When Fiction Gets For Realz

Ernest Warren

I’ve always enjoyed reading; however, I’ve only recently discovered how much I enjoy reading historical fiction. I recently picked up The Paris Wife: A Novel and couldn’t help but get lost in the romance of Ernest Hemingway and his first wife, Hadley, in the roaring ’20s in Paris. I also couldn’t help but notice the similarities between my and Warren’s  relationship and Ernest and Hadley’s relationship.

Considering I knew the book was about his first wife, implying other wives, I probably never should have picked up the book in the first place.

When I think about it now, the similarities between us and them really aren’t that significant. Hadley lived in St. Louis, and first met Ernest, who was eight years her junior, when she was visiting a friend in Chicago. After they met, they sent letters, sometimes two or three a day, back and forth to each other. When Warren, who is six years my senior, visited Chicago from St. Louis, it was to take classes at Second City, where he met me. Instead of writing letters, we exchanged texts.  And yet, that was enough for me to decide I was exactly like Hadley and Warren was exactly like Ernest.

So when their relationship in the book started to deteriorate, as I knew it would, I was surprised to find myself a little…pissed off…at  imaginary, non-existent Ernest Warren.

Whenever I read the book, I would get a sinking sensation in my stomach. I even had a nightmare about Ernest Warren inviting another women to live with us. When I woke up and told Warren about the dream, we laughed at how crazy I was, but I couldn’t help but feel a little sad that love just wasn’t enough for Ernest and Hadley.

Don’t worry, I’ve finished The Paris Wife: A Novel and am now reading the fourth Twilight book, Breaking Dawn, I’m sure it won’t affect me the same way…

Edward Warren Jacob

Poll of Life – Wig. Busted.

If you’ve attended a dress-up event with me in the past 9 months, chances are, I wore fake hair. You probably already know this because, when I wear my fake hair, I can’t shut up about it.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a wedding or a fancy black-tie optional event with coworkers, I will wear my fake hair, then whisper to anyone who will listen, that it is, indeed fake. Then I sit back for all the compliments about how awesome and real it looks. Because it is, in fact, awesome, and it does, in fact, look real.

Then I flip my fake hair over my shoulder. Then I ask Dubs if my clips are showing.

I wish I was the type of lady who could take a compliment, and not explain every last detail of how before my sister’s wedding, I went to a wig shop and bought a bunch of real human hair that happens to match my hair perfectly, then proceeded to sew on wig clips to make my own homemade hair extensions.

I, clearly, am not that kind of lady.

And thus, today’s (should have been yesterday’s) poll.

Guest Post!!!

Live In Boyfriend, Warren Arnold is sharing a post from his blog today!

Signs That Warren Arnold Has Been Unemployed Too Long

(Submitted from brainforthought.wordpress.com)

- As of June 14, I have authored fourteen volumes of Charmed fan fiction. (Next up: Vol 15, Phoebe goes bikini shopping).

- Google now flashes the message “I’m tired Warren. Read a book.”

- My tears have ruined the carpet.

- I’m attempting to broker peace between a family of Golden Warblers and the local squirrels. (Update: Talks have broken down. I’m heading for the panic room, aka the bathroom).

- I am now aware that there is a fifth hour of the Today show, but it’s hosted by a couple of old guys who drink a lot.

- I built a robot out of a coffee grinder, a wet-dry vac, and the Nintendo Wii. His name is Tyler, and we’re friends.

- I’ve discovered the hidden, magical universe called the neighbor’s trash cans.

- I gave myself a performance review and promoted myself to Chief Testicular Office and Supervisor of the Mott’s Applesauce.

- It’s only a matter of days before the mommy’s group I joined discovers that I’m not a former manager of Forever 21 named Lisa, and my six-month old boy is a dead chihuahua.

I Can’t Believe You Threw Away the Perfectly Good I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter!

I’m going to tell you a little story. I’m not proud of it, but this blog is one of truth and integrity, and thus, I must share.

Last week, I wasn’t feeling well when I got home from work. My plan was to wash some toast with I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter (from the tub, not the spray) down with some NyQuil and hit the hay. After I made Dubs feel my head to confirm I was deathly feverish, I popped some toast in the toaster, and went to grab the I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter.

But that little yellow tub was not there! I moved beer bottles and almost empty milk cartons, but, alas, it could not be found!

Then I remembered. Warren cleaned the fridge in preparation for our overnight guests. He must know where the I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter is.

He did not.

It dawned on me that my live-in boyfriend never used the I Can’t Believe it’s Butter, and likely did not know what was in that happy little yellow tub. Not knowing what it was or when it was purchased, he must have thrown it out in a cleaning frenzy.

That’s when I got really, really, some might say irrationally, mad.

“Well that’s just GREAT,” I cried, as I popped the toast up from the toaster, and threw it on a paper towel. “I guess I’ll just eat these DRY.” Then, leaving Warren opened mouthed in the kitchen, I stormed into the living room to eat my dry, dry toast.

About midway through the first slice, I realized I was being just a tiny bit insane.

That’s when I looked at Warren, who had tiptoed into the living room so as not to surprise the bear, and said, “I’m sorry, I got so mad. I just really wanted toast with I Can’t Believe it’s Not Better.”

We hugged. Then I went to bed.

The I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter has yet to be replaced.

TV Turned on by Sports

I recently discovered an interesting phenomenon in my APT that must be shared.

Every time I turn on the TV when Warren is not home, sports of some nature, of some kind, in some place, are on.

EVERY time.

That is all.

Poll of Life – Finger-cuttin-off good!

Yesterday the live-in boyfriend bought a hand saw.

I know. I’m afraid too.

It started when he bought a window air conditioning unit. When he tried to install it, he found out the window was ridiculously too big for the unit. This led to a trip to Home Depot where he bought some wood, a saw and some duct tape. Today he is going to attempt to make that unit fit. Even if it means losing a finger.

He seems a little offended that I’m convinced he’s going to cut off his hand. It’s not that I doubt his ability to man up and cut some wood (without a vice, safety goggles or adult supervision). It’s just that my experience with home repair isn’t a positive one. Growing up, whenever something needed to be done around the house, it always started off with smiles and good intentions and ended in arguments and blood.

So, with my faith 100 percent in Warren’s ability to avoid injury, and with one hand on the 911 speed dial, I bring you today’s Poll of Life.

Nothing Says Motivation like Overnight Guests

So this past Memorial Day weekend, we had Dubs’ homies from the STL come and stay with us.

For the record, I’m extremely paranoid about having people over. I did not grow up in a household where people stopped over unannounced. Not because my family didn’t have any friends, more so because my family is a bunch of messy faces who need plenty of prep time to clean for a visit. Every holiday was spent furiously sweeping the steps and tighetening handles on cabinets ’cause God forbid Aunt Cathy opens a cabinet, and the handle falls off in her hand (this is me channeling my mom who is complaining about my dad’s ability to focus on the small things when there are a million other things that need to be done, also another very important aspect of holiday prep).

In my grown-up life, when a friend dropped me off and asked if she could come up and use the bathroom, I said no, because there were clothes on my floor.  I realize this may make me look like a jerk, but I kindly accompanied her to a public restroom nearby.

But man, nothing will make me clean faster than when I know people are coming over. Thankfully, Dubs is the same way. We got our little one bedroom APT into shape in no time at all. And the boxes that have been sitting in the kitchen since April 1? In storage!

Who cares that we ran out of time before we could deal with the clothes situation in the bedroom? That room has a door that shuts, and, more importantly, the boxes are out of the kitchen! And even better, Warren carried every single one of them down three flights of stairs by himself!

My sister and brother-in-law are coming to visit in July, and I can’t wait to see how clean the apartment will be then!

But family doesn’t really count as company so it’ll probably look about the same as it does now. Eh.

Taxicab Altercations aka Riding in Cabs with AHoles

I had a fight with a cab driver last night.  It got a little crazy. Here’s what went down.

Being the selfish millennial that I am, I rarely carry cash. That’s why, when I get in a cab, I usually state my desired location and mention I am paying with a credit card. The last comment is usually for naught, because I’ve been told by multiple cab drivers it is a law in Chicago for cabs to accept credit cards.

They lied. All of them.

Last night, I hailed a cab after a lovely birthday celebration with my friend, Bridget. I stated my desired location, but, for the first time in my history of riding in cabs, failed to mention I would be paying with a credit card. That, my friends, was a mistake.

When I arrived to my apartment, I handed the card over. My driver, who up to this moment was pleasantly talking to me about the Bulls game that was currently on the radio, flipped on his interior car light to reveal a sign that read “Independent Cab – Does Not Accept Credit Cards.” To which, I boldly responded in my most know-it-all voice, “It’s a law in Chicago, you have to.”

That’s when the yelling started.

I calmly (not really) requested he stop the meter so I could call 311 to report him to the city for holding me hostage in his cab and refusing to accept a credit card. The kind gentleman who answered 311 confirmed it IS a law to accept credit cards.

That’s when the yelling got louder.

The cab driver politely (not at all) insisted I ask about independent cabs to which 311 Nice Man responded, “Shoot. He’s right. There’s 1% of all the cabs in Chicago who do not have to accept credit cards. Sorry. Looks like you are going to have to go to an ATM.”

Shit.

To gather my pride, I kindly requested (through tears) that the cab driver take me to the ATM (about half a mile away) and bring me back to my desired location for no cost because, being only 1% of the cab population in city with approximately 7,000 cabs (Google it), he should have told me from the start that he was unable to accept credit cards. He refused, and turned the meter back on.

That’s when I started yelling.

I forget the specifics – I may have blacked out – but all I remember is muttering something about how I will not pay more than $16 for the ride, while explaining the dangers of leaving a female on the street late at night to be mugged or raped, and if he’s fine with doing that, then that’s just fine. Then I called Dubs to meet me at the ATM so I don’t get raped because the cab driver left me for dead.

Needless to say, I did not tip.

The moral of the story:

I was completely wrong, but that cab driver was a major a-hole. That, and I’m very lucky to have a kind, live-in boyfriend who dropped everything to come pick me up at an ATM because I was misinformed.

To make sure you don’t have this same traumatizing experience, I did a little research regarding the policy on cabs in Chicago. Thanks Wikipedia:

City of Chicago taxicabs must accept credit cards, unless the taxicab is independently owned and operated – that is, the cab does not belong to an affiliation. You can tell that a cab belongs to an affiliation from the logo on the outside door of the cab. Another way to tell if the taxicab that one is riding in is an independently owned taxicab – and therefore not subject to the requirement to accept credit cards – is whether the taxicab has a “partition” between the passenger compartment and the driver. Partitions are mandated for all taxicabs, except independently owned and operated taxicabs.^[6] The enforcement of, and compliance with, the partition rule has an inconsistent history in Chicago. Enforcement of the partition installation requirement has lapsed some occasionally. Fleet cabs must have them, owner operator cabs do not. Drivers have been told they may not install one and other times, they must be installed.

Emergency Poll of Life – L Bombs

So my friend is having a relationship crisis, which I have decided to exploit…I mean, utilize the power of my blog to help her. Yeah. That’s it.

So let’s say you meet a boy. Let’s say you really like him. Let’s say you have been dating for about three months, and let’s say  you may be meeting his parents for the first time this weekend.

And let’s say you are getting the feeling he’s about to drop the L bomb, and you think you might be in L-O, L-O, L-O-V-E, but you aren’t quite sure if you are ready to go there just yet.

What would you do? Feel free to offer your own advice in the comments section as well!

Poll of Life – Sock it to Me

Why are you looking at my feet? No. These are not your socks. They are my socks. Why would you think I would steal your socks? You have big, size 13 man feet, and I have dainty, size 7.5 lady feet.

I’m sorry if you are all out of clean socks.  I have to admit, I’m a little offended you would think I would knowingly borrow a pair of your socks without at least asking if it’s okay.

But, assuming I WAS planning on borrowing a pair, like, in the future or something. Would you let me or would you force me to go sockless? I am NOT going to put on a pair I already wore, that’d be gross. If the situation were reverse, I would totally lend you a pair of my socks. I know they wouldn’t fit, but that’s not the point. The point is that I would let you.

So…is it okay? Cause I’m pretty sure I’m wearing your socks right now. Don’t be mad.