It’s been a long time, I know. I could make excuses about moving and being otherwise busy, but the fact is, it’s been a long time since I had something worthwhile to say.

I started this blog with the intention of its basic theme being rants about my job. Although I generally liked it, I was easily fed up with various ludicrous aspects of it. When I accepted my admission to grad school in May, I thought that the only thing that I would miss would be the paychecks.

I was wrong.

I sit here in my cubicle on my last day in the office, and I feel much sadder then I ever would have expected. I took down all my decorations, phone lists, and schedules, and suddenly I remember what I felt like when I first got here. And suddenly, I am floored with how good this year has been for me.

I got a lot out of this job. I have become much less afraid of face-to-face contact and a much better communicator. My business writing and computer skills have improved tremendously. But more than anything, looking back, I remember the way I have laughed over the past year.

And for that, I thank my co-workers.

We call ourselves the “Western Suburbs” because our cluster of desks is on the western end of the building. We’ve eaten lunch together every day for months. And we’ve talked about childbirth almost every day. We’ve complained about roommates and fiancés and friends and husbands, told every tiny little story of the boring happenings of our lives. We’ve yelled over and through cubicle walls. I’ve had the time of my life.

There’s one memory that I keep coming back to today. It happened about a month ago. I had just returned to work from having my wisdom teeth pulled, and I was in a horrible mood. I ranted for a good ten minutes about how miserable and alone I was, and how my roommates deserted me, and about the work that was waiting for me. My friends, who I will called G-Money here, finally simply looked at me and said, “You look thin.”

I don’t know that I’ve ever been more appreciative of any compliment in my life.

I don’t doubt that I really did look thin that day, as I hadn’t eaten anything but popsicles and applesauce in a week, but regardless of the truth of the statement, G-Money said it because she knew it would make me feel better.

All of my co-workers have had moments like that. I’m starting to realize just how well they’ve gotten to know me, and how comfortable I’ve become around them.

I love and miss my friends from college, but in my coworkers, I feel like I have found my first “girlfriends.” They’re the Miranda to my Carrie Bradshaw. And I will miss that more than I realized until today.

And I want them to know that.

So Shannon, Becky, Nicole, Sarah, and Joyce… if you read this, know that I am so grateful to have met you and I will miss you more than I will be able to tell you in person before I leave today. You’ve been amazing friends to me.

Keep in touch.

I’m standing on the train platform, watching the Brown Line approach. I close my eyes against the rush of wind that hits my face as the front of the train rushes by me. It’s one of my favorite things about the city, that rush of wind. I don’t know why.

I step on the train and sit down in a window seat, watch the people and buildings and trees and the rest of the world rush by. As always, my iPod is on.

How did I get here? How the hell? Close on the steeple of the church. How did I get here, how the hell? Christmas. Christmas Eve last year.

Gosh, how did I get here? I can’t believe it’s been a year since I moved to the city. I think back and try to remember the day when the el started to feel normal, or when I stopped looking up at the skyline. Of course, I can’t remember. I suppose it didn’t happen all at once.

So much has changed in a year. I can rant about corporate politics for hours, I spend entirely too much energy resisting urges to correct grammar or improve the tracking of a page, and I know what widows, picas, and artlogs are. Oh, and Shannon’s right. When I see God at the pearly gates, I am TOTALLY asking for all the time I spent searching for the pi symbol in the character map back.

I cross streets without paying attention to the blinking red hand. I measure distance not by time or miles, but by number of transfers or train stops. I find quiet rather disconcerting and the rumble of the train comforting.

Weird. Weird that the answer to, “How did I get here?” is really simply, “by following my gut.” I had no idea what I was doing when I moved here, but it’s turned out to be a good choice. Even if I do have some crowd rage issues. Oooh. The song changed.

It’s been a long December, and there’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last.

Man, back in January, around the time of my birthday, I can remember thinking that this 23rd year was really looking like it was going to be a good one. Now, here in June, I have to admit it hasn’t been what I’d hoped. I learned a lot about myself though. That’s good right? That’s good.

Although sometimes I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off with some blissful ignorance.

Things are looking up, though. Even though I’m scared about going into debt, I know I made the right decision about grad school. I kind of feel like I’ve already hit my glass ceiling at work, and my manager just doesn’t –

--wait a minute. I turned 23, so that means I’ve been around a full 23 years, and this is my 24th year. So, I thought the 24th year was really looking like it was going to be a good one. Not 23rd. Well, I did think 23rd. But I was wrong. I should have thought 24th.

Anyway. What was I thinking about before?

I dreamed a dream in time gone by. When hope was high and life worth living.

You know what I need? A dream. It’s always bothered me that I don’t really have one. All I really want in life is to be happy. I want to feel connected to people, and I want to do what I can to help the people in my life get what they want. But what do I want, really? I don’t have a clue.

Lately I’ve been thinking that somewhere deep down in my soul, I want to be a writer. I’d like to write a book, but really what I think I’d be good at is writing a newspaper column. People could write in and ask me to go do something and write about the experience. Or just my thoughts on something.

Yeah, I think a newspaper column could be fun. That’s the closest thing I have to a dream.

Which makes it seem odd to most people, including me, that I am about to start a graduate program in educational psychology. I’m really looking forward to it, but I have no idea how or even if I will ever really apply it. After all, I have yet to really use my math degree. I guess I just don’t think the purpose of education should be to get a job.

Hmm.

Talk to me. Baby, won’t you talk to me?

You know, for how many people are in this train car, there’s remarkably little talking going on. They say that humans are social beings, but I’m not convinced. No one talks to people they don’t know, really. Not even small talk.

Well, I shouldn’t say that. I’ve definitely been sitting next to talkers before. And actually, back before I had my iPod, I used to talk to strangers occasionally about their shoes or the books they were reading. Now, I just sit here daydreaming in my own little iPod world. Actually, you never see anyone with a book or an mp3 player talking to anyone. It’s only the people that don’t have anything better to do on the train.

Maybe humans aren’t really social beings at all. Maybe we are just bored beings.

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend, somewhere along in the bitterness.

It really is sad the way friends come and go. It’s not always because of fights or bad blood. Sometimes, you just wake up one day and realize you haven’t talked to a certain person for months, maybe even years. When that happens to me, and I think of someone, I always wonder if he or she ever thinks of me. That’s really all I can hope for at that point, I suppose.

Of course, sometimes, it is because of fights or bad blood. Yes, that’s happened in my life more than I would like. And sometimes it has been resolved, sometimes not. If only all those people knew how much time I spent agonizing over all those situations. If only they knew that I still thought about them and wondered if anything was my fault or wondered if there was anything I should have done differently.

Funny how I hope none of them agonize over things the way I do, but a tiny part of me wishes they would, if only so I could know that I was a friend that was hard to lose.

I really believe that I make that wish humbly, in hope that I am, in general, a good friend. But deep down, is that selfish? Am I just wanting to know that I was right all along?

But if that’s the case, why am I still thinking about it? Can it really be possible for me to be that selfish and torture myself that much at the same time? Or am I just using the…

Southport? Oh, this is my stop.

Wow. That 40 minutes went by fast. I’m glad though, because I’m hungry.

What should I do after dinner? I have leftovers, so I should have a couple of free hours tonight. Maybe I’ll update my blog.

I always wonder if my readers really care about the things I write about, though. I told them all I was an over-thinker, but they can’t possibly guess how much time I spend thinking about things that would never occur to 90 percent of the population.

If they only knew what went on in my head….

It’s been a while, so I promise not to disappoint.

I’ve been considering different blog topics for a while, and I must say that most of the things I was going to write about were philosophical babblings about things no one thinks about but me.

And while I think you may have found them interesting, and I am sure I will get back to that eventually, today I have decided to get back to something funny. And nothing is funnier than self-deprecating top-ten lists, right?

So here, for your reading pleasure, is the Top Ten Stupidest Things I Have Ever Done.

10. My senior year of high school, I went to Taco Bell one day shortly after it rained. I rolled down my window to order and pick up my food. Then, I decided I was going to be a hot shot and sped off across the parking lot without rolling up my window. There were huge puddles in the parking lot, and when I drove through one, a lot of water splashed up through my window and into my lap. The worst part? My chalupa was in my lap.

9. I took a class my freshman year of college that was taught by a former president of the university. He took about five of us at a time out to dinner at a Chinese restaurant. Afterward, since it was raining, he drove us all home. He pulled up to my dorm, and I got out of the car, pulled my backpack out of the trunk, and ran for the door. Right before I got inside, I realized I had not closed the trunk. My stomach sunk as a turned around just in time to see the former president of the university getting out of the car, in the pouring rain, to close the trunk before he could drive away.

8. Once when I was bowling, I picked up the ball, walked to the lane, wound up, and then gasped in horror when I didn’t see the ball rolling down the lane. I turned around and realized the ball had flown off my hand on the backswing… and rolled directly into the snack bar.

7. For almost eight months, every time I turned on the hot water faucet in the bathroom sink in one of my apartments, freezing cold water came out. Every time, I assumed this meant that we did not get hot water in that sink. And for eight months, I washed my hands and face in freezing water. Then one day, a friend tried to fill her water bottle with the cold water faucet and discovered that hot water came out. Turns out the hot and cold labels on the faucets were just switched. I never bothered trying the other faucet. And yes, my roommate knew about the switch the whole time.

6. On a side trip to Copenhagen during my time in Europe, we were wandering down the water’s edge looking for the famous Little Mermaid statue. We walked, and walked, and walked, and eventually hit a dead end. So we shrugged, and turned around, and walked some more…. and hit another dead end. Suddenly we realized we had walked through a gate that was now closed and surrounded by a fence that had barbed wire on the top. We were locked in a shipping yard. My friend Scott said it best when he quipped, “We are the definition of ‘stupid Americans.’ What were we thinking? ‘Hmm, crates and boats and gates with barbed wire. All the tourist attractions will definitely be in here!’”

5. At work, I once wrote an email to my friend Shannon about a conversation I had with a guy the night before. I sent it, then, fractions of a second later, panicked when I realized I had sent it to the author of the book I was working on instead of Shannon.

4. When the song “How Bizarre” came out, for weeks I was convinced that the words were “Help Is On.” The song came on once while I was talking to a friend, and I said, “This song is so bizarre.” He said something like, “Ha, very funny.” He thought I had made a lame joke, but really, I had no idea that what the real name of the song was.

3. There was a section of the cadence my college drumline played where I (as a cymbal player) had to march backwards. I was marching along when I saw the eyes of the snare player in front of me get very wide. As I wondered what was in front of him, and therefore behind me, to make his eyes get wide, instead of turning around to see, I yelled “What?” I faintly heard him yell “Cone!” as I proceeded to fall over a large orange traffic cone and roll into the drunk college students lining the street.

2. One night at a work happy hour, I suddenly realized I was drunk and it was time for me to go home. I got up and left, somehow managed to make it to the train station, and got on the train for a 45 minute ride home. The second the doors closed was when I realized just how badly I had to pee. Let me tell you, the el is fun when you’re drunk, but not when you’re drunk and you have to pee.

1. The night before I graduated college, I drank a screwdriver, sex on the beach, and a long island in rapid succession. Enough said. I will say that I knew exactly what I was doing at the time, but I’ll leave it up to you to decide if that makes it better or worse.

These were in no particular order. Feel free to pick the one you think is worst. Or to remind me of something else stupid I have done.

Hope you got some laughs.

It has come to my attention this week that city life has given me some rage issues. My morning and afternoon commutes have started to make my blood boil. It’s probably not something that I should be proud of, but I figured it might make good blog material.

So ready or not, here comes a rant of epic proportions.

First of all, let’s talk about revolving doors, shall we? They are everywhere in Chicago. And guess what, folks! They are not scary or difficult to operate! Just step into the next available opening and push! That’s it! This is not double-dutch jump rope. You do not have to carefully time your entrance. Nothing annoys me more than people that skip an opening and wait for the next one as if they are afraid of getting crushed by the door.

I’ve noticed these are also the people that barely lay a finger on the handle and take tiny baby steps forward as they go through the door, thereby taking forever to get through. Just push! What are you afraid of, germs? You touch thousands of surfaces a day that plenty of other people touch. Don’t lick your hands afterward, and you’ll be fine.

Next, let’s discuss elevators. There is a bank of four elevators in my building that only go to the bottom four floors with offices on them. That’s right, four elevators servicing four floors, with a maximum ride time of about 30 seconds. Translation? An elevator comes approximately every 15 seconds! Therefore, you do not have to stick your hand, foot, or whole body into the closing elevator doors to make sure you get on this one! Let the stupid doors close and the people already inside get to their floors. Wait the extra 15 seconds for the next one. I swear, sometimes so many people stop the elevator doors from closing that all four elevators end up on the ground floor and waiting before one gets to move. So FYI, I hate the people that enter the elevator when the doors are closing. Don’t be one of those people.

Moving on to another set of closing doors, next on my list is the el. The el is very crowded during morning rush hour, but is usually tolerable if there are no idiots on my car that do the following two things: (1) board the train while other passengers are still trying to exit through your door, and (2) insist on being the first to board but then park themselves in the doorway instead of moving into the car. The first one is just common sense, people! Let people off before you get on, or else you are blocking their exit. And the second grates on my nerves to an extreme degree. People have to be on first because they think the train with leave without them, and they have to stand by the door because they are afraid they won’t be able to get off at their stop if they have to walk more than one step to the door. And these are commuters! People that ride the el every day! The only reason anyone is not able to board or get off on time is because the doors are blocked by people who do these things. In their ridiculous attempts to prevent a problem that doesn’t exist, they end up creating the problem. Bah.

Oh, and another thing about the el. I don’t care how much crap you are carrying with you or how large of a person you are. You are not entitled to two seats. I hate, I hate, I HATE the people that put their bags down on the seat next to them and pretend not to notice all the people standing around them, and even more than that, I hate the people that in the aisle seat when there is no one in the window seat. Unacceptable, people. Move the (bleep) over. What do you want the rest of us to do, climb over you? Or do you just think you’re too cool to let a stranger sit by you? Everyone has the same right to a seat. A seat. One. Not two.

I think everyone will be with me on this next one: I am enraged by indecisive walkers. I cannot stand being behind someone that is making it perfectly that he/she has absolutely no idea where he/she is. (I reiterate that, as I mentioned in a previous post, the whole gender neutral singular subject pronoun void annoys me too.) Pick a direction and walk, people. Just go. You may not know what is on the next block but the only way to find out is to get there! People on the Chicago streets walk like they are in a parade or something! Step it up folks! You may not have anywhere to be, but I do! And even when I don’t, I still walk like I do.

Alright, I feel better. Thanks. You all saved me a couple hundred in therapy bills. And perhaps kept the next person I saw doing any of these things from being body slammed.

Thank you and good day.

The longer I live, the more I am convinced that life is not really an ongoing process of learning. Life is an ongoing cycle of learning and… unlearning.

My first experience with this was at puberty, when I discovered that my mantra of “I hate boys” was no longer true. Instead, I was wishing that boys would like me. I had spent my whole life up until then being certain that boys were stupid and icky and I would never want to be associated with one. But suddenly, and still today, while I mostly still think that boys are stupid, and many of them are still icky, some day I do want to be married to one.

I also came across a lot of these situations in college, especially in my higher math classes. In every math class of my academic career, from Kindergarten through two semesters of calculus, I learned that 1 + 1 = 2. Simple, right? And always true. But alas, I later spent my last two years of college unlearning that fact. No assumptions about 1 + 1 could be made any more. In some number systems, 1 + 1 = 0. (I kid you not. In higher math, all bets are off. Why do you think I got out when I did?)

But one concept that I find has been going through consistent and rapid cycles of learning and unlearning is the definition of the word “home.”

I grew up like every other kid, being taught to memorize my address so I would never be lost. I was given homework, and told what time to be home. Home meant the house where my parents lived, the place where I slept, period. No confusion.

But in college, things got complicated. I can still remember that awkward moment when I first referred to my freshman dorm room as home. I struggled with the idea of not knowing where home really was any more. Could I really call this 12 foot by 12 foot room my home? But on the other hand, how could my home be somewhere I did not live eight months out of the year?

Fortunately, after a few weeks of this melodramatic pondering, I decided that the more important question was, “Why do I care?” But still, during that time, I had to unlearn the strict definition of home as being the house where I grew up, and learn that perhaps my home changed depending on my geographic location. It was more about where I belonged at the time.

My semester in Sweden brought this issue up again. Multiple cities complicated the situation enough. Throw in multiple countries, and an over-thinker like me will obsess for a while. There was one jaunt of traveling I did during the semester that was nearly three weeks long. When I stepped off the train in Stockholm, I can remember thinking to myself, “God, it’s good to be home.” Then, of course, I spent a subsequent two or three weeks wondering how I could possibly feel at home in a country where I did not speak the language. I mean, these people put salt on black licorice! And actually ate it! What was it that made me think I belonged there?

Again, it was time to unlearn what I thought I knew about homes. I knew I didn’t belong in Sweden. But I felt at home there. So what is it that makes a home?

I’m still not sure that I know. Twenty-something is an odd time in a person’s life when it comes to homes. In the last five years, I have lived at seven different addresses. I have lived in two countries and in two states. At some time, I considered every single one my home. Even more, at some of those addresses, I found I also had second or third “homes,” at my church or at my friends’ places.

In the course of writing this, I have become convinced that home is more a state of mind than a location. I am at home in my house, because I will walk around in my towel or bathrobe. I am at home in my cubicle, because I can reach for things without looking. I am at home in my car, because it’s the only space I really have where I can belt out songs as loud as I want.

As I page back through the places I have lived in my life, the one thing they all have in common was the sense of security I had while in them. It’s a feeling of safety, comfort, and familiarity.

Later on in my life, I will probably, once again, unlearn this.

But for now, humor me and let me believe that I’ve got it figured out.

Today I was thinking about how, in the first entry I wrote in this blog, I promised to be funny.

Looking back, that was a pretty hefty promise. People, after all, have very varied senses of humor. I, for example, just amused myself by using the term “very varied.” But some of you probably wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t pointed it out. And I know there are plenty of other instances of this.

When I flew to Florida last week, the snack on the plane was Save the Whales crackers. They were like cheese golfish crackers, but shaped like whales. The package said, “Save the whales. Or eat them now. Your choice.” Wow. Funniest airplane snack ever.

When I was in Sweden, when I took the bus to campus, we passed a pizzeria that was called “Dal Baffo” and had a picture of a buffalo on the window. Haha, thinking about it still makes me laugh. Funniest Swedish pizzeria ever.

Every day on the el, I can look out the window and see a hotel called “Hotel Wacker.” Come on. Perhaps only for those that have a slightly dirty mind, but still, funniest name for a hotel ever.

One night, I was watching VH1 with a friend, and he looked at me completely straight-faced and said, “Hey, did you know that in music videos, they record the singing and then they just lip sync?” He was honestly shocked by this. Funniest naive statement ever.

If you find all those things funny, congratulations. You will probably enjoy my blog.

But what really is it that makes something funny?

Sometimes it is family background. For instance, I got a message from a cousin of mine this morning that said, “You are a Rich. You are not supposed to be on time. Ever.” This tickled me, and I’ve been smiling about it ever since. You may think it’s cute. But only my parents and my sister and perhaps another cousin or two that read this blog will really find it as funny as me.

Sometimes it is a state of exhaustion. After I had just finished a whole day of hiking in Sedona, a friend and I checked into a hotel and found that we had a room with a handicapped bathroom. The shower was huge, there was no tub, and there was a phone in the bathroom. And for some reason, these perfectly understandable and expected details struck me as hysterically funny. I did not stop laughing for a full fifteen minutes. The friend I was with laughed too, but mostly at me, not at the bathroom. It was only my state of exhaustion that made it funny.

Of course, I also can’t leave out that sometimes it is all about your level of drunkenness. I came home from a night out at the bar once to find my roommate’s yoga ball in the middle of the living room. This, for some reason, was the funniest thing I had ever seen. Funny enough that I felt the need to pick up the ball (which is about three feet across), carry it to the doorway, and roll it down the porch stairs to my other roommate. I was laughing so hard I could no longer stand up.

I will also admit that most of the time, humor is all about timing and delivery. Every episode of Friends that I watch makes me laugh. However, ask me to tell you what happened in an episode, and I guarantee that my delivery will suck every bit of humor out of it. I’m a much better writer than I am speaker.

So, I guess humor is complicated. But I’m going to continue to attempt to write about the things I find funny. I hope occasionally, you think it’s funny too.

To quote my senior play, “And if I laugh at any mortal thing, tis that I may not weep.”

So perhaps if making you laugh is too lofty of a goal, I’ll settle for not making you cry.

But no promises.

I recently received an email from the helpdesk at my alma mater, informing me that my UserID for the online services provided by the university would expire in one month. I read through the email, remarkably unconcerned that I would no longer be able to register for classes, search for internships, or pay tuition bills. I did, after all, graduate almost a year ago.

But as I read further, I realized this also meant I would no longer have access to my university email address. The message advised me to go into the system and forward any emails I wanted to save to an alternate address.

I used my university address exclusively for most of my college career. Gradually this year, I have phased it out. However, as I am cursed with a lethal combination of a ridiculous level of sentimentality and my grandfather’s packrat gene, I knew I must have over a thousand messages saved on the webmail system.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve spent hour upon hour going through these messages one by one. It was like paging through a book that chronicled the past five years of my life.

You can probably imagine that this was a bittersweet experience for me. While plenty of pleasant memories came back to me, the email account was also a very accurate record of the unpleasant experiences during my college years.

What I quickly realized, though, was that I got to decide what stayed and what went. A sense of power came over me as I forwarded everything I wanted to remember and deleted everything I’d gladly re-forget.

A message from a high school friend, telling me about the beginning of drumline season and how difficult it was for her to have new instructors and watch the morale decline. Haven’t heard from her in a long time, but I miss when we were that close. Forward.

A message from a professor, confirming a time to meet and talk about a paper grade I wasn’t happy with. I remember that meeting. He didn’t raise my grade. Still got an A in the class. I win. Delete.

Series of mass emails I wrote while in Sweden, summarizing each month of my trip in pretty good detail. Forward.

A scolding from another exchange student while I was in Sweden, telling me how I made her out to be a bad person and was dishonest in my journal. Delete.

A message from a college friend, sent shortly after I returned from my study abroad program and was feeling lonely, that simply said, “Smiles are pretty. I hope you are smiling.” Awww. Forward to myself, and also to him just to say thanks almost two years later.

A whole file of energy and phone bills from my apartment last year. Ugh. Delete.

An invitation from a cute guy, asking me out for coffee at the beginning of my senior year. Hmm. Tricky. Went out with him several times and liked him, but then it just faded out. Later I found out he now has a baby with another girl. Eh, forward. He still bought the coffee.

Email from one of my students when I was a TA, telling me he couldn’t come to class, ever, because he had to work, and that I should do everything I could to help him. Ha. I’m relatively sure I failed the sucker. Delete.

Panicked message from one of the pastoral team members at the church I attended in my college town, asking me for the hundredth time to go to the church and move the food for our food drive to the “storage location” (i.e., my apartment). Delete.

Very complimentary message from said pastoral team member, thanking me for moving the food and commending me for “taking the bull by the horns.” Yay. Forward.

Emailed version of an evaluation of the retreat I co-directed, with nothing at all negative on it. Forward.

Blank message after blank message after blank message with only data and syntax files attached from various stages of my honors thesis. Delete, delete, delete, delete, delete.

Message from my thesis advisor, telling me the first draft of my paper was disastrous and several sections needed to be rewritten. DELETE.

Final message from my thesis advisor, congratulating me on my defense and assuring me she would take care of all loose ends. Forward.

I’m nearing the end of the emails now, and I must that while I enjoyed the sense of power for a while, I’ve also started feeling a bit foolish. I can’t really just delete an email and pretend that it never existed, or that the events it described never happened. Scrolling through four or five of the most influential years of my life has made me realize how much I have changed since I was the tender age of 18, and how every incident, large or small, remembered or forgotten, deleted or forwarded, has already left its mark.

Still, I think it was important for me to realize that the choice or whether to forward or delete was mine. All the events chronicled in those emails are part of my past whether I like it or not. They do not, however, have to be a part of my future.

The expiration of my university net ID feels like the official closing of my college years. I forwarded what I wanted to take with me, and deleted what I wanted to leave behind.

Mildly philosophical, isn’t it? And perhaps hopelessly idealistic?

Maybe. But enough to inspire this sentimental packrat to try to make more moments into messages I would forward.

I am certain many attempts to do so will be failures, but that’s okay.

My current email account, after all, has a “delete forever” button.

Alright, boys and girls, today's topic is: blending.

Over dinner last night, my roommates and I were talking about touring college campuses as high school seniors, thinking we were big and bad and blending in. We all agreed that later on, when we were actually college students, we could always pick out the college seniors on tours. If the high school varsity jacket didn't give them away, the desperate attempt to look like they knew where they are going did.

So, what made us so sure at the time that we were blending in, and what really does make people appear to belong where they are?

(I would like to briefly stop and point out that it has always annoyed me that the English language does not have a good gender-neutral subject pronoun. Thank you. Carry on.)

I've been living in the city for over ten months now, and just like when I was a high school senior, I've been trying desperately to blend in ever since. This morning, I became convinced that I have succeeded.

I have approximately an eight-block walk from where I get off the el to my work building. During that walk this morning, I was stopped three times and asked where something was. Maybe I finally look like a city girl.

Or, maybe the tiny butterfly clips I put in my hair this morning made me look young and naive enough that people believed the city has not jaded me enough yet to make me unfriendly.

Either way, I was quite proud to have been asked for directions three times today. I was even prouder to have known where all three places of interest were. I am comforted to know that I blend.

But why is it that I wanted so badly to blend? Here's where you think I am going to get all philosophical, but really, I'm about to be a bit of a snot.

I want to blend and I want to be normal simply because I don't want to end up an annoying old lady that can't deal life's roadblocks. Let me give you a perfect example of what I mean.

There is an older woman that sits in the cubicle next to me at work. Simply for reference, we're going to call her.... Beatrice.

Beatrice apparently lost her wallet last night. How do I know this? Because I have overheard approximately ninety phone calls that she has made today.

Let me insert a comment here that assures the reading audience that I have lost my wallet before, and I completely understand that there is nothing worse than the sinking feeling I got in my stomach when I realized it was gone. I sympathize. I really do.

However, only the rest of my cubicle neighbors can truly understand how this illustrated Beatrice's inability to blend.

First she called to cancel her credit cards and debit cards. Completely understandable.

Then she called the DMV to see if they could tell her a "good time to go" to get a new driver's licence. People, is there EVER a good time to go to the DMV? And even if there is, can a person that works full time go during that time? Doubtful. Still, this phone call is only mildly annoying. I suppose it was worth a shot.

However, the next eight or so phone calls were ridiculous. Several were calls to her husband to loudly berate him for not taking care of anything and making her do it all. But the last couple pushed me over the edge.

She actually called to cancel.... HER JEWEL CARD.

For those of you not in the know, a Jewel Card is a little barcode you carry on your keychain. The cashiers scan it at the checkout of the grocery store, and you get to pay $1.29 for a loaf of bread instead of $1.49.

And she called to cancel it.

She kept the person at the Jewel on the phone for a good five minutes, just to make sure that the card could not be used for identity theft.

I know, I know, she'll be laughing someday when I don't cancel some random card and someone steals my identity.

But "Beatrice" has never, and will never, blend in. There's an imaginary line around her that no one in my office likes to cross.

So by all means, be your own person and don't feel you have to be just like everyone else. Have your own identity. Clearly my last post shows that there's at least one aspect of my personality that makes me weird.

But if you see me on the street someday, stop me and ask me for directions. It'll help to convince me that I am well-adjusted enough to blend in to my surroundings.

Because friends don't let friends become Beatrice.

Hello, my name is Katie, and I am obsessed with musicals.

I've always known I had an atypicial appreciation for live theater, and for musicals in particular. After all, when I saw my first musical (a middle-school production of The Music Man) at age 12, I made my mother buy me the cd and I sat next to the stereo in our living room with headphones on for weeks, playing each song over and over so I could write down all the words and memorize them. It was the beginning of an era. As of today, I have seen 41 musicals, not counting the ones I have seen more than once.

But I didn't really realize the depths of the giant chasm between myself and most of the rest of the world until this weekend. RENT is currently playing in Chicago. Many of you may be surprised to know that each performance of RENT, no matter where it takes place, carries with it an opportunity for "rush tickets." The first and second row is reserved and the tickets are sold for $20-$25. The show's creator wanted people who could not otherwise afford to see the show to have an opportunity to experience it.

Here's the catch: The tickets are not released until two hours before each performance. Therefore, obtaining a rush ticket usually involves a substantial amount of waiting in line.

Somehow, I managed to talk a couple of my coworkers into rushing RENT with me on Saturday. We arrived at the theater at noon. They were just opening the box office for the matinee rush tickets, and we could have walked right in and gotten the last of the them.

But we didn't. Why? Because I wanted to wait in line.

"What did she just say?" you are thinking to yourself.

I wanted to wait in line.

The idea of walking right in to get rush tickets bothered me. Why? Because for me, rushing is not just about getting a cheap ticket. It's about sitting outside a theater on some cold concrete for six hours, watching the rest of the world walk by, and showing everyone else that you think it's going to be more than worth it. It's my way of getting up on a soap box and telling the world that the art of musical theater is underappreciated.

Lest you think that I am all alone in this, let me tell you about the people in line in front of me. Six college students from the state of Iowa were at the front of the line, complete with pillows, sleeping bags, and blankets. They had been there since 1 am and would have been first in line for matinee tickets. But no. They waited for the evening show.

I spent the next six hours talking with them, and it was the most fun I have had in perhaps my whole life. They helped me with crossword puzzles, made fun of me for spinning in circles to keep warm, and asked me about living in the big city.

And, of course, as 6pm grew closer, we collectively belted out the lyrics to many songs in the show. We, of course, all knew all the words by heart. In fact, when we ran out of RENT songs, we briefly switched to singing songs from Wicked (which we also knew by heart). My friend Meg commented that I "needed some friends like these" when I was in college.

The box office finally opened and we all got our first row tickets. We went to see the show and cheered and sang and mooed from the heart. (Yes, mooed. One of the characters asks the audience to "moo with me" in the show. Want to know why? Go see RENT.) After the show was over, one of the Iowans stood up, walked over to me, and hugged me, just because he was so overcome by the awesomeness of the show.

So, turns out my people live in Iowa. Who knew.

I think my coworkers, had they made the choice, would have opted for the matinee. And I don't blame them. The wind was bitter cold at times, and I can totally understand that they did not have the same connection with the people from Iowa as I did. But props go out to Sarah and Becky for humoring me and sticking it out.

Because yes, my name is Katie, and I'm obsesssed with musicals. And I'm damn proud.

I confess. I gave in.

Everyone told me, "Start a blog, Katie! Everyone's doing it!"

I tried to stave them off with the traditional, "If everyone was jumping off a cliff, would you do it too?" But eventually I gave in. Mostly because I was bored. But also because sometimes, I just have to rant.

Life's funny sometimes, after all. I'll try to maintain regular posting with the funny parts of my life. As I work in corporate America, take public transportation everywhere I go, and live with roommates that I moved in with blindly, something semi-interesting tends to happen to me every day.

And of course, my sparkling commentary will boost it from semi-interesting to interesting.

So, what to talk about today? Hmm... we're going to go with the first thing that came to my mind that made me giggle.

At work, we are asked to put a sticky note on our cubicle name tags when we are gone so that people who come by looking for us know not to wait. This policy makes a certain amount of sense to me, but some people use the note to reveal more information than their coworkers really want to know.

For instance, a woman had a sticky note on her cube that said something like this: "Out sick, 4/3-4/5. Asthma."

Ok. The point of the sticky note is to let people know that you are gone, not to tell them why! What's next? "Out sick, 4/6. Pelvic exam." "Personal day, 7/6. My kid got suspended from school for starting a fire." "Vacation, 8/9-8/13. Going to Canada mostly for the cheap booze."

And honestly, most of the sticky notes would read like this: "Out sick, 9/18. Faking."