so long, farewell

For tonight's dinner, I'll be having a ginormous healthy salad, chock full of eggs and chicken and all that good protein-heavy stuff.

Because for this morning's breakfast, I'm having apple cider and a gluten-free almond raspberry breakfast cake; a.k.a. carb-o-rama.

Fall is here, which means the Farmers Market at Daley Plaza is on its way out. So, until summer returns, awesome market, I bid you adieu.

The title of this post is from one of the most adorable scenes the cinema ever did see.

Spring renewal

My apartment lease for the upcoming rental year, which I slapped my Herbie Hancock on and slipped under my landlord's door this morning.

Since that pesky Daylight Savings went into effect this past Saturday, I've been fortunate enough to be able to watch the sunrise from the bus on my way to work every morning. I've taken that same bus ride for a good four years and witnessed that sunrise from different views, thanks to different morning commutes, for almost eight years. Yet every morning this week, I've found myself thinking how amazing it still is to me that I call this place home. And mean it.

(Photo not mine but ooooooh, so pretty!)

how *do* you solve a problem like anticipation?

When cleaning out one's closet a week before Thanksgiving, it just makes good space-saving sense to pull out the 4.5-foot apartment-sized Christmas tree out and set it up in one's apartment-sized apartment, don't you think? Yeah, me too. I know it's a bit on the early side but while I was doing it, I figured I might as well get out the decorations and have at it. I'm antsy, damnit and I will not be ashamed.

Even though decoration-wise, I'm somewhat skipping over Thanksgiving, I'm very much excited for it this year; more so than I have been in the past. Since having moved to Chicago a gazillion years ago (okay, seven), I've spent several Thanksgivings by myself, which doesn't bother me. But this year, the parental units are hopping on the train, which will allow us to finally spend the holiday in my home instead of theirs. I do wish my brother could tag along so the four of us could spend it together but it gets a bit easier every year to adapt to the ever-changing holiday traditions.

This year, we're changing it up big time by not cooking dinner on Thanksgiving Day and instead, going out. Mom and Dad and I will be headed to for what I've heard is a delicious traditional Thanksgiving dinner. They'll be arriving a week from today, which is the day of the tree lighting ceremony at Daley Plaza. I've seen the tree plenty of times but I've never been to the ceremony and it's something my parents would love to see as well, so that's Item #1 on the intinerary.

'Cause what's not to love about watching Christmas come alive in the city?

(Photo stolen from here.)

The rest of the plans for the long weekend involve roaming around to see the downtown holiday lights / decorations and Friday night, we'll be going to The Sound of Music Sing-a-Long at Music Box Theatre, an awesome within-walking-distance theatre known for its independent and foreign films.

The next weekend? It's off to New York City with my mother and aunts and cousins for a Girls' Christmas Weekend!

I heart the holidays.

oh Fred Phelps, you amuse me so

As a north side Chicago gal, I'm not too terribly familiar with the south side, except for what I hear and read.

But if I'm not mistaken, the location of Bernie Mac's memorial service, the one Fred Phelps and his Merry Band of Asshats are planning to picket, is in a neighborhood that, since the late 80s early 90s, has been referred to as the Wild Hundreds, thanks to its violence and crime.

Since they're not only wildly homophobic but racist as well, that 98% African American statistic of the neighborhood should bode real well for Phelps.

Here's to the possibility of Bernie Mac's memorial service being every bit as entertaining as he often was.

city livin' sexual harassment

Quick re-cap:

1. MTA gets set to launch an anti-sexual harassment subway campaign
2. Woman writes an op-ed piece regarding the upcoming ads
3. Douchebag, while entitled to his opinion, informs the woman of it in this delightfully offensive, sexist stupid ass letter:

Dear Courtney,

I read your opinions about the MTA raising awareness about sexual misconduct on the subways and found it very naive and written from a very white-middle-class-women-studies-privaleged perspective. You are correct that women have been dealing with this kind of stuff from guys for years, but what about how women dress in the subways? Today (after reading your opinion) while on the subway, I saw a woman sit near me with a very low cut shirt and very large tits...she looked hot! I totally stared at her tits any chance I could get...which is probably why she wore the shirt right? I also see scores of women with those cotton summer dresses on and just a thong underneath, so you see their asses bobbling around under the skirt. That sounds like blaming the victim right? Well when you leave almost nothing to the imagination, it doesn't take much for it to run wild. This is not to say you whip your cock out at any moment or press your boner on any tart that wears a hot outfit, but where they "asking for it"? I know you are probably fuming by now, but from the looks of your picture you probably don't get sexually harrassed much, so maybe you are jealous of all of the hot-ass bitches with the big titties, shaved snatches and round asses that get some action underground.

hells to the motherfuckin' yeah!!!!

ChanceNoble (snhca@exit3.com)
Typos and misspellings, of course, are his.

I was initially going to email this asshat but I decided he really isn't worth the personal attention and instead, I'll just respond in my own little piece of the internet.

A. Not all women get dressed in the morning thinking, “okay, what will draw the most attention from the most men?” You know why some women wear low cut shirts? Because they like how their tits look in them. Because they like the style. Because they like the color. Because they like the fit. Because it’s hot and they don’t want to wear a turtleneck in the middle of August. Because it makes them feel good. It’s hard enough having bodaciously bigger tatas because they’re just plain gonna be stared at, no matter what’s covering them. But to be made to feel like they have to be covered so as not to allow some stranger to assume their size automatically means their owner is a huge, always willing slut is ridiculous.

B. I don’t understand thongs, I don’t. I think they’re uncomfortable and I’m guessing they’re fairly problematic for women prone to unpleasant girlie infections. But that’s just me. I don’t give a tiny rat’s ass what women wear as underwear or if they wear underwear at all, for that matter. But a thong and a summer dress isn’t “leaving almost nothing to the imagination,” it’s “wearing what one is comfortable in.” This drives me batty because really, either way….we’re fucked. If we wear the thongs with a summer dress, we’re big, skanky whores. If we wear granny panties with the summer dress, we’re probably uptight prudes who like only the missionary position. Should we really not be allowed to make our own decisions when it comes to covering our asses?

C. And my personal favorite…”from the looks of your picture you probably don’t get sexually harassed much.” Sexual harassment isn’t a compliment. It isn’t a nice way for a guy to say, “hey, I find you visually appealing and I’d like to get to know you better.” It’s a way to objectify women, break them down into body parts, publicly humiliate them, and reinforce the misconception that we exist solely for men’s enjoyment. Not too long ago, I stayed after work and had a few drinks for a co-worker’s birthday, accidentally forgot there was a Cubs game that night and took the bus home that goes right by Wrigley Field. Thanks to several beers, I was about to pee my freaking pants and decided to get off the bus right at Wrigley Field, run into the McDonald’s across the street, and then hop back on the bus. So after I peed, I walked to the corner, waited for the bus, and proceeded to people watch the yuppie tools in the bar across from me. A few minutes later, a group of guys walked by; 2 of whom were probably about my age and 3 who were maybe in their late 30s, early 40s. They walked directly in front of me to a limo that was waiting for them and one made me the oh so polite offer of, “hey baby, how about you come with us instead of the bus (accompanied by grabbing what I can only assume was his tiny, little, insecure, 5-minute lasting cock)? I’ll be a better ride, I promise!” And you know what? I’m not 5’9”, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a size 6 figure. I’m 5’5” with brown hair and a size 16 figure. I’m by no means hideous but I’m not attractive according to society-accepted and supported standards. And get your surprise face out…I was still physically “assaulted” before I was really old enough to fully comprehend it (I use quotes simply because I’ve never really put a definition on it that I’m comfortable with). And I remember exactly where I was, what I was doing, and even what I was wearing. And it wasn’t a thong, a push-up bra, and fishnets. It was jeans and a long sleeve shirt that in no way accentuated the girlie gifts that are my tits. Neither sexual harassment nor sexual assault is set aside for perfectly pretty girls. It’s set aside for every girl who someone wants to make feel…less than.

D. Contrary to what society and the media tends to throw in our faces the majority of the time, not all of us feel the need to have huge tits and naughty bits that look like they belong to a pre-pubescent girl. Life is not a porn set and not all of us walk out into the world everyday lookin’ to “get some underground action.” Because, ya know, that would equate to our wanting full-on consensual underground sex. For those who’d like to fuck in a dark corner of the subway, have right the hell at it. I hope it’s phenomenal for both (or all) of those involved. But groping and / or rubbing up against and / or strokin’ one off on your way to work in the morning and / or telling us you’d like to tap that or hit that or whatever other phrase equates to “hows about we fuck?”…that’s not full-on consensual sex. It’s sexual harassment. Most of us prefer iPods or books while going about our day on public transportation. We’re on our way to work or the park or the store or wherever we may be headed, just like you are. Those harsh fluorescent lights aren’t going to turn into flattering spotlights, you’re not gonna hear the “bow chica bow bow” music start up over the speakers, and the F train or the 6 or the Red Line isn’t going to suddenly morph into the set of Subway Sluts #23. The day is going to proceed just as it was. And mothers and sisters and aunts and friends and lovers are going to continue to go about their business, expecting nothing less than the respect and courtesy given to the fathers and brothers and uncles and friends and lovers sitting next to them.

and now, I give you...

a snippet from my soon-to-be-written book, Get on the Bus...and the Etiquette That Should Follow.

1. If you're forced to stand, move to the back.
I know you want to be near the door so you don't have to push your way through when you're ready to get off. I know you hate being ass-to-ass with strangers but it's the bus...that's how morning rush hour on the #22 works. If you move to the back, it's pretty likely you'll be close enough to the door in the back so that you won't have to claw through people to get out. It'll be okay, really.

2. If you decide to stand up front, do not stand directly in front of the card reader.
Part of the joy of having the Chicago Card Plus is that you simply wave it in front of the card reader and you're on your merry way to (hopefully) sitting down. Do not stand directly in front of the reader so that when someone gets on the bus and attempts to pay their fare, they can't because you're standing there completely oblivious to the world around you. And when they say "excuse me," don't look at them as if they just inconvenienced you by asking you to move 2 steps so they can go about their day. It's common sense, really.

3. Backpacks. Oh, dear god, the backpacks.
We live in the city. A lot of people carry them. However, this doesn't mean they have to be glued to your back for the duration of your commute. If you have a backpack that is stuffed full of everything you own, the courteous thing to do is to take that backpack off so you're not shoving it in someone's face the entire ride. Especially if you're standing and there are a gazillion people standing with you. Take it off, hang on to it, and hold it at your feet. People will thank you. I'll thank you.

4. If you insist on chatting on your cell phone, do it semi-quietly.
If you're in the middle of the bus and I'm at the front of the bus with my headphones on (which I tend to listen to a bit on the loud side) and I can hear you on your phone? You're talking too loudly. I don't expect everyone to enjoy the peace and quiet like I do in the morning but I don't care what boy you hooked up with on Friday night and I don't care that you couldn't decide what outfit to wear this morning or that you forgot to call your father yesterday. Please use your indoor voice.

5. When a very large woman who has somewhat of a tough time walking gets on, don't say to the person sitting next to you, 'and people looked at me as if I was rude to get on with this suitcase? The way I see it, it's the same as someone that size getting on, ya know?'
No, I don't know. Because it's not the same and here's why. You have a thing with you. A possession. The overweight woman who just got on is a person. She's not carrying a thing with her, she's carrying herself. She's a real, live, breathing person who ought to be able to get on the bus without some bitch whispering to the person in the seat next to her and chastizing the overweight girl for not weighing whatever magical weight it is this week that doctors are saying is "normal." She has as much of a right to ride the bus as you do and she's just as entitled as you are to common courtesy from others. I hope the airline loses your precious luggage.

5. Don't look at me as if to say, 'Huh. Why'd you do that?' when I thank the bus driver.
He or she just provided me with a very valuable service. Do they sometimes do it as if their secret passion in life is NASCAR? Sure. Do they sometimes do it as if they're secretly 90-years-old and can barely see over the steering wheel? Sure. But they just allowed you to read for a bit or listen to some music and relax or catch up your emails or any other number of things you wouldn't (or at least, shouldn't) have been doing had you driven yourself to work. Karma, my friends. Karma.

6. Push your own god damn door open.
If I'm behind you and you're the first one in line to push those doors in the back open so we can all get off, don't stand there and wait for me to do it. It's not my fault you can barely manage to hold yourself up on your 3-inch heels while balancing your 13-gallon handbag on one shoulder and your cell phone on the other. I'm not your fucking door woman.

Expected publication date: unknown.