Damn Swede

Yeah, I don’t know what it means either.

Annie and I did, in fact, go to dinner last night. But first I went to see her new condo, which was fabulous. We shared a bottle of wine while we chatted. When the wine was done, we went to the restaurant and claimed “our spots” at the bar. We ordered another bottle of wine and the maytag blue cheesecake appetizer. We had a discussion about which second appetizer to order. “Do you like escargot?” The bartender swore it was delicious and it was Annie’s birthday, so we ordered the escargot. It was good. According to Annie, it was perfectly prepared. It didn’t taste like I thought it would, it actually had a lot of flavor and wasn’t too chewy.

Our meals were delicious too - I had the hanger steak which was served on imported feta polenta with kumquats and a blueberry sauce. Annie had duck something. I had casually mentioned several times that it was Annie’s birthday dinner, so like any good restaurant should, they brought out a comped dessert. It was a chocolate mousse with a whipped cream and cookie crumble topping.

After reviewing the dessert menu, Annie suggested we have a dessert drink instead. We both ordered chocolate martinis and then one more to split. They offered a “Great Pumpkin Martini,” which looked good but I was too scared to commit. Because of our good rapport with the bartender, he made us a mini-pumpkin martini to taste. It was really delicious.

Yeah, so this morning I am feeling a little saucy. Not necessarily hungover, but not entirely not hungover. A bottle of wine and 1.5 martinis will do that to you. I guess technically two martinis, if you count the taster martini. But I don’t.

Are you fucking kidding me?

My loyal followers will remember an earlier post about how I lost my passport, though I knew I had “hidden” it in a safe place. I was talking to a friend on the phone and needed something quiet to do during our conversation so I decided to tear apart my office to find the ever-elusive passport.

I went through every single file folder in my two-drawer cabinet. Not there.

I moved every single book on my five-shelve bookcase. Not there.

I took everything out of my bench cabinet and went through all six CD storage bins. Not there.

I took every drawer out of my six-drawer closet organizer. Not there. (But I did reorganize them before I put them back in. You know I couldn’t help myself.)

“Shit!”

I said it again louder, for effect. It was definitely not in the office. But where else could it be? I’ve used that suitcase multiple times since then. “Shit!” I said again, this time spinning around the office. My grandfather’s old cigar box on the shelf caught my eye. Not there. But it felt warmer. I went through his old Bibles stacked on same shelf. Not there. It seemed so familiar though, so I moved every frame, checking behind each. Behind the last picture on the top shelf, there it was. My passport, with my Social Security Card tucked inside.

Are you fucking kidding me?

How did I ever think I was going to remember that secret location? Now maybe I will go to Sweden. (Erik, I’m looking at you.)

Shortly after I wrote the earliest post, I realized I had a splitting headache.  My eyes were pleading with me to stop looking at screens.  I turned off the TV, watered the plants, cleaned the kitchen, made my bed, and started packing things for this weekend.  It is amazing how in that short time my headache started to melt away.  Amazing or sad.

Anywho, I am on for dinner with Annie (which I knew I was), so I am starting to feel the pressure of getting things done (which I knew would happen).  Unfortunately, several of the things I have to do involve the computer, but even listening to music instead of watching TV while doing it is way better.

Mmmmmm, bleu cheesecake with roasted pecans and pear sorbet is in my future.  For those interested, this is where we are going:  http://www.maystreetmarket.com

As I mentioned previously, I came home from my parents’ house yesterday. I am off work until January 2nd, so I have the freedom to do whatever I please. So far, that’s involved sitting on my ass.

I thought I would do all these important things, like find my passport, fix my elliptical machine and put plastic on my windows. I guess there is still time. I did do all the laundry and it is folded and put away. And I did try to fix my elliptical machine this morning. I put a half a can of WD-40 on the broken screw and I could not get it to budge. The good news is that I found the replacement screw in my storage bin, so I just need a big strong man to come over and take the broken one out. Now where can I find a big strong man . . .

Another goal was to finally watch all my DVR had to offer, which is super-conducive to ass-sitting. When I first got it, I recorded any movie I was remotely interested in watching off HBO. For the last six months I’ve had my own private video store at a push of a button. Thanks to the writer’s strike, over the last month I’ve watched several movies, leaving only six or seven titles left. Yesterday alone I watched “16 Blocks” with Bruce Willis, “Inside Man” with Denzel and “Hollywoodland” with Adrian Brody and a bunch of other people. I’m indifferent mostly to action movies, so to say it was good really just means it was reasonably entertaining. Hollywoodland was just okay. The good news is, thanks to my diligent movie watching yesterday, I only have three movies left, two of which I have already seen but wanted to watch again. Oh, and I tried to watch “Munich” this morning and after an hour I really did know or care what was going on so I deleted it.

Last I heard, I am taking my friend Annie out for her birthday dinner tonight. This means that I will shower and probably start feeling a pressure to get something done within an hour or so. Oh, and I have to do the minutes from the last parish council meeting, send my sister-in-law a grocery list for this weekend and balance the old checkbook-er-roo. Those things, though done while ass-sitting, are not conducive to the ass-sitting way of life. They also will only take about a cumulative hour to complete.

You know I am only writing this blog so I can add it to the list of things I’ve accomplished today, don’t you? I thought so.

My parents live thirty-five miles northwest of Chicago, but it might as well be a different country. Or, the country.

I just returned to the city after five days at my parents’ house. They were filled with holiday festivities, eating and naps. I took Friday off of work to help make brunch for my grandmother’s 90th birthday, so my dad asked me if I wanted to join him at the local YMCA for a swim. I agreed, so long at it was not a 7:00 AM wake up call.

We headed to the Y at about 10:00. “Do you have an extra lock for me?” I asked, as we prepared to leave. “What do you need a lock for?” my dad replied. I looked at him. “For my stuff?” I said with a tone of “duh” in my voice. “No one is going to take it,” he replied and that was the end of it.

I tried again in the Y parking lot. “Seriously, what I am I going to do with my wallet, my clothes?” “Leave your wallet in the car.” “Are you going to lock the car?” “No one is going to take it,” again was the reply. “What about my clothes?” “Who’s going to want your clothes?” He had a point. I’ve had that sweatshirt since mid-college.

As we walked in, he sighed. “You can use the Girls locker room instead of the Womens’. There’s less people in there; if you are worried about your stuff.”

I found an out-of-the-way locker - the one most people would choose last, only if all the other lockers were taken. I folded my clothes and place them neatly in the locker. I took a last look at my new Converse tennis shoes, feeling a little sad at the thought of them being stolen.

I met my dad at the pool and we swam laps. “Now this is the part where I do leg lifts,” he said at the deep end of the pool. We clung to the side of the pool and I mirrored his actions, lifting my legs up and down until he indicated it was enough. At the middle of the pool, we stopped again. “Now we exercise our ankles, here where the bottom starts to slope.” Again I mirrored him. After a time, we ran in place lifting our knees as high as possible. After several more laps, we were done with our workout.

“No one took anything?” my dad said when we met in the lobby. “Is your wallet still there?” he asked again when we got to the car. No one took anything and my wallet was still there. The twinkle in his eye conveyed how silly he thought my concerns were.

I’ve been robbed four times; all times were car break-ins. The first time it took me months to get over the violation I felt from having something of mine taken from me. Living in the city, leaving something out, unlocked is a virtual request to have it taken from you. After living in a city environment for ten years, it is hard to readjust to a simpler time. One where you can leave your car running in your driveway for over ten minutes or where you don’t have to lock up your stuff at the local Y. What is harder still is realizing that world still exists somewhere. Somewhere thirty-five miles from here.