Morning Revelations, Vol. 4: Chicken Sh**

Jan just left. He still doesn't know about the blog. I just don't feel comfortable enough to tell him. I've been very candid on here, but I'm not this candid in my personal life. He knows about most of things I write here, but some he doesn't.

I think this is for the best; because once I know my friends and family are reading this, I won't be as open. And I like being open here, without the consequences. This is my open journal, where I get to say all the things that are on my chest, inside my mind, without worrying about hurting someone's feelings.

Blogging is therapeutic. It's my way of expressing my inner most desires, pains, and frustrations in a public forum, but with privacy. So can you blame me for wanting to hold on to that?

Work beckons.

Tick-Tock

So there I was, standing in line at Walgreens, a bottle of orange juice and a box with the acronym e.p.t. stenciled across it in my hands. The orange juice is there to make me feel better. This is no big deal; just a city girl buying orange juice and a pregnancy test. There's an old white-haired lady behind me with a tube of KY Jelly and tampons. Okay.... In front of me is a middle-aged man, looking jolly with chubby red cheeks. "Hurry up," he barks to cashier, "I left my car running." Well, so much for jolly. It was my turn. I manage to stop my hand from shaking long enough to put my things on the counter and pry my wallet from my handbag. I paid and fled. Jan's waiting in the lobby of my apartment building, chatting up my doorman. When he spots me he frowns. "Oh, look at you, honey," he says while hugging me. "C'mon, baby, let's get this over with." I smile, comforted by his genuine concern. When Jan's being comfort, his acc...

Broiling Alive

Some of you might not be aware of this but Chicago has morphed into the fiery pits of Hell, with atrocious sunburned feet to boot. See, this is why I hate summer, for this exact reason. Why do people insist on wearing flip flops in the sun? I can't tell you how many hundreds of sunburned feet I witnessed just last week alone. Jan managed to drag Diana and me to the beach on Sunday, where we both proceeded to bake and die immediately. Jan didn't care -- he was busy working on his "sex tan." You know, the kind where there's a dramatic tan line around the hips. The Swedes sure know how to tan, don't they? you would think with them being Nordic that they would just burn to a crisp, but no -- golden brown goodness all the time. This weekend, Diana's apartment was a cooling center. We conked out with old Glamours and iced raspberry-lemon tea. I don't know why Diana is afraid to throw away magazines. I swear there is a 1997 issue of Glamour with some supe...

Comfort Food

For lunch, I treated myself to a delicious T-bone steak, medium rare, and buttery mashed potatoes seasoned with kosher salt. There's nothing better in this world than buttery mashed potatoes seasoned with kosher salt. Comfort food, if you will. I needed that steak today like I need oxygen. It was pertinent to my survival; pertinent to my keeping my job. Eating the steak today reminded me of how I've used comfort foods to get me through tough periods. Breaking up with Michael: Macaroni and cheese. From scratch. I made béchamel sauce and used several cheeses. I'd make a big pot and use chicken and broccoli to make it even more comforting. It was a glass of Riesling, mac and cheese, and a journal that got me through those tough weeks. Losing a BIG Account: Meatloaf and mashed potato sandwiches. It was my first year at the firm and this was THE account to get, and I blew it. I ordered this sandwich two weeks in a row for dinner. When Sister Attempted Suicide: ...

The Zaftig Chronicles

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