The Evolution of My Pants

I have a hard time remembering dates. If you were to ask me what I was doing in 1998, I probably couldn't tell you if I started writing in cursive that year or if that was when I first joined Facebook.

Some might say that's a sign of a life well-lived. Most would say I'm just bad at math. Either way, to combat my terrible memory, I've discovered a new way to track the various phases of my life via the evolution of my pants.

It all began with the neon wind suit. Every school year kicked off on the front steps of our house, my little sister and I side by side modeling matching wind suits, hers in teal and mine in magenta. You f*ck up our wind suit color scheme, there would be hell to pay. Mom would click the camera and off we'd swoosh to the bus.

Those were much simpler times...your top matched your bottom, your knee socks were white, your sneakers sparkled, and your side pony made your head perpetually tilt. No questions asked.

But later in the 90's, things became more complicated. Thanks to the evolution of my pants, I can tell you how this is so. I know that my little sister was born in 1998. I know that when I visited the hospital to meet my little sister, I was wearing my coveted navy blue Adidas sweatpants. I know that the year I wore my navy blue Adidas sweatpants was the year I became obsessed with boys and there is a whole stash of memories associated with this time in my life. It's a terrible tragedy that the two coincided.

Shortly after my Adidas sweatpants wore out their welcome (eventually my mom wouldn't let me leave the house wearing them), I discovered Jnco jeans. I guarantee you my mom immediately longed for the Adidas sweatpants days.

Jncos were the most hideous thing you could ever put on your lower half as a young lady (see picture to the right). My Jncos were hand-me-downs and had a giant flame patch on the back of the left pant leg, as well as a little hook thing to hang a hammer on. I don't know any 6th grader who carried a hammer around. People always say leave a little up to mystery, but I'm pretty sure these wide leg jeans really just left people wondering why the preachers kid looked like a boy. I was still in my googly-eyed-for-boys stage at this point and I thought the fellas would love these. Whoops.

I must have gotten tired of all that cold air blowing up my roomy wide leg Jncos because the next significant pant memory I have is two pairs of super tight, super low rise flare jeans by LEI, one in khaki, one in a dark rinse. These were dude magnets for sure. I got about two solid crack showings out of those before my mom washed and dried them, leaving a scrawny 5'9" 14 year old kid with bell bottoms up to her ankles.

It's tough to maintain any level of cool with high waters and that pretty much carried me through to sophomore year, so sometime between the LEI jeans and my senior year of high school, I learned how to dress myself. How that came to be will remain one of life's great mysteries.

What I've provided here is a basic framework for remembering my childhood and teen years. Now when someone asks what I was doing in 2003, I can say "ah yes, the great year of the bootcut burgundy corduroys...I remember it well. The year I slipped on a banana peel in the lunchroom in front of the popular boys."

My Dead Tooth.

In another life-pondering moment the other day I concluded that my "Totally Rational Worst Fears" list keeps growing. I'm not talking about fears like becoming a cat lady, going to work naked, falling into a manhole. Standard. I'm talking a very specific list that details occurrences that will inevitably result in my demise and/or complete humiliation.

I'll highlight a few of the biggies:

- Death by icicle. I just have this feeling that I'm that girl strolling down the street who gets pierced in the noggin by an icicle falling, most likely, from the overhang outside Nordstroms.

- Decapitation via bus mirror. Seriously, the 156 drives by me and do I see a side-mirror? No. I see a giant machete waiting to chop off the heads of 6'1" tall females.

- Lake shark attack...in Lake Michigan...at North Avenue Beach...Jaws XII style. Enough said.

But the fear that's resulted in hate filled glares targeting Rob Lowe and Julia Roberts, is the horror of developing and losing a dead tooth...

You see, I once had an impacted tooth. And this tooth remained impacted for the first 18 years of my life until it was extracted from it's comfy little home in my upper left gum and forced to live with the rest of my teeth. It's been violated by coffee and jolly ranchers ever since. The whole surgical process was creepy anyway, blood spewing everywhere, the dental hygienist "ooo-ing" and "uh oh-ing." But what will forever haunt me is the Oral Surgeon's sheepishly inserted comment while I was drooling and high on nitrous oxide... "Okay, so there may or may not have been some nerve damage. Significant nerve damage. Maybe, I don't know. It's too early to tell. Probably not a big deal though. So there's a 90 percent chance you may lose that tooth some day. Good job in there. See ya later!" Oh you're damn right you'll see me later sir. I now have to live with the fear of biting into a caramel apple only to find my dead tooth stuck in it. Or worse yet, what if I have so much nerve damage I don't even know it's gone and I'm giving a presentation to thousands of people and it's just hanging there or I'm on a date and find it stuck in a roll of sushi. You can bet your bottom dollar I'll be back at Granville Family Dentistry faster than you can say "ew you've got something on your...oh."

In all fairness to my tooth, it still has some life left in it. But it could probably go at any second and then who will want me? I googled "dead tooth" to try and ease my anxiety and find solutions to prevent it from turning revolting but this was an awful idea. I saw some things.

I suppose I should enjoy this time I have left with my tooth. My upper left incisor has had a great run, as far as upper left incisors go, so I should just let the natural tooth cycle take it's course. Let's face it, I made it through my prime years with two sets of railroad tracks securely fastened to my teeth, what's another dead tooth.

A love (of bud) note.

Normally, I hate notes. They tend to be uber-patronizing and cause flashbacks to my mom's chore lists wall-papered to the refrigerator (my fine tuned hidden talent: ignoring these notes). But this emotionally charged plea strategically placed above the button at the elevator in my new apartment building commands way too much respect to ignore, so I thought I'd share it with you.



First of all, I like that the writer started off the note intending to create a sense of community. It really succeeds in establishing a receptive audience, not putting the reader on the defensive, and setting the tone for the rest of the note. Hello AP English.

Secondly, this is definitely a seasoned smoker. Offering up THREE alternatives to letting that distinctive earthy odor seep under the door? THREE?! In my opinion, that's totally above and beyond the call of duty. This dude/chick loves the bud and is taking extra steps to ensure that you and I do NOT compromise that freedom. Also, who knew a vaporizer could take care of the smell, but I guess it makes sense seeing as it vaporizes and all. See? Maybe it's not a note at all, it's an informative essay.

Lastly, the writer packs a final punch and totally legitimizes him or herself in the sign off. You see, this isn't just another resident asshole, this is a 3YR 14TH FLOOR RESIDENT STONER...so listen damnit. And I think if my high school English teacher took a stab at grading this stellar piece of literature, no doubt the only ding against the author would be the ironic near-misspelling of dumbass.

Street Vom.

Not to toot my own horn, but I'm pretty sure I recently made one of the most enthralling observations of my quarter century existence. nbd.

"Think about how much of your life you spend dodging street vomit."

And no, that's not even a metaphor.

Street vomit would most likely be defined by our boy Webster as "any substance regurgitated by a homo sapien splattered on the street in an easily identifiable pattern." Street vomit is unique to city life so I apologize if you're reading this from a barn and are thinking "oh ok, it's like dodging cow shit. I can totally relate." It's not and you can't.

Please don't let your repulsion keep you in the dark on my epiphane. Street vomit is just another part of your routine. Like the pigeon poop you swerve to avoid when getting off the train, so is the street vomit you take a longer stride to jump at the corner of Southport and Belmont. You have to embrace it and after reading this, you're going to have a hard time ignoring it (just thank me later).

In fact, I've started to make a fun little game called "Hey-Is-That-Street-Vom? Nope-It's-Nacho-Cheese." The rules of the game are simple, take a walk around the city with your opponent and see who can spot the most street vomit. You lose points for confusing spilled food with street vomit and receive bonus points if you can identify what the perpetrator ate or drank. Some neighborhoods are prime for this game. If you want to catch some Suburban Street Vomit head over to any concrete surface within a two block radius of Wrigley Field between the months of April and September and you will not be disappointed. If you want to see some Bro-sef Street Vomit, mosey on over to the block between Boston Market and Benchmark on Wells St. in Old Town. If you're just a snob and Rich People Street Vomit is more your thing, the Viagra Triangle downtown is a gold mine. I would put money on finding both Jay Cutler AND Kristen Cavalari street vomit over there.

If you're looking for a useful "meaning of life message" in this post, you won't find it (not that you'll ever find it in these posts). Just stretch those quads and hammies and keep dodging the street vomit.

One of Life's Great Mysteries

There are several notorious unsolved American mysteries we've all spent a ton of time toiling over. Who killed Biggie? Were there, in fact, weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? Did OJ really do it? When are Stabler and Olivia going to hook up?

But what I really want to know is this-

Where the $*%& did all my bobby pins go?

Anyone knows that solving this mystery would be life altering. You buy a pack of 75,000 bobby pins and in one week they've managed to end up anywhere except your head. To me, this question holds the same gravity as it's sister mysteries "Where the *$%^ is that other sock?" and "Does anyone have a *&%$ing hair tie?"

The thing that really makes me think this is probably a government conspiracy to drive all of us long haired chicks with bangs nuts is that when you don't need a bobby pin you find one in your sock drawer, in the fridge, on the stoop. Hell, you can probably find one or two tucked away in your hair, courtesy of the Bobby Pin Phantom.

I just pray that someone finds out why this is happening so that one day, yes one day, my children's children may be able to securely fasten their hair without having to make weekly runs to CVS.

caution: you and the moving walkway are about to end

What is it about the moving walkway in airports that makes people act like they've never used those two long stick-like things protruding from their pelvis?

The name of this contraption alone suggests that on it one may want to, oh I don't know, walk and/or move. There's a reason its not called the "no really, you go ahead and relax those gams while I do all the work walkway."

I mean come on, some of us have to build two hours of travel time into our schedule to bank on the fact that we'll mistakenly end up at the end of Concourse B when our gate was all the way back at A3.

But I suppose my frustration isn't only with the moose-like creatures who stand there completely oblivious to everything that's going on around them. It's relatively easy to dodge those guys as they tend to be solitary travelers. But throw into the mix those weasels who could turn moving walkway-ing into an olympic sport (but think women's figure skating intense) and you're done.

Might as well make some theatrical gesture and throw yourself over the side railing. Trust me, I've seen it happen and even after a near spinal fracture, that guy STILL got to his gate faster.

caution: you and the moving walkway are about to end

What is it about the moving walkway in airports that makes people act like they've never used those two long stick-like things protruding from their pelvis?

The name of this contraption alone suggests that on it one may want to, oh I don't know, walk and/or move. There's a reason its not called the "no really, you go ahead and relax those gams while I do all the work walkway."

I mean come on, some of us have to build two hours of travel time into our schedule to bank on the fact that we'll mistakenly end up at the end of Concourse B when our gate was all the way back at A3.

But I suppose my frustration isn't only with the moose-like creatures who stand there completely oblivious to everything that's going on around them. It's relatively easy to dodge those guys as they tend to be solitary travelers. But throw into the mix those weasels who could turn moving walkway-ing into an olympic sport (but think women's figure skating intense) and you're done.

Might as well make some theatrical gesture and throw yourself over the side railing. Trust me, I've seen it happen and even after a near spinal fracture, that guy STILL got to his gate faster.

Word to the Wise

Word to the wise...do NOT, I repeat, do NOT in a moment of panic (because you think you've exhausted all word combinations of your go-to password) make your boyfriend's name your log in password at work. He may very quickly become your ex-boyfriend, leaving you with a daily reminder of himself that lasts 90 days until the IT department expires it. Especially if you're as technologically inept as this friend I know who may or may not have done just that and now can't figure out how to change it.

Oh that silly girl.

Don't Knock It Til You Try It

Well wrap me up in a chocolate truffle and call me Gisele!

No really, do it.

According to today's You Swoop deal (which is another Chicago-based Groupon type of program), an uber-luxurious spa in the Gold Coast is offering "slimming, detoxifying, and soothing" body wraps for 53% off.

Here's what the ad read:
"Lose 4-14 inches overall with a M'lis wrap(multiple sessions recommended)
Body wraps detoxify, increase circulation and exfoliate!
Choose from three options: M'lis wrap, moor mud
wrap or chocolate truffle wrap"

I'd first like to point out that I have no clue what a M'lis wrap is. I was too distracted by the chocolate truffle option to care. What I do know is that if you wrapped my body in chocolate truffle you can guarantee that there would not be any loss of poundage.

This is one of those emails that immediately evokes a mental image. Like I walk into a room, all peppy because I think I get to eat chocolate. But then they put my naked lil hungry body on a giant metal table and they roll me around and around in sheets upon sheets of chocolate (similar to the way the serial-killer Dexter uses sheets of cellophane to fasten his victims...) All flavors too, milk, dark, white, peanut butter infused. The layers start to harden because of the industrial size fan blowing a few feet away. Meanwhile, the certified chocolatier is standing there telling me to concentrate on my breathing so that I can really "experience the benefit of the aromatherapy too." By now, I'm like a 6'1" chocolate Easter Bunny. I'm so terrified that I'm sweating and panting and my heart is racing from all the caffeine intake (I would assume) and eventually my metabolism is so extreme that I[drumroll please]....lose anywhere from 4 to 14 inches around my waste.

I always knew in my gut that Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory was influenced by the experience of a vain twenty-something with a disposable income.

Dove...Don't Make Promises You Can't Keep

Dear Dove Dark Chocolate Promise Chefs,

I'd like you to know that I hold loyalty and honesty to a pretty high standard. If you need a gauge, basically I hold them to the same standard that I hold socks with sandals, except one is a must and one is a must never.

Naturally, I expect the same in my Dove Dark Chocolate Promises.

Full of fluff, light on the hard stuff, Dove has really been letting me down the past three months. Ever since Valentines Day I could tell something was off between us. "Sleep under the stars...admire a sunrise...exercise your heart....remember your first crush...think with your brain, feel with your heart." Welcome back amateur hour. Now what am I supposed to use as my moral compass? Apparently not these one-inch by one-inch aluminum foil wrappers like I used to.

First, these aren't even promises, they are commands. I live in downtown Chicago, it's not as easy as you think to sleep under the stars. Normally I would persuade people to go sleep under the stars by offering up Dove Dark Chocolates but no one wants any part of this absurdity. It's equally as difficult to admire a sunrise, something I have no intention of doing at 5:46am.

Secondly, why would I want to remember my first crush? I asked him out six times in one day and he said he'd go out with me if I was in the same grade even after I intentionally knocked down his pencil case then helped picked them up so I'd have a chance to verify that he was "sure about that." This is not a memory I want to relive.

Dove, what I'm trying to say is that I appreciate honesty above all else, so if you have something to say, just say it. Don't be so passive aggressive.

And since I'm here, I have a couple suggestions for your newly branded "Dove's Strong Suggestions":

#1. Go to the gym.
#2. Don't you think you've had enough?
#3. Put down the wine glass.
#4. You are such a sucker.


I don't want to sound too threatening here, but Dove, if you don't step up your game a bit, I'm going to have to resort to fortune cookies to fill the void. At least then I will have concrete instructions to follow, things like "you will fight with a coworker today then make up and become lovers by 3:30pm" or "an icicle will fall from the sky piercing your left shoulder but a studly man will come to your rescue by morphing his Armani suit into a tourniquet."


Very Sincerely,

Hoff.