I'm engaged!

When I posted my engagement on Facebook, I knew I would have a lot of explaining to do. Since I haven’t spoken to many of my FB friends in more than a year, I can imagine how surprised you might have been to see the pics of Darek, me and a diamond ring. I have known some of you since high school or earlier, others since my Detroit days and others for only a few months. To keep everyone in the loop, here are some Engagement FAQs.

1. How long have you and Darek been dating?
That’s a complicated one. The short version is 10 years on and off. But to be more specific, we dated nonstop for three and a half years, broke up for five and a half, and now have been dating for the past seven months.

2. Wait a minute, you dated him for nearly four years and then broke up? When was this?
That was back in high school. We met winter of my freshman year (his junior year), dated until I graduated in 2002 and then broke up the following summer. We had both been each other’s only serious relationship, and decided that we needed to go our separate ways. I wanted to start college as a single girl, and I was pretty sure that I’d find my future husband there – not in the Maine East fieldhouse. Interestingly enough, I remember explaining why Darek and I broke up, and saying, “There wasn’t really anything wrong; I just don’t think he’s the one for me. But he’s a great guy – I would write him a recommendation for another girl!”

3. So how did you two get back together?
We hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in five years when Darek called me one day last November to catch up. I had become single that July and was living in Detroit. He was also single and living in Chicago. We chatted briefly on the phone (what do you say to someone you haven’t seen in five years?) and then went our separate ways. Then in December, Darek called and asked if I was going to be home for the holidays, and whether I’d mind if he stopped by my family’s house. I said sure, and he came over on Christmas day. After a somewhat awkward reintroduction, he invited me to stop by his family’s house to say hi. This was all quite formulaic until the drive back from his parents'.

I won’t bore you with the details, but basically – in a very “Love Actually” manner – he confessed that he still had feelings for me. It seemed natural sitting next to him and hearing his voice again, but I was certainly not about to get back together with my high school boyfriend. Anyway, he dropped me off at home, and I packed my bags to leave for Detroit the next morning.

It was 7:30 a.m. when the doorbell rang. There was Darek. Disheveled and somewhat embarrassed, he looked at me and said, “I can’t let you go.” To make a loooooong story short, I let him drive me the five hours back to Detroit, during which we caught up on five years of lost time. By the time we were in Kalamazoo, I was falling in love with him all over again. He was the same genuine, compassionate, intelligent, levelheaded guy I knew in high school; only now he was more mature.

After that weekend, we kept in touch over the phone, but resisted any attempts to start a relationship. We were both busy with other commitments and both of us knew that if we were to start dating again, it had better be for real. In February, we decided we were ready for “for real,” and in April (when I moved back to Chicago), we finally decided to tell our friends and family.

4. Wow, that’s quite a story. Are you sure he’s the one?
He’s everything I could ever ask for in a husband, and more. I am 110 percent positive that I will never find another guy who loves me this much, treats me this well and makes me this happy. I know I could never love anyone the way I love him.

5. Sounds great! So when’s the date?
We haven’t picked one for sure, but we’re looking at next summer. I’ll keep you posted. :)

Via killed the coffee star ... oh-ah-oh

Starbucks has closed approximately 600 stores since last July and reported that sales at U.S. stores fell 8 percent in 2008. It's no wonder why.

First, Dunkin Donuts emerged with Dunkin Deals, which bundle a bagel or sandwich for 99 cents with a cofffee purchase. Then, McDonalds launched a $100 million marketing campaign focusing on its line of McCafe specialty drinks. Metro Detroiters have probably seen the billboards proclaiming "90210 Taste, 48503 Budget." Yes, that's a little on the offensive side, but we get it.

The question now is whether Starbucks can make a comeback. I'm not so sure it will happen.

Starbucks, in its attempt to regain some ground in the coffee wars (no pun intended), recently launched Via, the single-serve INSTANT!!! - not instant - coffee packets. They dissolve in hot or cold water, sell at $2.95 for a three-pack, and impressively, taste like the real thing. In the beginning it sounded like a great idea: one more way for coffee lovers to enjoy their Starbucks.

Then, along came Nescafe, with its own single-serve version of "INSTANT!!!". As the original inventors of instant coffee, Nescafe felt the need to reassert itself in the java market. The brand's new Trader's Choice packets come in six flavors and will be available in most grocery and convenience stores by the end of 2009, retailing at about 17 cents per packet.

Enter new Nescafe billboard: "Dear Starbucks/Imitation Is Flattery/ Charging 400% More/ Not So Much"

Now that's what I call free-market capitalism.

But don't run out and stock up on Nescafe just yet. While it's definitely cheaper, there are some downfalls. For one, a packet of Nescafe will only make about 6 ounces of coffee, whereas one Via makes 8 ounces. In fact, I used a packet of Via in a tall (12-ounce) cup, and it tasted great.

Secondly, if you are on the go and have access to a Starbucks, you can show the barista your packet of Via, ask for a cup of hot or iced water, and help yourself to the condiments. (I've done this, and it's totally acceptable). I suppose you could try this with Nescafe, but I wouldn't recommend it.

Finally, if you are a Starbucks lover, remember why you began drinking the stuff in the first place - it ain't no Folgers. Nescafe has nowhere near the body and flavor that Via has.

But don't believe everything I say; see for yourself. Click this link and Nescafe will send you a free six-pack: http://smartchoice.tasterschoice.com/#/Try_It_On_Us/

Procrastinate and help a starving artist

Hellooooooo! Just wanted to make a plug for two Web sites that are currently stealing my time (and my writing), Examiner and Suite101.

I am learning that being a freelance writer often means writing for free, as both of these sites have supplemented my income by about 75 cents a week. But the more people who check out my articles, the more pennies I make. I'm saving up for a grande latte.

Anyway, if you're looking for more ways to procrastinate, check these out:
http://www.examiner.com/x-8749-Chicago-Running-Fitness-Examiner
http://www.suite101.com/writer_articles.cfm/nicoleadamson

Spreading myself anorexic

When I was in high school, I joined pretty much every club, team and organization I could squeeze into my schedule. I remember starting out simple, with just volleyball and student council, but gradually, I began to accumulate commitments. Before long, I was booked from 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. nearly every day.

I don't know if I'm just destined to be busy, but it seems that no matter what stage of life I'm in --whether I'm working full-time, in school, or taking a break from it all -- I manage to exhaust my own free time. With an abundance of places to be, people to call, articles to write and stuff to learn, I tend to hit a point where there's just not enough time in the day to do it all. Sometimes, I drop one or two things on my to-do list, but more often, I spread myself so thin that I start to annoy the people around me.

Right now I think I'm on the verge of reaching this point. It's Mother's Day tomorrow, and in all my mountains of lists, I have no mention of cleaning the house, helping my mom with the yard or even making a card. Instead, I have managed to irk my mother with my undone laundry, pads of paper strewn throughout the house, and self-absorbed work ethic.

In trying to make this freelance thing work, I have somehow stretched myself into 12 different directions. And while it's quite exciting that the real me (and not Nicole Adamson the real estate agent) actually pops up if you Google me (don't tell me you've never searched for yourself!), my own family is unable to pin me down.

So please excuse me while I go take care of some important business. And be sure to wish your mom a happy Mother's Day!

Damn Yankees: Chicken-fried gone wrong

One of my favorite country songs is “Chicken Fried” by Zac Brown Band. If you haven’t heard it, the refrain goes like this: “You know I like my chicken fried, cold beer on a Friday night, a pair of jeans that fit just right and the radio up …” To me, the song paints a perfect picture of the fact that you don’t need lots of money or excitement in your life to be happy.

Anyway, about a month ago, my boyfriend, Darek, and I decided that one Friday we should declare a Chicken Fried night – fry up some chicken, share a six pack and blast the song, while wearing our favorite jeans. Since he gave up fried foods for Lent and and I gave up alcohol, we had to wait until last Friday to have our event. We shared a bucket of KFC, drank Stella and Okocim beer and put the Chicken Fried song on repeat until we couldn’t stand it anymore. (OK, so we probably took the theme too far, but it was fun!)

Despite our lack of Southern authenticity, we were proud of our Chicken Fried reenactment. So yesterday when Darek and I met for coffee with our friends Irena and Steven, we told them what we’d done. Steven, who is from Alabama, looked at us if we’d just confessed to some kind of crime.

Chicken fried, he explained, is not fried chicken at all. Chicken fried is a way of preparing food – any food – that involves breading it in seasoned flour and pan-frying it. You can chicken-fry steak, chicken-fry chicken, or as Steven said, “You could chicken-fry that pole and it would taste good.” Our Midwestern interpretation of “chicken fried” was like foreigners thinking making hot dogs involved cooking the family pet.

Darek and I are planning a Chicken-Fried redo, this time with Irena and Steven. With the help of our Alabaman ambassador, we will get it right.

Would you rather ...?

Let’s play a game of “Would you rather...?”

Would you rather eat maggots off the streets of Detroit or be permanently injured and never able to run again?

Would you rather give up sex and alcohol for the rest of your life or be permanently injured and never able to run again?

Would you rather get beaten with a baseball bat …, lose all your hair ..., fall into a pit of tarantulas … The ridiculous (OK, psychotic) list in my head goes on and on as I contemplate all the things I’d rather do than put up with this knee injury.

Today I had a mental breakdown and was thisclose to scheduling an arthroscopic knee surgery. Even if there is no guarantee that surgery will solve my problem, I’ve exhausted almost all other options. Still, I’ve yet to have one person – not even the surgeon himself – recommend that I go under the knife.

For the past month, I’ve been seeing a chiropractor who practices Active Release Techniques (ART), which is sort of like a cross between chiropractic and massage therapy. He is so confident that my knee pain is an after-effect of some other freakish imbalance in my body. He thinks that knee surgery won’t address the root of the problem, but that digging his knuckles into my pelvis will.

Prior to this guy, I saw two different physical therapists, both of who strongly discouraged surgery and instead prescribed inordinate amounts of resistance band exercises.

Oh, and then there was the other chiropractor in Detroit, whose massage “technique” was akin to a steamroller running someone over.

I feel like one of those 10,000-piece puzzles that are impossible to put together. In the beginning, people see me as a challenge. Each time I go to a new physical therapist or doctor or chiropractor, he is so confident that he can fix me. But eventually, I am just a frustrating pile of junk that no one wants to waste their time figuring out.

Unfortunately, I am frustration with a timeline. If I want to have surgery as an option, I have two weeks to make up my mind. That’s when I have to decide whether to keep health insurance coverage under COBRA. If I don’t, I’m pretty much out of luck, since this is a pre-existing condition and no independent insurer is going to cover it.

School days!

I am a student! I started classes at the National Personal Trainer Institute this week, and it’s like college all over again except that:

• Half of my time in class is spent working out.
• Everything I’m learning is useful.
• My classmates are a bit less intellectual.

Every Mon.-Thurs., we have two hours of hands-on training, followed by two hours of anatomy and physiology in the classroom. I didn’t realize how refreshing it would be to learn something so completely different and new. It also seems ridiculous that I’ve gone through 17 years of education and until now, didn’t really know how my own body works (yet I could tell you all about the Ottoman Empire in 1530 – thanks, Northwestern).

As for my classmates, among them are Eric, a former sniper and cyclist who recently got run over by a semi; Don, a 20-year-old baby-daddy who’s on his third attempt to graduate; Keri, a displaced Miami-an who “missed orientation because Saturdays are reserved for vodka;” and Pamela, a Pilates instructor who nearly evacuated the classroom Wednesday with her childbirth-like hip abduction demonstration Clearly, I am a dull individual compared to the rest of the future trainers.

But the school is great. I already feel like I know twice as much as I did when I started, and I can’t wait to put everything to use. There are only two problems:

• Going to personal trainer school while injured is like being an alcoholic in bartending school.
• It’s costing me $11 to get to and from school every day (two train rides and two bus rides) and I have no regular income.

Yes, I am still dealing with the stupid knee injury. And no, I have not (yet) made millions as a freelance writer. So as much as I enjoy doing deadlifts with the cast of Real World: NPTI, right now I need to find a way to get fixed and get paid.

Barking barricades

I love dogs. I especially love big dogs. In fact, I used to wish I was Emily Elizabeth so I could have a big, red one like Clifford. However, living with my sister’s dog for the past few weeks has led me to realize how much of a nuisance it is to have to constantly maneuver around an animal.

Sprocket knows exactly where to stand to prevent you from getting to your destination. It is as if we are living with a student driver who feels the need to slow down whenever there is traffic. However, she is quite adept at parallel parking. She favors narrow doorways, small spaces and prime locations such as right in front of the kitchen sink.

Interestingly enough, I was perusing the New York Times online today when I saw this posting on the Well blog: A new study shows that more than 86,000 people a year end up in the emergency room because they tripped over the family pet. The data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention show that while we sometimes trip over our cats, dogs are the primary cause of pet-related falling accidents.

A few hundred Times readers posted comments about experiences tripping over their pets, but I’m curious as to whether anyone has come up with any creative solutions to prevent this from happening. Commands? Sensors? Super-strong magnets?

I'm baaaack

You know how when you haven’t done something in a long time, starting up again seems intimidating? Like getting yourself to the gym after a week of lounging or calling up an old friend after years of no contact? Well I sort of have that feeling about returning to this blog. I’m actually curious as to whether anyone is still checking it, since I’ve posted nothing in the past month.

Anyway, maybe I’m writing to no one right now, but I figure I should at least get this thing up to date. Part of the reason I haven’t blogged is that I’ve been busy with freelance stuff. Starting out as a freelance writer is a lot like starting your own business. You need business cards, a Web site, professional contacts, startup cash and a heck of a lot of time. Thus, I’ve spent most of March writing emails and playing around with html and hardly any time actually writing.

Today I woke up and thought, “What if, by the time I get settled and start pitching stories, I’ve forgotten how to write?” Agh. Enough with this strictly business mentality. I’ve decided that from now on, I will make time to blog at least twice a week.

The super-expensive, super-annoying, super-boring test that shall (perhaps) determine my fate

After watching me suffer through six months of knee pain, my doc finally decided it was time for me to get an MRI. Apparently, the condition that I have, patellofemoral syndrome, can advance to something called chondromalacia patellae, which means there is actual damage to the cartilage in my knees. An MRI would be able to show whether or not this is the case. There is a type of surgery to address chondromalacia, but unfortunately, it has a pretty low success rate.

Anyway, tonight I lost my MRI virginity at Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak. Yawn.

Prior to my appointment, a woman asked me numerous questions over the phone -- Did I have any piercings? Tattoos? Was I claustrophobic? -- and gave me strict instructions: Leave all valuables at home. Be here 30 minutes early. Don’t tell anyone who sent you. (OK, maybe not that last one, but the pre-MRI screening was enough to make one intrigued).

The actual MRI was extremely boring. They had me put on scrubs and a pair of brand-new socks (not sure why my own socks weren’t good enough). A nice girl led me to the room with the MRI machine, which looks very futuristic and clean and not at all menacing or ET-like. I had been preparing to be squeezed into a dark, tiny tube with millimeters of breathing room. This was more like a tunnel (although I suppose for very large patients, it could be considered a tube), and I was only in it up to my shoulders.

The MRI girl told me they were going to do each knee separately, so I would be lying there for at least an hour. They gave me a pillow, hooked me up with some headphones and put on 99.5 WYCD, at my request. In the beginning, it was not bad, maybe even relaxing. It felt like taking an extra long shavasana, in a comfier, roomier version of a tanning bed.

Except for the noise. Let’s see, how can I describe this?

DrrrrrrrrrrrDrrrrr EH EH EH EH EH EH Kukukukuk DEADEADEADEADEAD

The dentist’s drill, your alarm clock, the sensor that goes off if you walk out of the store with unpaid merchandise, someone hammering nails into a wall – all the most annoying sounds you can imagine, amplified, for an hour and a half. Every five minutes or so, there was a brief silence and I could hear my country music.

“Pour me somethin’ tall and strong, make it a hurricane, before I go ... DrrrrDrrr EEHHHHHH”

I’m not sure which sucked more, the cacophony of miserable sounds or having to remain completely still. The worst was when I got an itch, which quickly multiplied into 20 different itches all over my body, including on my knees. Torture. And I used to think it was tough keeping your nails under those heat lamps after a manicure.

In any case, now I have all these pretty pictures of my knees, none of which mean anything to me, but I shall find out more when I see the doctor tomorrow. I’ll keep ya posted.

I <3 Detroit because ...

My last week in Detroit is about to begin and I’m so not ready to say goodbye. When I left my job three weeks ago, I made a list of all the things I wanted to do here before I left. While I enjoyed my private tour of the DIA (thanks, Matt!) and I’m glad I finally ate paczki in Hamtramck, what makes Detroit so hard to leave isn’t the places to go or things to see, but the people I’ll miss.



Last night, I had a going-away party with some friends from work and Downtown Runners. As part of my décor, I hung a big dry erase board and invited guests to say what they love about Detroit. For some reason, it seemed tougher than I’d expected to fill it up. What could I say in a phrase or two? Half-off martini nights at Proof? The fact that we have two country radio stations? Most of the stuff scrawled on the board was silly and fairly insignificant. And aside from eating Coneys and riding the People Mover, most things the Motor City has to offer can be done in Chicago, too.

But “What do you love about Detroit?” is not about stuff to do. It’s a feeling – and one that you have to live here to experience. It’s the deep-seated underdog pride. The DET ovals slapped on the bumpers of our Fords and Chevys. The embracing of blue-collar virtues by white-collar folks. The friendships that take on more meaning because they’re sometimes all you can count on. The banding together to make the most of what we’ve got: No room for whiners because it’s cold and dreary and the Lions lost another (OK, every) game – we’re all just happy to be hanging on.

To all of you who’ve touched me in some way over the past two and a half years, I just want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. From encouraging me to follow my dreams to listening to me vent about work; from supporting me through my injuries to helping me cover them up with excessive amounts of alcohol; from letting me crash at your apartment after a rough night to giving me a hug when I crashed into your car (you know who you are), I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

It might be time for me to move on, but I have no doubt I’ll be back, often. In the meantime, I’ll be cruising the streets of Chicago in my Mustang, with my new "DET" bumper sticker. Come visit!

Earth to Nicole!!

One thing I've discovered since abandoning my 9 to 5 job is how easy it is to do stupid things when you're not in a routine. I tend to be a bit clumsy and somewhat of a scatterbrain, but now that I have more freedom, these qualities have really shone through.

• There was the day I locked my keys in my car and had to pay $120 for a locksmith.
• The day I walked to the libary, realized I didn't have my wallet, thought it fell out of my backpack, and ran home to find it sitting on my couch where I left it
• The day I forgot to put a cup under my coffee maker and made coffee all over the counter
• The day I called a source from an article (twice) while at the bar, thinking it was my friend's number on my cell phone
• The day I walked out of my chiropractor appointment and drove a mile before realizing I'd forgotten to pay
• The day (today) I walked into a door frame while leaving the library. An amused bystander cracked up and said, "Boy, I wish I had that on camera!"

Wikipedia says it could be the early stages of Alzheimer's, but I think my brain is just in some kind of fast-forward mode, and I mentally move on to the next thing before I'm done with my current task. I've considered trying to slow down and stick to one thing at a time, but honestly, I don't think that's realistic -- nor is it productive.

And if I can make someone's day simply by walking into a wall, then why change?

Peas, pantyhose and PVC pipes

It started with a bag of frozen peas.

Thanks to a nasty knee injury from running, I had gone through 12 ice cube trays in one week. After a Ziploc bag burst under my pants – giving new meaning to the expression “my water broke” – I finally made up my mind to invest in an ice pack.

Meijer had quite the selection of medical supplies, with hot and cold packs nestled between compression stockings and Depends. They were $8.99 for the large, $5.99 if I wished to ice my pinkie.

Now $9 isn’t a hell of a lot, but for something that has essentially the same function as water, it seemed a bit on the steep side. I recalled, as a kid, once using a bag of frozen peas when I slammed my fingers in the car door, and decided that might be my best bet. I hobbled to the frozen food aisle: Only a buck-fifty for the store brand, and every bit as effective as the cold compress. They could take on the shape of my knees, be refrozen, and if I ever wanted to make split pea soup, well, I’d be halfway there. Pleased with my peas, I cashed out and headed home to put them to use.

Two months later, my knees were no better. My physical therapist recommended I get patella straps to alleviate some of the pain, and handed me a catalog showing a variety of models, running for about $15 to $20 each. From the looks of these things, all they did was put pressure under your kneecap. I wondered why I couldn’t just make my own patella straps.

That’s where the pantyhose come in. I tied them snuggly around my knees, and miraculously, the swelling seemed to subside. They even fit under my jeans (and there was no risk of leakage this time).

But despite my icing, compressing and obsessive stretching, my knees were still in no shape to run. Since physical therapy was offering little benefit, I had moved on to a chiropractor who practiced deep tissue massage. He suspected my IT band was so tight that stretching wasn’t enough and suggested I get a foam roller.

Now a foam roller is simply a cylindrical piece of foam that you roll on to massage out tight spots in the tissue. The most basic models retail for about $20. I had already rolled through one of these and knew that I needed something more intense -- something more expensive.

“Can’t I just find something hard and round and roll on it?” I asked.

“Like what?"

The guy at Home Depot seemed a little surprised when I asked him where I could find the PVC pipes, but he was eager to help. I imagine Eric was already fantasizing about this tall blonde in nothing but a hard hat when he showed me to the back of the store. And then he said,

“Can I ask what you’re using this for?”

“To roll on.”

Life Update

I'm free! If you didn't already know, last Friday was my last day of work. The past few weeks have been crazy, so I've been totally MIA on this blog, but for good reason.

Since early December, I had been contemplating leaving my job. Our publication lineup had changed considerably (from several lifestyle magazines to one advertising-driven fashion mag), I had few opportunties to write and edit legitimate articles, and things only looked to be getting worse. I felt like the longer I stayed, the harder it would be to get back into real journalism. And there were so many more puposeful things I wanted to do with my life than find events for e-newsletters or write advertorials on shopping malls.

I gave myself a deadline of March, deciding to wait a few months and see if anything changed. Then I came back from my weeklong Christmas vacation and was greeted with this:

"As has been announced previously, we will be reducing payroll expenses as we implement our new business plan. ... Non-bargaining employees whose jobs are eliminated will receive severance of 2 weeks’ pay for each completed year of service, up to a maximum of 26 weeks. If any full-time, non-bargaining employee of the Detroit Media Partnership would like to be voluntarily considered for the same severance, you may submit your name ..."

The situation couldn't have been more perfect. I submitted my name but had to keep quiet until I was approved, which wasn't until Jan. 23. I finished up last week, so my severance will continue through the month of February.

Here's my grand master plan. I'll be staying in beloved Detroit through the end of the month. In March I'll move back to Chicago, where my mom, sister and painfully small bedroom will be waiting for me. I hope to start freelancing as soon as possible, and in April, I'll start a 6-month personal trainer school. I've always dreamed of being a freelance writer and personal trainer, and the way I see it, I have nothing to lose.

So there you have it -- all caught up. And now that I've gotten that out of the way, I promise my next blogs will be much more fun to read.

Happy 50th Birthday, Mom!

Are there people in your life who don't realize how important they are? My mom, Peggy, is definitely one of those people. She pours out all her love and energy for everyone around her, but credits herself for nothing.

Last Friday (Jan. 16) was my mom's 50th birthday. I wanted to give her something to tell her just how special she is, so I decided to call up 50 of her closest friends and family members, ask them to share their thoughts about her and compile the comments into a book.


I quickly realized I was not embarking on a quick, telemarketer-style survey. After three straight days of phone conversations, along with editing some e-mailed essays (I said 50 words, people!), I felt more inspired than I've felt from any other journalistic interview.

According to my sources, my mom is “authentic, compassionate, intelligent, upbeat, humble, strong, generous, loving, and warm. She's a surrogate mom, a “Dear Abby,” a kitchen-table conversation and an inspiration to live by faith. She knows how to make people laugh, make dogs smile and bake the best cheesy potatoes. Basically, she's one in a million, and I can only hope to someday be half as good a person as she is.

Here are some of the highlights from my interviews:

"By making me feel part of her home and making me feel comfortable, this strengthens my relationship with her family, since I am able to act like my goofy self. I never in the past would have imagined being able to jump on my girlfriends mom's bed after coming home from the bar with Natalie, at 2 in the morning." - Art

“I love her warmth and her openness. She talks to everybody and just has this open way that I admire so much about her. She’s very easy to talk to. I just always want to hug her!” - Marilyn

“When I think of Peggy, I think of her courage and the fact that anything life brings to her, she’s faithful and determined to make the best of any circumstance." -Sandy

"I love her ability to blend in with my friends and just be silly along with us. plus i love how responsible and level headed, yet goofy and easily teasable she is (like how easy it is to make fun of her)." - Neil

“She’s my hero! Whenever we’ve gone into a room, everybody knows her and everybody loves her. I remember the time she whipped up, like, 500 chocolate-covered pretzels for every kid in the school and acted like it was nothing." - Dotty

"I wouldn't know that such a combination of warmth, love, and strength was possible in one human if I hadn't known Peggy." - Irena

"Peggy has the purest heart of anyone I have ever known. To me, she is the epitome of 1 Corinthians 13:4 which teaches us what love is." - Cheryl

I love you so much, Mommy. Happy birthday!

Haiku-na-matata

Lately, every time I sit down to write this blog, there’s some kind of car drama involved. I feel like either I should change the name of it to “Driving a Mustang in Winter,” or I should sell my car and get a bus pass. Anyway, I am running out of interesting ways to share my multitudinous driving incidents, so this entry will be a series of haikus.

I nearly wiped out
Last night after Vivio’s
Walking to my car

A red popsicle,
It looked like a frosty treat --
With rear-wheel drive

The streets were so slick
With accidents everywhere
How would I get home?

Two stop signs later
(Neither of which I stopped at)
I made up my mind

Better to stay here
And leave my car in Detroit
Than drive in this mess

Went back to the bar
(Katie and Lance were still there)
Had another beer

Called up Stephanie
She said I could crash there
Thank God for good friends!

Splitting the difference

Yesterday I slept through my alarm, woke up half an hour before I had to be at work, rushed out the door and was issued a speeding ticket within five minutes. That’s another $120 to add to my unplanned car-related expenses – $500 for body work and $350 for new brake pads and a loose tie rod – in the past two months. And to top it off, when I came home I had a $750 car insurance payment waiting for me.

Insurance and worn-out parts are inevitable, but this ticket really should not have happened. It’s not like I was rushing off to catch a flight or get a free cookie or something (yes, baked goods are sufficient incentive to speed). I had no business speeding to get to work. In any case, it happened, and so I have resorted to a favorite shopping technique to justify my $120 check to the Royal Oak Police Department.

Whenever I want to buy something expensive, for example, a $100 pair of shoes, I recall a great deal I recently got and pretend that the cute $10 sweater was actually $40 and that the $100 shoes are only $70. Sold!

In the case of my speeding ticket, I have come up with a few possibilities to split the difference. For one, my $0 New Year’s Eve easily should have run me at least $20. And the fact that Monday I got a raise, retroactive to September – I’ll just pretend it started in October. Oh, and I got a nice chunk of cash for Christmas, so that helps, too.

Hmmm… maybe I need a new pair of shoes.

Bringing in 2009 -- Detroit-style

My New Year's Eve
Parking: $0
Cover: $0
Drinks: $0 (not a one did I pay for)
Kicking off 2009 at Detroit's finest dive bar: Priceless

I love the Comet Bar. From the Terry-oke karaoke, to the all-encompassing cloud of smoke, to the teethless cast of characters, that place makes me so proud to be in Detroit. Yesterday, some friends and I made the impromptu decision to go to Comet for NYE. Some highlights of our night:

• Lance bringing his own drink into the bar
  
• The girls being commissioned by some old redneck to sing Love Shack with him
  
• Me butchering Bohemian Rhapsody and Marlene's rendition of Hot Stuff
• Being handed a piece of beef jerky by the bartender, who then used it to make a toast
  
• The creepy guy from Deliverance (I have never seen this movie but apparently some guy looked disturbingly similar to the main character)
  
• My souvenir sign, "New Years Party/ Party Favors + Karaoke/ This Wed Come + Help Bring in a Better Year"