still in my place. When I asked that she be out by Friday so friends of mine could stay for a week, she sent me a text that went something like this:

"Can I give my mom ur #? She says I have the right to 'quiet enjoyment of my unit' until June 1. She would like to talk to u."

And my controlled persona began to crumble at the mention of her rights. Not to mention "quiet enjoyment of her unit." Nothing about her tenure in my place has been quiet. And so I responded:

"Please, send her my number. And I'll explain how you broke the lease, how I didn't evict you, how you were to move out May 26 but I've made yet another exception for you. But sure. I'd love to talk to her about your rights."

Surely, I believed, no adult would have her mother call after a response like this. But I was wrong. Fifteen minutes before I was to meet my one-week renters Wednesday night, I received a call from Liar's Mother.

I didn't crack when I heard about the police report or when I exchanged over 30 emails with my association about the Liars' behavior. I held it together when the lease was broken, when cars were hit, when my lovely little condo endured damage at the hands of the Liars.

But the minute I heard, "Hi Julie. This is Liar 1's mother...; I'm concerned that she's been wronged by you," I certifiably lost it.

To be continued...

they're called dreams for a reason...

with Julie Navatsyk

I had a dream once, a dream of owning a lovely little place in Chicago, in a neighborhood full of nice people, where I would wake up every day, whistle my way to buying fresh coffee, greeting all the locals as I walked--only to return home and write short stories, pausing for a nap whenever I wanted.

Of course, the stories would turn into a book, the book would be one that Oprah couldn't get enough of and I would spend the rest of my days at book signings, inspiring others with talks of living out my childhood dreams...and mainly relaxing in an idyllic home in the tropics.

So almost four years ago, after very little research, I put down money on an 800-sq-ft condo in the West Loop, an up-and-coming neighborhood that happened to be where Oprah's studio is housed. Some people buy $300 shoes as a guilty pleasure; I bought a home. And there the dream ends.

Or rather, there it turns into not quite a nightmare, but one of those dreams where you feel oh-so-uncomfortable and can't wait to wake up and then spend the rest of the day relieved that you weren't still stuck in a horribly awkward non-waking world.

From the day I was supposed to close on it, up until now, really, it has been one big proverbial albatross around my neck--with a few months of peaceful living and great parties thrown in here and there.

Because I never wrote my book or Oprah never got her hands on it (both big problems), I ended up writing lots of promotional materials, brochures and websites over a 2-year period, believing that I loved living from month-to-month and paying my own health insurance. But let's be honest, an employer-paid PPO is a great thing, so when I had the chance to jump back into corporate, I did so with abandon.

The only problem: I was driving up to 3-hours a day, arriving at work white-knuckled, exhausted and angry, hating traffic. The only thing that made sense: rent out my "dream" home and move to the suburbs. Seemed like a good idea, great idea really; hold onto my investment, let someone else pay my mortgage and rent a cheap place out west.

This was last August. Since then, my tenants have caused a number of problems, repeatedly hitting the car I parked next to, trying to cover up scratches on said car with a Sharpie, and reportedly throwing urine, liquor, wine glasses, a marijuana bowl and, shall we say, bedroom toys, off the balcony, into a neighboring yard, where I'm sure they haven't been put to good use. What a sad waste.

And did I mention they broke their lease 5 months early, leaving me scrambling, in these harsh economic times, in a neighborhood full of about a gazillion 2 bedrooms to rent, struggling to find new tenants? But more on those struggles later.

After receiving the email tonight from my association president informing me of the drugs and bedroom toys littering the neighborhood, I decided to take a little walk down memory lane, revisiting the drama that is my urban home ownership story. Some of you know it and might enjoy sharing in my misery yet again, and some of you might just love reading about it for the first time.

So below, you'll find a Top Ten Home Horrors list of sorts, chronicling the six-month period from July 2006-January 2007 when I first closed on my home and then lived through subsequent "disasters." Dennis, who I mention quite a few times, was the construction manager I had on speed dial.

In no particular order...events unfold according to corresponding numbers...

10 ... times (at the minimum) Dennis, my construction manager, thanked me for still smiling. like when he said, "Julie, i've never seen anything like this; i feel as if we built your unit over an Indian burial ground." I liked to tell him my shrill laughter was teetering on the edge of hysteria and that was nothing for him to look forward to.  

10 ... approximate number of construction men I woke up to staring at me from the fourth-floor scaffolding of the building next door; was quite sad when they finished up two weeks later.  

9 ... times I asked the Eastern European construction man --who came to my place with a jackhammer the size of my lower body--if I shld move the furniture while he blasted away at my floor. Why 9 times? He didn't understand a word i was saying. So I took to screaming while dust and wood flew around my tv. He just kept saying, "Where's Dennis?"  

8 ... times I called the furniture company regarding a couch that was 4 weeks late for delivery. I was told things like, oh yes, it's sitting in our warehouse. Why??? Because no one had thought to move it, even though I had called 7 other times about it.  

7 ... record number of times I called Dennis in ONE DAY, regarding a broken disposal, the idiot cable guy, possible permanent electrical damage in my reconstructed living room wall (see number 1 for more on wall).  

6 ... as in the 6-pack Dennis offered as a peace offering after a particularly grueling week (see number 3 for more details). Kindly, he suggested he buy me a 6-pack to "get my weekend buzz on." Unfortunately, it was going to take much more than that to make me forget ...  

5 ... calls to my suburban cable company that kindly charged me $520 for "lost" equipment. Read: equipment that I returned and they lost. On the 3rd call, I lost my mind, unfortunately for the attendant who was trying to help me. That was the low point (sometime mid-September). i AM happy to report two months later i received a reimbursement check.  

4 ... attempted set-ups of my cable/internet. Somehow, I've lived in 4 different places my adult life and I've managed to get cable hooked up. Not this time! Nope, hours of visits, a man who wanted to drill MORE holes in my wall, run more wires, and who gave me a lesson on directions, standing on my balcony yelling and gesturing, NORTH SOUTH EAST WEST; plus another man who didn't bring any equipment with him, but who was clad head-to-toe in Baltimore Orioles gear...and then Dennis, hooking it up illegally for me. So I lived without ESPN and Fox News and E!, but i also didn't pay for it. Finally a break!   

3 ... mortgages I had over a certain worrisome period in July (there is NO WAY I should have been approved for that type of thing and to this day, I employ the don't ask, don't tell policy with my broker). 

3 ... installations of my hardwood floor. That's right. Lay it, tear it up. And repeat. And this is so much fun let's do it again. And while we're at it, we'll bring in the giant jackhammers and cover everything in dust once again.   

3 ... times I locked myself IN my condo due to poor sealing (or something like that) ... the longest being 45 minutes, which made me contemplate jumping from my third-story balcony, hoping I landed on anything but my head. 

2 ... layers of drywall in shoddily reconstructed living room wall, resulting in 2 electrical plates hanging loosely on said wall. 

1 ... living room window left uncaulked, leading to ...   

1 ... living room wall totally drenched and destroyed in a thunderstorm, also the catalyst for the second ripping up of and third laying of the hardwood floor (see number 3) and all the jack-hammering and language barriers that went with it. The same living room wall would have to be re-drywalled again eight months later, due to some strange leaking.   


Had enough? I certainly have. Anyone want to buy a dream condo?